Rook.
Had he . . . ? He had. He had broken his promise. And look what had happened. She shivered with the horror of it.
That’s where she had gone wrong. Trusting Rook. When she spoke, her voice sounded strangely calm. “You promised not to use the shadow-web.”
“What?” He blinked and looked up at her. “Fer, I did it to protect you.”
“You shouldn’t have. You promised you wouldn’t use the web, but you did. All along, you wanted to do your test, didn’t you?”
Rook had gone very pale. “The moon-spinner spider,” he said, and she realized that he was shaking, too. “After its web was destroyed it—” He shook his head. “I’m not sure. It was gone. It might’ve died.”
She felt a sudden flare of anger. “The spider died? And you didn’t think to tell me this? Look!” she said, pointing at the thing on the floor. “Look at what we’ve done! It’s awful.” The horror of it all washed over her. She should have known this would happen. “I should never have trusted you.” Her bee circled her head, buzzing anxiously. “You only came here to make trouble, not to help me. Your brothers have some plan, and they sent you to trick me. Again! Admit it!”
“N-no—” he stuttered. “Fer, I’ll never use this again.” He held up his web-smudged hand. “I promise.”
“Oh, sure.” She jerked away from him. “Your promises are worth nothing, Rook. You’re a puck,” she said, saying the word as if it were a curse. “You think you’re outside friendship with anybody but your brothers.” A little part of her brain knew she was being unreasonable, that Rook had been trying to help, that she was in shock from the horrible death of the Birch-Lady. Another part of her was revolted by what he’d done—what they’d both done. She closed her eyes and pushed him with her mind—away.
“Fer, no!” she heard Rook say, his voice desperate. “Don’t break it.”
But it was too late. She pushed, and she felt something snap.
As the broken end of that something crashed into her, she felt it like a punch to the chest. It brought with it a sudden sadness that almost swamped her.
She opened her eyes to see Rook flinching away, as if he’d been struck. “Oh, curse it, Fer,” he said brokenly. “That was the third time.”
The third time . . .
He was talking about the thread of their friendship. It was gone. They weren’t connected anymore. She blinked her eyes fast to keep the tears from welling up. Then her heart, free of its thread, hardened. “I shouldn’t have brought you with me. If you hadn’t been here, this wouldn’t have happened.”
In response, Rook’s eyes flamed. His voice turned bitter. “Oh, sure. It’s easy to blame the puck, isn’t it, Lady Gwynnefar?”
“That’s enough, Rook,” she said, swallowing down her sadness and her anger. “I’m going home to the Summerlands. We’re not friends anymore. I don’t want to see you ever again.”
Fer fled.
She didn’t want to tell the High Ones what had just happened or figure out how she was going to deal with the rest of the Forsworn now that one of them was dead.
She just wanted to be home, in the Summerlands, where she belonged. She needed to be there, to protect her land from whatever taint arose from the Forsworn ones’ broken oaths.
Keeping her head lowered, she hurried through the nathe. Leaving behind the best friend she’d ever had, even though he’d never really been her friend at all.
Her bee buzzed worriedly around her as she headed outside and down one of the gnarled stairways leading from the nathe. She wished Phouka had come with her so she could ride quickly away; instead she started running across the wide lawn that lay before the nathe, and then through the forest to the outer wall. Beyond that was the Lake of All Ways.
The sky overhead was gray and glassy, the same color as the Lake, which shimmered like a mirror in the silvery light. The air was cold and still. She paused to catch her breath and hunched into her patchwork jacket. She shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. Then she went on to the Lake, her feet crunching over the pebbles that lined the shore.
All the Ways to all the lands opened here. It was nearly sunrise in her world, and the Way leading there would be open in a moment. Then she would be home.
She crouched at the edge of the water. As a Lady, she had the power to open any Way from here. Even the Way that led back to the human world. She could be with her grandma in half an hour, the time it took to step through the Way and then run down the gravel roads to her house. It was easy to imagine what Grand-Jane would say if Fer told her what had happened. Fer could see her, tall, gray-haired, wearing a knitted cardigan and a stern look.
