Nomad

by R. J. Anderson

  “Ivy?”

  Her heart did a rolling dive into her stomach. She spun around in her captor’s loosening grip—and there he stood in the half-darkness, thinner and paler than she’d last seen him, but alive, whole, and undeniably real.

  “Martin,” she gasped, and flung herself into his arms.

  The last time Ivy had hugged Martin, he’d stiffened and pushed her away. But this time his arms tightened around her, and he dropped his face against her hair.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “If I’d had any idea it was you…” He drew back with obvious reluctance. “But what are you doing here?”

  Ivy’s knees felt wobbly with shock and relief. She gripped his forearms, steadying herself. “I was looking for you,” she said. “I thought Thom might be able to tell me where you’d gone. I never thought I’d find you like this.”

  Martin’s gaze fell to the bracelet on her wrist. He touched it lightly, as though he weren’t quite sure it was real. “Looking for me,” he repeated. “Why?”

  Was that sadness in his voice? He looked almost as tired as Ivy felt. She wanted to ask where he’d been all this time, why he was here now—but all that could wait. She straightened up and let him go.

  “My mother’s hurt,” she said. “She was burned fighting my aunt Betony, and if you don’t come back to Cornwall with me right away…” Her voice faltered. “She’s going to die.”

  For several seconds Martin regarded her in silence. Then he turned and walked out into the shop.

  “Where are you going?” Ivy scrambled around the desk and chased after him. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “I heard.” He spoke quietly, his back to her. “But I can’t help you. You’ll have to find someone else.”

  “There is no one else! The Delve’s healer makes ointments and medicines, but she can’t heal like you can. And Mum’s burned so badly, all down her arm and the side of her face…”

  “I believe you. I wish I could help. But I can’t leave this place.”

  “What?” She grabbed his elbow and pulled him to face her. “You came back to Cornwall the last time after selling your treasure. Why is it different now?”

  “I wasn’t under the tenkyz then.” He bit the words out, not meeting her eyes. “I didn’t know who I was, and Thom wasn’t sure either, so there was nothing to bind me to him. But now I have no choice.”

  A tenkyz was a magical doom or obligation, a set of conditions that had to be met or everyone bound by it would die. But that didn’t make what Martin was saying easier to understand.

  “But Thom’s only a human, isn’t he?” Ivy asked. “He doesn’t have magic, so how can he have power over you?”

  “Because,” Martin said bitterly, “my father gave it to his father thirty years ago, in exchange from protection from the piskeys who killed his brother.”

  Thirty years ago. Nettle had told Ivy once that it had been thirty years since anyone had seen a spriggan. A thin, miserable bit of a thing it was too, all by its lonesome. But it fought like a demon until young Hew smashed its head in, or so he and the other lads said.

  “There were three Pendennis sons at the time,” Martin continued. “The oldest was oath-bound to uphold their family’s bargain with the piskeys, and the middle son had no interest in dealing with magical folk at all. But the youngest, Thom’s father William, agreed to take my father safely away with him to London—if he bound himself and his descendants under a tenkyz to serve and obey him and his family for three generations.”

  He gestured at the shop. “All this is merely the respectable front for Thom’s real business—finding and selling spriggan treasure. And now that Walker’s too sick to work any more, I’m the new errand-boy and night watchman.” His lip curled. “Unpaid, of course.”

  “But you said you didn’t know who your parents were. What makes you think Walker is your father?”

  “I don’t know exactly what happened, and neither does he. My best guess is that my faery mother found out about the tenkyz, and decided she’d rather wipe my mind and abandon me than let me become a slave. But fate has a way of coming around, no matter how you try to avoid it.” He sighed. “I’m not a fool, Ivy. I know how unlikely it is that the first spriggan I met would turn out to be my father, and I certainly didn’t trust Thom enough to take his word for it. But once I met Walker and heard his story… I couldn’t deny it any more.”

  The resignation in his voice made Ivy’s stomach clench. She’d never heard Martin sound so defeated. “But Walker has to do what Thom tells him,” she said. “How do you know he’s telling the truth?”

