Summerkin

by Sarah Prineas

  Dedication

  To Greg van Eekhout.

  All the bunnies in this book, both alive and dead, are for you.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Sarah Prineas

  Back Ad

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Stupid messenger.

  Stupid, stupid messenger who should have known better than to accept a ride from a black horse with a wild mane and flame-bright yellow eyes. The horse galloped up and down hills, through a cold river and a patch of brambles, ending at a swamp, where he bucked the messenger off.

  The horse shook his head and spat something from his mouth, and the air around him blurred and a boy with black hair and yellow eyes caught the shifter-bone he’d spat out and shoved it into the pocket of his ragged shorts. Picking his way through the mud and cattails, the boy crouched at the side of the messenger.

  “Cursed puck,” the messenger groaned, and struggled onto his knees. He was tall and willowy and had greeny-blond hair, rough brown skin, and long fingers. He’d been sent from the nathe, the court of the High Ones.

  “Just stay down,” the boy said, and shoved him back into the mud. Then he reached into the messenger’s leather pouch and pulled out a letter. The paper was only a little damp at the edges. Cracking the wax seal that held the letter closed, he read it.

  Hmm. A message for Lady Gwynnefar. Fer, that was.

  The boy got to his feet and trudged out of the muddy swamp to dry land, where he paused to think about what he was going to do. He could throw the letter away. That’d cause some trouble. Or he could give it back to the messenger to deliver. What he should do was give it to his brother pucks to see what they would make of it. More trouble, to be sure. Or . . .

  Or he could take the letter and its trouble to the Lady Gwynnefar himself.

  One

  The girl named Fer pulled back the string of her bow, sighted down the arrow, and released it.

  Thunk.

  Not quite a bullseye, but almost. Fer shrugged her shoulders, feeling the tiredness in her muscles from an hour of archery practice. Time to stop. It was getting too dark, anyway, and Grand-Jane would have dinner ready soon.

  After collecting her arrows from the target—and the one arrow that had gone past the target and was stuck in a clump of weeds—Fer went to sit on the back steps of her grandma’s house, and gazed up at the half-moon. The sky was the deep blue, electric color that meant the sun was gone and night was coming soon. As she watched the moon, Fer felt like she could practically see it walking across the sky as time rushed past.

  In the Summerlands, on the other side of the Way and far from this human world, time passed much more slowly. There, spring was just ending. The forests would be bursting with new leaves, wildflowers, ferns, and mushrooms; the moss would be cool and dark underfoot.

  A creak from the kitchen door, and Fer’s grandma came down the steps. She wore a cardigan against the chill of the early autumn night. Grand-Jane came to sit beside her. Fer leaned, and Grand-Jane put her arm around Fer’s shoulders. They sat in silence for a while.

  Then, “I know,” Grand-Jane said.

  Fer blinked. “You know what?”

  “You’re thinking about the other land.”

  Fer nodded. She was the Lady of the land on the other side of the Way—the Summerlands—and even though she wasn’t entirely sure, yet, what being a Lady meant, she did know that she was supposed to be there, not here in the human world. “I have to go back,” she said quietly.

  Grand-Jane sighed. In the moonlight, her graying hair shone, making her look like a queen with a silver crown. “Yes, I know.”

  “Why don’t you come with me?” Fer asked.

  Grand-Jane shook her head. “Look at this place, Jennifer.”

  What? Fer had lived here almost her whole life. There wasn’t anything new to see.

  When Fer didn’t move, Grand-Jane got up from the steps and pulled Fer to her feet, then took her by the shoulders and turned her to look out at the fields beyond the house. The beehives at the edge of the yard glowed white under the moonlight. Past that was the lavender field, which they’d spent the last few days harvesting, cutting the stalks of purple flowers under the rich, late-September sunlight. Past Grand-Jane’s land were more farms, rolling out to a flat horizon under a darkening sky.

  The land here had once been wild, and not even that long ago. Just over a hundred years before, it had been prairies full of wildflowers and grasses and buzzing insects, with patches of oak woodlands, and streams winding their way to the river. Lightning-lit wildfires would race through the dry prairie, leaving it blackened, and in the spring new green would sprout up.

  Now this land was all tame. It had been shaped into farms that were like giant factories for growing corn and soybeans, acres and acres of fields laid out in careful squares and rectangles. The rich dirt was stained with insecticide and herbicide and chemical fertilizers. Just the smell of it made Fer feel itchy.

  How could Grand-Jane want to live here?

  “This is my home,” Grand-Jane said. “This is where I belong.”

  Fer shrugged out of her grandmother’s grip. “Well, it’s not where I belong.”

  “I know,” Grand-Jane said for the third time. In the rules of the Summerlands, saying something three times made it matter. Grand-Jane knew this, and it meant she understood; she really did know how Fer felt. She added quietly, “I won’t try to keep you here, my girl.”

  “Thank you.” Fer breathed. She leaned in, and Grand-Jane gave her a hug. Under her feet, she felt the earth turning and the time flowing away, and suddenly, like a sharp tugging at her heart, she knew that she’d been away from the Summerlands for too long. She had to go back.

  She had to go now.

