Nomad

by R. J. Anderson

  Ivy wanted to protest, and offer to testify on Martin’s behalf instead. But she had no proof other than the memories he’d given her, and if Rob was so convinced that Martin had tricked Ivy, that would mean nothing to him anyway. He’d be more likely to listen to Rhosmari, who had met Martin’s dear friends Lyn and Toby and seen what had been done to them firsthand. The Empress hadn’t murdered them, like she had Rob’s mentor. But once she’d sent Veronica to steal both humans’ creativity, ruin their life’s work in the theater and erase all their memories of Martin, she might as well have.

  Still, Ivy had to try one last time. “Just talk to him,” she said Rob. “Give him a chance to explain. Please.”

  A muscle in Rob’s cheek twitched, but his face remained stern. “I’m not the one who will judge him,” he said, and motioned to the other faeries. Martin’s grey eyes sought Ivy’s and held them. Then the four of them disappeared.

  A siren blared in the near distance, and Timothy glanced up the street. “We’d better get out of here,” he said, pulling the iron rings off his fingers and stuffing them in his pocket. He put an arm around Rhosmari, who was shivering, and started to lead her away. Then he paused and looked back at Ivy.

  “I’m going to Oakhaven for the weekend,” he said. “And Rhosmari’s taking the train with me. You could come with us, if you like.”

  Ivy touched the copper bracelet on her wrist. The money Thom Pendennis had given her—Martin’s last gift—sat heavy in her coat pocket. You have a family, he’d said to her, and it was true. She’d done all she could here. It was time she went back to them.

  “No, that’s all right,” she said. “I’m going home.”

  “And here’s my dad,” announced Molly, using her spoon as an imaginary microphone, “with an announcement that will surprise absolutely no one—”

  David Menadue, who had just pushed his chair back from the table and half-risen, gave her a longsuffering look. Molly giggled. “Sorry, Dad. But as soon as you asked if I’d like to come down for the weekend, it was pretty obvious.”

  Her father sighed and sat down again. “All right, yes. Marigold and I have been seeing each other for some time now, and after… well, everything that’s happened, we’ve decided we’d like to get married. The sooner the better.” He gave Molly an apprehensive look. “If that’s all right with you?”

  Molly rested her chin on her hand, pretending to be deep in thought. “I don’t know,” she said. “Having Ivy and Cicely for stepsisters? You know how dull and ordinary they are, and how hard we all find it to get along…”

  David wadded up his cloth napkin and threw it at her. “Cheeky monkey.”

  But he sounded relieved, and privately Ivy was too. When Molly had arrived that afternoon she’d looked tired and a little unhappy, and Ivy wasn’t sure how she’d take the news. It had been only a few months since her mother’s funeral, after all. But Molly’s parents had been estranged for years—David’s work had kept him away for weeks at a time, and even when he was home Gillian had treated him with indifference. So Molly wasn’t surprised that her father had fallen in love with Marigold, especially once Ivy told her how close her mother had come to dying and how David had saved her life.

  Ivy hadn’t told Molly about Martin, though. What had happened between them was too powerful and private, and she didn’t like to say anything until she knew what the outcome of his trial would be. Rhosmari had assured Ivy that the Oakenfolk wouldn’t keep Martin captive for long: they didn’t even have a proper cell in the Oak, she said, so they’d want to deal with him as soon as possible. But the troubled look on the faery girl’s face as she and Timothy walked away made Ivy fear that might not be as much of a mercy as it sounded…

  She was gazing into her teacup, lost in thought, when someone knocked at the front door. “I’ll get it,” said Cicely, jumping up.

  “Who could that be, at this hour?” David asked, but neither Marigold nor Ivy had an answer. They could only listen to Cicely’s padding footsteps, the rattle-and-creak as the door opened, and then…

  “Mica!” shrieked Cicely, and burst into tears.

  Ivy leaped to her feet, her chair crashing to the floor. As she raced through the sitting room she imagined Mica’s body laid out on the doorstep, in Betony’s last act of vengeance. But no, he was on his feet, alive, hugging Cicely. And standing behind him, cap in hand, was Mattock.

  “Sorry it took us so long to find you,” he said to Ivy. “Are you all right?”

  Ivy nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. She waited until Cicely let go of Mica, and moved to hug her brother as well. But at the same time Mattock stepped aside, and she saw the crowd of piskeys standing behind him.

  Jenny’s mother, and her little brother Quartz. Matt’s widowed mother Fern. The hunters Gem and Feldspar, with their wives and children. Hew and Teasel, Pick and his boy Elvar, plus a few old uncles and aunties besides—there had to be nearly twenty of them.

  “What happened?” asked Ivy, hushed with disbelief, and Mica answered, “You did.”

  Even with Cicely’s help it took Ivy some time to settle all the piskeys in the barn and see that they had everything they needed, and she couldn’t help wondering what they were going to do in the long term. Because, as Mica explained, they had nowhere else to go.

  “Betony’s still alive,” he told her, as the two of them walked back to the house. “She was badly wounded, but Yarrow thinks she’ll recover. After you left there was a huge uproar with everyone arguing about what happened and who was to blame for it, and for a few days I thought Matt and I were pickled for sure. But a good many said they’d seen Betony throw herself on your sword, and they were all upset over Jenny—” His voice grew hoarse, and Ivy looked away so as not to embarrass him. She knew Mica hated anyone to see him cry.