  Instead of answering, Martin took her hand and led her through the shop to the staircase. He took her up the steps to the landing she’d passed on her way down, opened the door and motioned her through.

  Beyond was a narrow hallway much like the one she’d seen upstairs, with rooms leading off it on both sides. A door to her left stood half-open, revealing a shadowy space cluttered with crates and old boxes. To her right lay another room, empty except for a battered-looking chest and a pallet of blankets in the corner. Martin guided her past both to a third door, then held a finger to his lips and ushered her in.

  Like the other room it was pitifully bare, except for the curtains at the window and an old fringed carpet on the floor. Along the back wall stood a brass bed topped with a thin mattress and a few ragged blankets. And in the bed lay a gaunt-faced spriggan with silky white hair, eyes closed and mouth pinched with pain. Ivy glanced at Martin, then back at the sleeping man. The resemblance was unmistakable.

  “That was the first clue,” said Martin. He drew her out into the hallway with him and shut the door again. “And when he started talking about a faery woman he’d loved once, and how he’d always suspected he had a child she’d hidden from him, I started to wonder. But even then, I didn’t say anything. Not until he mentioned the Grey Man.”

  Ivy’s heart skipped. “What?”

  “Well, he didn’t call him that exactly. But when I asked what he could tell me about his ancestors, he said his mother used to tell him he was descended from Coleman Grey, one of the greatest spriggan chiefs of legend. A mighty warrior, who had troves all over Cornwall, and died in battle with the piskeys. Sound familiar?”

  It did, but Ivy couldn’t bring herself to accept it. If Martin was trapped here in Thom’s shop, unable to leave of his own will, who would help Marigold? She started to say that he might have let something slip about his past or her spriggan dreams by mistake, but Martin shook his head.

  “It’s no use, Ivy,” he said. “I didn’t tell Walker anything until I was sure. But I’ll tell you what finally convinced me.” He folded his arms and looked past her into the shadows. “The first few times Thom’s father sent Walker back to Cornwall for more treasure, he went back to all the spriggan haunts he remembered from his childhood. Places I recognized, when he described them—like that cave by the sea you and I visited, and one or two others I’d checked out on my own. But he never found any more of our people, there or here.”

  His grey eyes focused on hers, full of the same sadness she’d seen when he looked at her bracelet. “He thought he was the last spriggan left alive, until he met me. And before I met him, I’d come to the same conclusion. He has to be my father, Ivy. There’s no one else, living or dead, who could be.”

  Ivy closed her eyes, feeling hollow inside. “And now he’s dying.”

  “He is,” said Martin. “He’s been getting weaker for months, not only because he’s old but because he’d run out of treasure to give Thom and didn’t know where to find more. He stretched out his last hoard as long as he could, but it wasn’t enough.”

  Now she understood why Martin had gone back to the carn in such a hurry. He’d been trying to meet the terms of the tenkyz on Walker’s behalf, and save the old spriggan’s life.

  “How long does he have left?” she asked.

  “He sleeps most of the time now. I don’t think he’ll live much longer.” Mar
tin glanced at the closed door. “But it makes no difference, Ivy. Thom ordered me to guard the shop for him. If I go anywhere without his permission…”

  Ivy didn’t need him to finish the sentence. If Martin broke the terms of the tenkyz, for any reason, both he and his father would die. “And he’s not going to give you permission,” she said. “Is he.”

  “No.” His voice was flat. “Once he was sure I was Walker’s son, he wouldn’t even let me leave the shop long enough to find you and say goodbye.”

  So he would have come back to her, if he could. He’d only broken the spell on her bracelet because he knew he’d never see her again. Ivy put her hands over her eyes, pressing back tears.

  “Then there’s no hope,” she whispered. “My mother’s going to die.”

  Martin did not reply, and the ache inside her grew as she realized he probably hadn’t even heard. But before she could turn away, he seized her by both shoulders.