  Crouching, Fer rested her fingertips on the cool, smooth surface of the moon-pool that connected the human world to the other land. She felt the tingle of the Way opening, and the half-moon reflected in the water changed, rippling into a nearly full moon.

  Fer stood up and took one last look around the darkening clearing, at the flowerless laurel bushes, the moss, the tangled branches. Grand-Jane hadn’t been happy about her leaving so suddenly. “At least wait until morning,” she had protested. But Fer couldn’t wait any longer. Taking a deep breath, holding tightly to her bow, she jumped into the pool.

  Down through the Way she fell, feeling the wind and the pressing darkness, the dizzy thump when she landed on the bank of the pool on the other side. She kept her eyes closed until her head stopped spinning. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the golden, almost-full moon had moved into the sky, and the half-moon, the moon that belonged in Grand-Jane’s world, now lay reflected in the pool. She was through. The air felt softer here, the shadows deeper and more mysterious—and the pull of her connection to the land settled into her bones.

  Unlike in the human world, the laurel here was in bloom, the white flowers glowing in the moonlight. A sudden wind sprang up and made the trees around the clearing toss their le
afy heads. As Fer climbed to her feet, a tendril of cool breeze wound from her legs to the top of her head, making goose bumps pop up on her arms. She rubbed them down and looked around the dim clearing and into the dark shadows of the forest. Was somebody here? She gripped her bow tightly and got ready to pull an arrow from the quiver on her back. Another breeze wafted past, bringing with it the smell of dirt and fallen leaves.

  The branches around the moon-pool rustled. She strained her eyes, trying to peer into the darkness. Suddenly she felt her connection to the land—the Summerlands—more strongly than ever before. It felt like a surge of green sweeping up from her feet to the top of her head, as if the forest itself was on the move, a stirring in the roots. Then all fell quiet, the clearing filling up like a cup with stillness. Fer held her breath, listening. She heard nothing but a humming silence. She blinked. Shadows crowded in. The clearing had been empty, and now she was surrounded by—

  What were they?

  Standing in a circle around the moon-pool were creatures that looked part tree and part stump, gnarled and covered with lichen and moss. Some of them were shorter than she was; others towered overhead like the tallest trees. In the dim light, Fer saw wise old faces watching her from eyes that glimmered like stars reflected in deep water.

  These creatures—whatever they were—had roots that went very, very deep. They were more part of the land than anything she’d ever felt before. And they’d been waiting for her to return.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  The answer came on a breath of wind that brushed past her ears, making her shiver. We are the deep-forest kin. We have come to swear our oaths to the Lady of the Summerlands. Will you accept our oaths?

  She hadn’t had enough time to think about this. She was the Lady, yes. She knew that because of her bone-deep connection to this land and its people, and because her mother had been the Lady before, until the Mór had killed her.

  But the swearing of oaths? That was tricky. Oaths were—well, they were part of how these other lands worked. Our oaths and our rules bind us together, the Mór had told her once. The Mór had been evil, through and through, but she’d been right about that. Yet oaths felt wrong, too. The Mór had used oaths to bind her people so strongly that she had controlled their every move. Fer wasn’t sure about how to be a Lady, but she did know that she didn’t want to bind her people like that.

  Will you accept our oaths? the deep-forest ones asked again.

  “I—I don’t like oaths,” Fer said, stalling.

  There was a swaying of branches and a rush of wind that sounded like whispers. It is the way of the land that we should be bound to the Lady, they breathed.

  Fer shook her head. Her best friend, Rook, had been bound to the Mór by his sworn oaths, and it had meant he’d had no choice but to obey her every order. He’d been forced to do things that he’d hated doing. This just couldn’t be right.

  Will you accept our oaths? they asked a third time. Three had power. She had to answer.

  “No,” Fer said slowly. “I’m really sorry. I can’t.”

  Her words hung in the air. Can’t—can’t—can’t. The deep-forest kin gazed at her, and Fer could feel the weight of their disappointment, as if she’d failed a test.

  The deep green feeling faded, and so did the heavy moss and dirt smell in the air. When she looked up again, the clearing around the moon-pool was empty.

  Two

  The Lady Tree was where the Lady of the Summerlands lived, an immensely tall beech with a straight trunk covered in silvery-smooth bark. At the base of the tree, the trunk was so wide that six badger-men could hold hands around it and still not span its girth. It was so tall that it towered over the rest of the forest. Overhead were spreading branches tipped with leaves, turning the light a dappled green. In the lower branches perched the wood-shingled tree house where Fer lived, and other houses, and ladders hanging from branches down to the ground, and swaying rope bridges leading from one platform to another. A whole tree village.

  If she closed her eyes, Fer could feel a faint thread of connection to every one of the people who lived in that tree village and in the rest of the Summerlands, a thread just like the connection she felt to the land itself. It was her belonging; it meant she was home.

  As Fer stepped out of the forest, one of her wolf-guards came bounding over the grass toward her. It was Fray—brown-haired, sharp-toothed, and rangy tall. All of the people of the Summerlands were people, but they had a wild part—a tree part, or a flower part, or an animal part. Fray was a person, but she had a little bit of wolf in her too, and it made her fierce and brave and loyal, perfect for guarding and fighting. Fray was only a little bit older than Fer, but she wasn’t a friend. She was way too serious about her duties for that.