  “So anyway,” he went on, clearing his throat, “we ended up with a decent few on our side, and you’d think that would count for something. But that didn’t stop Gossan calling us down to the Market Cavern and banishing the lot of us. He gave us enough time to pack a few things, and that was the end of it.” He paused, looking up at the moonlit clouds. “Though I think more will come, if we keep our eyes open. They just need time to think it over.”

  “But why come to me?” asked Ivy. “I mean, I know why you and Matt came, and I’m glad you did. But the others… I understand why they’d turn against Betony, but I can’t see why they’d want anything to do with me.” Especially now that they’d all seen her change shape.

  “Well,” said Mica, scratching at the back of his neck, “there’s a rumor going around that you’re the next Joan.”

  “What?”

  “I know. But it’s not as strange as you might think. The Jack’s been trying to keep it quiet, but pretty much everybody knows Betony’s lost her fire. I’m thinking that’s why she tried to kill herself.”

  “But… I can’t make fire either. Why would anyone think I’m the Joan?”

  “Maybe because we need one,” said Mica. “And you’re the closest thing to a real leader we have. How do you know you can’t? Go on, give it a try.”

  Ivy held out her hand, palm up, and concentrated. But she saw no flicker and felt no warmth, and after a moment she let her hand drop. “Nothing,” she said.

  Mica looked disappointed. Then he shrugged. “It’s probably for the best,” he said. “You’re already the first shape-changer to come out of the Delve in who knows how many years. If you ended up being able to make fire as well, there’d be no living with you.”

  Ivy punched her brother in the side. He grinned, slung his arm around her shoulders, and they went into the house together.

  Two days later, Molly had gone back to school and David to his office in London, Mica’s discreet scouting of the area around the Delve had turned up two more piskeys wanting to join them, and Ivy was beginning to realize her brother had been right about the others looking to her as a leader. She’d grown up with these people and most of them were older than she was, so it
seemed absurd. But from the way the men touched their caps when she came into the barn and the women lowered their eyes and curtseyed, they did appear to respect her.

  At least they seemed to have settled into their new lodgings, even if most were still shy of being aboveground and unwilling to venture beyond the barn door. Like true piskeys they were keeping themselves busy, cleaning and polishing everything in sight—including Dodger, who had never been so popular or well groomed in his life. Ivy suspected it wouldn’t be long before the younger piskeys started sneaking him out for rides at night, but as long as they were discreet about it and put him back in his box when they were done, she saw no reason to stop them.

  Still, Ivy thought that evening as she walked across the yard, she wished she could find her people a better home, a place where neither curious humans nor Betony and her followers could threaten them. There were plenty of other abandoned mines around, but she feared to have them settle into one and find it poisoned like the Delve…

  A rook flapped past, and Ivy stopped to watch it. Then someone coughed, and when she looked around there was Thorn, with her hand on one hip and a bulging pack over her shoulder.

  “What are you doing here?” Ivy asked, startled.

  “Well, that’s a fine polite welcome,” said Thorn, dropping her rucksack on the cobbles. “Are you saying you’ve no use for an ambassador from the Oakenfolk? Because I’d been looking forward to a change of scenery, myself. And Broch figured a healer might be welcome, too.”

  Welcome? That was an understatement. Broch’s skills would be invaluable, and someone like Thorn—practical, tough and skilled, and enough like a piskey in appearance that Ivy’s people would find it hard to dismiss her—was exactly the sort of helper Ivy could use right now. “But how did you know?” she asked.

  “Me?” asked Thorn. “I didn’t know anything. All I can say is that if your queen has the Sight and she tells you to go somewhere, you go.” But she shifted uncomfortably as she spoke, and Ivy sensed that she had her own reasons for wanting to leave the Oak. It made her wonder what those reasons might be, but that could wait.

  “Well,” Ivy said as Broch flew to land beside Thorn and changed back to his own shape, “I’m glad to see you both. But what happened at the—”

  She broke off mid-sentence, riveted by the barn owl ghosting toward them. Its heart-shaped face was expressionless, but as it approached her it gave a soft, twittering cry that she heard with her mind as well as her ears: Ivy.

  “Oh, right,” said Thorn. “I almost forgot. Queen Valerian pardoned that weasel-faced spriggan of yours, so he came too.”

  The story continues

  in The Flight and Flame Trilogy

  Book 3: Torch

  Thanks to my brilliant editors, Jessica Clarke at Orchard Books and Steve and Lisa Laube at Enclave Publishing, and my faithful first-round critique partners Pete Anderson and Deva Fagan. I am also indebted to Jackie Garlick-Pynaert, who sat down with me for a marathon brainstorming session in the early stages of this book; to Andy, Michelle, Connor and Hollie Minniss for their hospitality and friendship during my research trip to Cornwall; to Nicole Deal for her gorgeous illustration of Ivy and Martin, and Rosamund Hodge for commissioning it; and all the wonderful readers who’ve written to tell me how much my books have meant to them and how much they’re been looking forward to the next one. I couldn’t do this without you.

  Born in Uganda to missionary parents, R.J. (Rebecca Joan) Anderson is a women’s Bible teacher, a wife and mother of three, and a bestselling fantasy author for older children and teens. Her debut novel Knife has sold more than 120,000 copies worldwide, while her other books have been shortlisted for the Nebula Award, the Christy Award, and the Sunburst Award for Excellence in Canadian Science Fiction. Rebecca lives with her family in Stratford, Ontario, Canada.