You made a mistake, my girl, Grand-Jane would say. Now what are you going to do to fix it?
Then her grandma would open her arms, and Fer would run to her for a hug and a cup of tea and a long talk about how she would set things right.
No. She had to deal with this alone. A sob surged up in her chest, but she gulped it down.
She reached out for the Way. The power tingled in her fingers, and she touched the surface of the water. The Way to her land opened.
She stood and lifted her foot to step into it—and then she felt a rush of wind that shoved her backward. A figure robed in gray stepped out of the Lake. It grabbed her arm, and she was jerked from the Way. Her feet stumbled on the pebbly shore. She caught a glimpse of brilliant light quickly hidden; then several tall figures hooded in gray surrounded her.
The Forsworn! One of them pinned her arms behind her. She kicked and struggled, but the hands holding her were like iron.
“Let go!” she shouted.
“You’ve left us no choice,” one of them hissed.
“Help!” she got out, and then a cloth came down over her head—a bag. She felt the tingle of a Way opening—not the Way into her own land; somewhere else—and felt herself being dragged into it.
No!
She struggled harder, and wrenched an arm free. Her power to open Ways surged up in her hand and she felt the Way to the Summerlands start to open.
“Put her out,” she heard a cold voice say.
Fer felt a sharp pain in her head, and everything went dark.
Nine
Rook’s heart hurt where the thread had broken. It felt like shards of glass were jabbing him in the chest. Twice before he’d snapped the thread that connected him to Fer, and it hadn’t been this bad. But breaking something for a third time—that made it matter. That made it something that could never be fixed.
He took a deep, shaky breath. Then another.
All right. The first thing he had to do was get out of the nathe without some stupid nathe-warden catching him and tossing him into an underground prison cell.
And then . . .
And then he’d figure out the next thing.
He cast one more glance at the dead Birch-Lady. Then he looked again. Had she moved? He stepped closer, then crouched beside her. The only light came from the doorway. In the dimness, the Birch-Lady was a person-shaped bundle of sticks and dried leaves, all covered with the stinking muck of the rotten glamorie, her face so withered he could barely make out her eyes. But . . .
Those eyes blinked and looked back at him.
“You’re not dead,” he said aloud. He glanced at the doorway. But no, it was too late to go after Fer to tell her. Too late for anything with Fer.
The Birch-Lady sighed and shifted with a rustling of twigs.
He couldn’t abandon her; he had to find some help. Getting to his feet, he went to the doorway and peered out. The carved hallway was empty and dim, lit only by one crystal in a niche in the wall.
Hmm. The trick would be finding somebody to help the Birch-Lady without getting caught himself. He could get to Old Scrawny’s rooms from here; he’d tell the old villain and then get out. He flicked his shifter-tooth into his mouth and, in his dog shape, slunk like a shadow along the edge of the hallway and up a winding set of stairs.
He paused to sniff the air,
to smell the way to Old Scrawny’s rooms.
Then he smelled something else—willow branches and bow and arrow and sharp knives. Nathe-warden.
“There’s the puck!” came a shout.
Without even a glance over his shoulder, he leaped into a run, bounding down a corridor, his paws skidding on the smooth floor as he rounded a corner.
“This way!” came another shout.
Curse it. He’d spent time in one of the nathe’s prison cells deep underground, and it wasn’t someplace he wanted to visit again.
He skidded to a stop at a place where five passageways met, not sure which way to go. Then, down one long hallway, one of the short stick-people that acted as servants in the nathe leaned out of a shadow and beckoned to him.
From behind him came more shouts and the pad-pad-pad of quick feet running over polished wood.
They’d have him in a moment.
Hsst!
His ears flicked toward the sound. The stick-person waved wildly and hissed again.
Nothing else for it. Quickly he dashed down the hallway. With surprising speed, the stick-person led him on, its green-tufted head bobbing along before him. It swerved and he scrambled to keep up, heading along another hallway and then up a winding stair to an ornately carved door that he recognized.