  “Lady Gwynnefar!” Fray panted, coming to stand before Fer. She bowed. “You’ve returned!”

  Fer felt a smile bubbling up, and she grinned at Fray. “I have!” It was so, so good to be home. But then the weight of the deep-forest kin’s disappointment settled onto her shoulders. “Fray, I saw the deep-forest kin.”

  Fray’s eyes widened. “They came all this way to swear their oaths to the new Lady, didn’t they?”

  Fer nodded and pulled her long braid around to tug at the end, nervous. “I didn’t let them.” She held her breath, waiting for Fray’s reaction. Had she done the right thing?

  Fray stared. “They asked to swear their oaths and you said no?”

  Fer’s heart sank. “That’s right. I said no.”

  “But Lady,” Fray protested. “You must take their oaths—and ours, too.”

  “Fray,” Fer said, frustrated, “it doesn’t make any sense. When you had to swear oaths to the Mór, it was a terrible thing.” Really terrible. All of the people in the Summerlands had been slaves to the Mór, bound by their oaths to serve her, even though she was evil. “Why do you want to be bound like that again? It’s wrong.”

  “No,” Fray said stubbornly. “It’s right. We need oaths to keep us together.”

  Fer shook her head. “But I feel connected to all of you!”

  “No,” Fray repeated. “It’s supposed to be the other way.”

  “What way?” Fer asked.

  Fray stared mutely at her, as if Fer was just supposed to know.

  And maybe a true Lady would know.

  Frustrated, Fer turned away and headed toward the ladder that led to her tree house. Fray trotted after her. At the tree, Fer started up the ladder, then paused, looking down. Fray looked up beseechingly at her, and Fer felt the wolf-girl’s confusion. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I just can’t take oaths the way the Mór did.”

  She hurried up the ladder, Fray following. As Fer reached her house on its platform, a swarm of fat golden bees swirled out the door and buzzed loudly around her head. Startled, Fer flinched away from them and felt Fray’s strong hand at her back, keeping her from falling right off the platform. A bee zipped past her nose; another one bumbled into her ear, buzzing loudly. Fer gasped a very unladylike “Eep!”

  “It’s all right,” Fray said. “They’re the Lady’s bees.”

  Fer brushed a bee away from her face. “Mine?”

  “They were your mother’s bees,” Fray explained. “The Lady Laurelin’s. They never came for the Mór, but they’re here for you. They can talk, but the only one who can understand them is . . .” She paused and gave Fer a significant glance. “. . . the Lady. You, that means. You see, Lady Gwynnefar?” Fray went on. “The bees showing up like this, it means you’re the Lady, and you need to let all your people swear our oaths to you.”

  That was not what it meant. Fer shrugged Fray’s hand off her back and ducked inside her house to drop off her bow and quiver full of arrows. Then she headed up the ladder that led from her house platform, climbing higher and higher into the tree where nobody would follow.

  When she got to a high branch she swung off the ladder and, balancing carefully, crawled out a little way and
lay down. Closing her eyes, feeling the branch solid under her back, she reached out to feel the land. Her land. It was mostly forest, the trees like a leafy ocean washing up over hills, pooling in shady valleys. She felt the Lady Tree itself, stretching its graceful branches up to catch the summer sun’s rays, pushing its roots ever deeper into the ground. And it was wild, all of it—a wild and untamed land that would never be turned into neat, square cornfields.

  She heard the sound of buzzing and opened her eyes. The bees had joined her, swirling lazily over her head. “Hello, bees,” she said.

  The bees swarmed around her with a sound like drowsy summer afternoons in her grandma’s lavender fields. But these weren’t honeybees, not like Grand-Jane’s bees. In the greeny-gold light of the tree, the Lady’s bees looked like plump golden bullets, each with a vicious stinger at its back end. Fer strained to listen, trying to hear words in their humming.

  Hmmmmmm-zzzm-zzm-zm went the bees, round and round. Fer closed her eyes. Nothing. She listened harder. A breeze blew and the leaves whispered, but if the bees said anything, Fer couldn’t understand what it was.

  Hmmmm-zmm-rrrm-zm, the bees grumbled.

  From way down below came the faint sound of growling, a shout and a shriek, and then three fierce barks.

  Fer’s eyes popped open. Did she know a dog who barked like that? A dog who might be down there fighting with the wolf-guards?

  The bees spun out of their orbit around her, and Fer let them go, sitting up and peering down. She was so high in the tree that she couldn’t see much, just a few of her people moving around, two of them at the edge of a platform looking up at her. The fox-girls—Twig and her sister, Burr—both of them short and thin as saplings, with reddish hair. Fer waved at them, and they waved back, then pointed at the tree’s wide trunk. She looked over at the ladder and saw a dark form coming up, the top of a black-haired head. The form became a person, who swung off the ladder and onto the branch above hers.

  “Rook!” Fer hadn’t seen him since she’d become the Lady back in the early spring.