  “No,” he said with sudden fierceness. “You’re wrong. I’m not the only male faery who can heal: I’m not even that good at it. You’re the only one I’ve ever—” He paused and went on more carefully, “There are others who might help. If you ask them the right way.”

  “But I don’t know any other faeries.”

  “Yes, you do.” He turned her toward the stairwell. “I told you about them. Rob and his rebels—the faeries who live in the Oak.”

  Not an oak or even that big oak, but the Oak, as though it were the only one in the world. A shiver rippled through Ivy and her heart beat faster, though she could hardly tell why.

  “But they don’t know me,” she said. “And when they fought the Empress, my mother was on the wrong side.”

  “That won’t matter, if you can offer them something they want badly enough. And you can.” His arm tightened around her shoulders. “You can tell them where to find me.”

  Ivy whirled, staring up at him. “No,” she breathed, and then more loudly, “Never.”

  “Why not? It isn’t a betrayal; I’m telling you to do it. Tell Rob and Rhosmari that you’ll lead them to the place where I’m hiding, if they’ll send a healer to save your mother. A life for a life—that’s as fair a bargain as any faery could ask for. They won’t say no.”

  “Yes, and a life is what it’ll cost you!” Ivy shook herself free and backed away. “You’ll die the minute they take you out of here!”

  “Better that,” said Martin, “than spending the rest of my life as a slave. I’ve had enough of surviving at any cost, Ivy.” He reached out, fingers hovering by her face. “Everything I’ve ever cared about is lost to me now, one way or another. And I have nothing left to give you, except this.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone. “Please. Take it.”

  There was nothing theatrical about him now, none of the evasions or sly mockery he used to mask his true feelings. He meant every word he said. Ivy turned her face against his palm and brought her own hand up to cover his.

  “You’ll do it, then,” he said. “Promise me.”

  The idea of handing him over to his enemies made her heartsick. But what choice did she have? There was still hope for Martin as long as he was alive, but there would be none for Marigold unless she found a healer soon.

  “I promise,” Ivy said hoarsely.

  The tension melted out of Martin’s body. “Good,” he said. “Now let me show you where you need to go.” And he pressed his fingers to her temple.

  The memory came in a flash, a half-second glimpse of vision: a bird’s-eye view of gentle, unfamiliar countryside, where a winding road crossed an old stone bridge, and a solitary human house stood dwarfed by the largest tree Ivy had ever seen. She could feel where the place was, just as Martin had felt it when he first visited it in bird-shape, and with surprise she realized that it was barely a half-hour’s flight away.

  “The nearest town is Aynsbridge,” said Martin. “And the house is called Oakhaven.” He stepped away from her, head up and spine straight, like a man going to his execution. “Good luck.”

  Was this the end? The next time Ivy saw him, would it only be to watch him die? She wanted to tell him how sorry she was for all he’d suffered, what his sacrifice meant to her, how much she wished she could undo the past two months for both of them and make everything right again. But her mind was blank with grief, and words refused to come.

  “Ivy.” His voice was rough. “Go. Now.”

  She went.

  Ivy had pictured the street outside the shop and willed herself into it, thinking to save herself the trouble of climbing two flights of stairs. But as soon as she materialized on the pavement a wave of exhaustion crashed over her, and she had to clutch the lamppost for support.

  After the first dizzy moment, it wasn’t hard to guess why. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, she’d walked to Redruth carrying a heavy pack, she’d lifted Marigold out of the bath and dressed her wounds, and then she’d flown from Cornwall to London in just under five hours. Add to that all the shape-changing and size-changing she’d done just getting into Thom Pendennis’s shop, and it was no wonder she felt drained.

  But she couldn’t rest yet. She had to get to the Oak. Ivy limped a few steps along the pavement, and heaved herself into bird-shape.

  Fatigue dragged at her body, making her feel twice her normal weight. But her wings beat with grim persistence, forcing her onward and upward until the street with its closed shops and half-lit windows dropped away. She wheeled and headed south, toward the memory Martin had shown her.