Arenthiel’s room.
From the stairs came the sound of feet coming up.
Rook spit out the shifter-tooth and stowed it in the pocket of his long, embroidered coat. Then he threw open the door, reached back and dragged the stick-person inside, and snapped the door closed behind them. He froze, listening. The wardens’ footsteps paused outside the door. He held his breath.
“He’s not up here,” he heard after a long moment, and the footsteps went down the stairs again.
He leaned against the door and breathed a sigh of relief. Then he looked around the room. It was the same as before: dark, polished walls, crystals for light, and Arenthiel—Old Scrawny—huddled on a couch made of plump, green cushions.
“Young puck!” Arenthiel said with a cackle. “In trouble again, are you?”
A stupid question, not worth answering.
“I told my servants to keep an eye out for you and Gwynnefar once you were done talking to the High Ones. Where is she?”
Rook shook his head.
“Not here? Well, you come here. Sit down.” Arenthiel patted the cushion beside him with a gnarled hand. “I want to talk to you.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you,” Rook muttered. He didn’t want to sit next to Old Scrawny either, so he sat on the floor by the door instead. He waited a stubborn moment, and then added, “One of the Forsworn is . . .” Not injured, exactly, or sick. “She’s lost her glamorie,” he continued. “She needs help.”
Old Scrawny straightened. “Where?” he asked briskly.
“Nathewyr,” Rook answered.
Arenthiel nodded and summoned his stick-people servants, who scurried off to find the Birch-Lady.
Rook gave a ragged sigh and put his head down on his knees. What a mess this all was.
He was a puck, which meant he shouldn’t mind mess, but this was different.
“What’s the matter?” Arenthiel asked in his high, creaky voice.
Rook gave him a baleful look. “It’s not your business.” He was only hiding here until the nathe-wardens got tired of searching for him. He put his head down again.
“It is too my business,” the old creature huffed, and went on as if talking to himself. “It’s my business more than anybody’s.” Then, louder, he said, “You’ve had a falling-out with your friend; that’s clear. Now, come over here where I can get a good look at you.”
Rook ignored him.
Arenthiel coughed, a dry and crackling sound. “I need more of that tea she brought me,” he complained. And then, after a pause, “She’s a kind girl, isn’t she, your Gwynnefar? But she has fierceness in her too, I would say.”
Ignoring him was not working very well.
He heard the old creature sigh. “She wore the glamorie twice, but only for a short time, and she doesn’t understand it.”
Rook looked up.
“I’ve never worn one, so I don’t truly understand it either,” Arenthiel went on. “But I do know that the Forsworn and their glamories pose a terrible threat to all the lands.” He raised a withered finger and pointed at Rook.
“Don’t point at me like that, Old Scrawny,” he interrupted. He hated when people did that. It never led to anything good.
“Ha!” Arenthiel cackled. “I like my puck name, you know. It’s so descriptive!” He jabbed with his pointing finger, suddenly fierce. “You have to help her.”
Fer, he meant. Rook shook his head. “She doesn’t want my help.”
“She needs her friends now, more than she ever has before,” Arenthiel said. “Don’t you think, Robin?” he added, using Rook’s false name, the name pucks gave to people they distrusted, which meant everyone, just about.
Rook didn’t have any answer to that. “I told you, it’s not your business,” he growled.
“She was always a friend to you, wasn’t she?” Arenthiel asked slyly.
Rook remained stubbornly silent for a long moment. Finally he nodded. “She was, yes.” Fer had become friends with him when he’d been thrice-sworn to the Mór and bound by her to keep Fer from finding her place in the land. Fer had insisted she was his friend even when he’d been sent by his brother-pucks to betray her. She had trusted him, even when she shouldn’t have. She had saved his life how many times now? He thought back, counting it up.
Five times.
And what had he done in return? He’d broken his promise to her, and he’d broken her thread of friendship twice, hardly even thinking about what he was doing.
“Stay true to her, Puck,” Arenthiel said solemnly.
Rook stared at him, startled. Stay true. That’s what the High One had said to him.
It was a stupid thing to say to a puck, really. All the people of all the lands thought pucks were betrayers. Oath breakers. Outcast for a reason. True to nothing and no one. But they were wrong. Nobody was more true than a puck.
His bond with his brothers was stronger than anything. Stronger than any pale oaths or promises. Pucks never bonded that way with anyone else but another puck.
“She needs you,” Arenthiel prodded.
If he really did stay true to Fer, it would be a bond like the one he shared with his brothers. Could he do it?
“Well?” Arenthiel asked.
He could, yes. “All right,” Rook growled before Arenthiel could point that wizened finger at him again. He would show Fer what it really meant to be friends with a puck. He would stay true.
The Forsworn, Arenthiel said, were very dangerous. “Far worse than the Mór was,” he added. “We’ll have to figure out some way to stop them.”
“We?” Rook asked. “You hate pucks. You tried to hunt down and kill my brothers. I’m not helping you.”
Arenthiel gave a dry cough that almost sounded like a laugh. “Oh, no. I would never suggest such a thing.”
“You just did suggest it,” Rook grumbled.
“A slip of the tongue,” Arenthiel said. “Never mind it. Now, where was I?” He tapped his chin and pursed his lips. “Ah! The Forsworn. The fact that they are forsworn must be affecting their lands, just as it did for the Mór after she killed her Lady. We must find out how, exactly, and we must find out what they intend to do.”
“There’s that we again,” Rook muttered. One of the stick-people came up to him then and gave him a slab of bread and cheese. He’d rather have a nice, plump rabbit, but bread and cheese would do. He took a big bite.
“The question is,” Arenthiel went on musingly, “what is to be done about their glamories?”
Then the bite turned to ashes in his mouth. He gulped it down. “The Birch-Lady. I’m the one who did that to her,” he said.
He set down his food then and crossed the room to show Are
nthiel his web-stained hand. He started to explain about where the glamorie came from, and the shadow-spinner spider.
“Yes, yes,” Arenthiel interrupted impatiently. “I know more about the spiders than you do.”
Rook narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You do? Why?”
“Can I tell you a story?” Arenthiel asked.
A story? “No, you can’t tell me any stupid story,” Rook answered.
“Too bad. I am.” Arenthiel settled in. “The Lords and Ladies didn’t always wear the glamories, Puck. They were once like your Lady, Gwynnefar. True to their people and their lands. But!” He raised a bony finger. “One of the High Ones corrupted them. He was beautiful and he wanted glittering, unchanging people around him always, and he found the spider to spin a still, chill beauty out of moonlight. He gave the glamories to the people and made them Lords and Ladies. He thought he was making them powerful, but he was wrong. He was making them slaves.”
“You did this?” Rook asked, startled. “You were one of the High Ones?”
“Well, I still am, in a way,” Arenthiel said with a dry cough. “It’s just not as obvious as it was before.”
“Because you’re a troublemaker,” Rook added. Arenthiel was right—it took one to know one.
Arenthiel’s answer was a snort of laughter. “That’s right. Now, go on. You can see why this interests me. Tell me how you took the glamorie from the Forsworn.”
“I didn’t think it would hurt her,” Rook tried to explain. He told Aren about the horrible moment when he’d touched the Birch Lady and she’d shriveled up and howled when her glamorie had been stripped away.
“Oh, dear. That is very bad, Robin. You weren’t careful,” Aren said. “Neither was Gwynnefar. It was a stupid mistake the two of you made, forcing a change like that.”
“It was, yes,” Rook found himself agreeing. Really, they were lucky the Birch-Lady hadn’t died of it. Maybe she still would. “I promised Fer I wouldn’t use this again.” He raised his web-stained hand.
“Hmmmm. See that you keep that promise.” The ancient creature sighed and was silent for a while, sitting with his eyes closed.
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