  As she winged away from the city center, a breeze blew in from the east and the clouds thinned and stretched before it, letting the cold stars shine through. The moon emerged, a shining talon hooked into the night sky. Ivy angled between two tall buildings, startling a cluster of dozing pigeons into flight, and flapped on.

  What would the faeries of the Oak do when they found her at their door? Surely they wouldn’t be frightened of one lone piskey-girl, not if they’d been brave enough to stand up to the Empress herself. But if they had any idea how Ivy’s ancestors had treated the faeries of Cornwall, she could hardly expect a warm welcome. She could only hope, for her mother’s sake, that Martin hadn’t offered his life in vain.

  Gradually the lights and bustle of London faded, and the glimmering skein of its river vanished into the distance. Ivy flew onward, one dogged mile after another, until she crossed the great motorway that ringed the city.

  She was only a short distance from the Oak now, and the knowledge should have cheered her. But a haze was creeping over her vision, and her wings felt heavier with every stroke. If she collapsed at this height, she would plummet to her death. But she couldn’t stop so close to her goal.

  None of the places she was flying over felt familiar—how could they when she’d never been outside Cornwall before? And yet they were familiar to Martin, part of the memory he’d put into her mind. The village of Aynsbridge swept beneath her, its clustered lights scattering into the intermittent flashes from the country houses beyond. And all at once she could feel the Oak with her bird-senses, hear the giant shape of it like a deep voice calling to her in the night.

  She was going too fast, Ivy realized dimly, and tried to slow down. But her wings were clumsy with weariness, and before she knew it she was tumbling out of control. Buffeted from one air current to another, she descended in a crazy spiral, only managing to catch herself at the last minute—

  A house leaped up in front of her, its windows dazzling her with light. Ivy shrieked and tried to bank away, but her momentum was too strong. Wings splayed and talons flailing, she smashed into the glass, bounced off it in a blinding instant of agony, and crashed into the garden below.

  It was pain that shocked Ivy back to consciousness, a sharp grinding in her elbow that tore a scream from her lips and would have snapped her upright, if there hadn’t been something—or someone—holding her down. But once the flare of agony died to a throb and the roaring in her ears subsided, she heard voices all around her.


  The first was a girl’s, distraught: “I thought you were going to put her to sleep first!”

  “She was unconscious,” said the man beside her, sounding like a younger version of Gossan. “I didn’t think I needed to.”

  Where was she? Ivy tried to look, but her eyelids were heavy and her vision refused to focus. All she knew was that she was lying in a room with creamy walls and a dark square of window—not the Oak she’d been aiming for, but a house. Maybe even the same house she’d smashed into before she fell.

  Panic stabbed her, but she forced herself to breathe slowly. She had to stay calm, gather her strength, so she could escape before these humans figured out she wasn’t one of them.

  “Well, you’ve done it now, so no use arguing.” A woman’s voice, light but firm. She let go of Ivy’s shoulders and added, “Go on, heal her.”

  Heal? Did she mean with magic? But that made no sense. What would a faery healer be doing in a human house?

  “Do you need an anchor?” asked the girl.

  “For a broken arm? I don’t think so.” The young man’s hand cupped her elbow, and Ivy flinched—but this time his touch was light, and in seconds the bone-deep ache in her arm eased away. “There.”

  The pain was gone. It was magic. “Please,” Ivy whispered, though her mouth was so parched she could barely speak. “I need—I need to—”

  “Don’t try to talk.” That was the girl, soothing. “Rest, and get back your strength.” The bed shifted as she sat down by Ivy’s feet. “I’m Linden. Rob is the one who healed you, and behind you is Peri. She’s the one who found you in the garden.”

  Rob. So she had come to the right place after all. And the faint herbal scent that wafted from Linden, more subtle than any human perfume, told Ivy that she was a faery too. Yet the woman—Peri—smelled human. Ivy tried to put the pieces together, but none of them fit.

  “How?” she croaked.

  “I could ask you the same,” said Peri. “When I heard a great thump at the window and saw a bird fall onto the lawn, I wasn’t expecting to go out and find a girl instead. I thought only male faeries could change shape.”