He told them what had happened, how the Birch-Lady had shriveled up and howled in pain when the glamorie had come off her.
“Huh,” Asher said. “But her glamorie was destroyed?”
“It was, yes,” Rook answered. Then he realized that Rip was staring fixedly at him.
“You haven’t mentioned that Lady Gwynnefar yet,” Rip said.
That’s because he hadn’t wanted to mention her. “We’re not . . .” He had to stop and clear the lump out of his throat. “We’re not friends anymore, Fer and me.”
“Good,” Rip said, with a fierce smile. “No more thread binding you, then?”
Rook shook his head. He rubbed the place on his chest where the shards of the shattered heart-thread still poked at him.
“Ah, but he’s broken up about it,” Tatter said. “It’s clear enough that he is.”
“Just leave it,” Rook muttered.
They left it.
Evening fell, and the pucks went out and built up the bonfire before the tree-cave and roasted delicious things over the flames. Rook ate his fill and then, exhausted, found a warm corner of the cave to sleep in.
In the morning, he opened his eyes to see Asher leaning against the cave wall; beside Asher stood a grinning Tatter, holding the baby Scrap.
Tatter said something. “No, he hasn’t noticed it yet,” Ash answered. “Pup,” he said, and nudged Rook’s shoulder with his toe, “come and have some tea once you’re awake.”
“Come have some breakfast, too, Pup,” Tatter said, then went away with Ash.
Rook’s bed against the wall of the tree-cave was too comfortable. He didn’t want to get up. He looked at the dark curve of the cave overhead; gray light flooded in from the wide doorway. He heard a buzzing noise. Then a tickling on his chest, right over his heart. He looked down at himself and saw a bedraggled bee clinging to his fine coat, buzzing softly.
A bee?
Fer’s bee.
He sat up with a jerk and the bee tumbled off, then gave an annoyed buzz and flew up to perch on his collar. “What are you doing here?” Rook whispered.
Hmmmzmmrm, the bee answered.
Oh, his brothers were not going to like this. Rook got to his feet and went out to the campfire in front of the cave. His brother Ash was sitting beside it, munching on a strip of dried rabbit. The other pucks lounged around on blankets, some of them sleeping in their dog shapes.
Tatter handed him a cup of hot tea. “Here, Pup,” he said. “Drink this.”
Rook took the cup and wrapped his fingers around it, warming them. The bee buzzed at his ear. Hurryhurry, he thought it meant.
“I know,” he whispered. “I’ll tell them in a moment.”
Rip came up then. “I see our Pup has got a pet,” he said darkly.
The bee, he meant. “It’s Fer’s,” he said, though they already knew that, he guessed. “Its coming here means she’s in trouble.”
“What’s that to us?” Rip asked.
“We thought she wasn’t friends with you anymore,” Ash added.
“She’s not,” he said. He knew Ash was watching for it, so he didn’t rub at the sore place over his heart. “But she needs my help.”
“We need your help with the next part of our plan, Pup,” Asher said.
“You still haven’t told me about the plan,” Rook said.
Ash shrugged. “We’ll get to it.” His eyes narrowed as he watched Rook carefully. “Are you going to send that bee away?”
Sending the bee away meant abandoning Fer. He couldn’t do that. “She’s in trouble, and I’m going to help her,” he insisted. He had decided to stay true to Fer; he wasn’t changing his mind about that. “I’ll come back to help you as soon as I can.”
Ash and Rip exchanged a glance. “All right, Brother,” Ash said slowly, getting to his feet. “Do what you have to do.” Then he grinned. “While you’re off finding out what trouble your not-a-friend Lady Gwynnefar’s gotten herself into, we’ll work on the rest of our plan. But you’d better hurry, Pup,” he said. “We’re not going to wait forever.”
Twelve
The time-spell on the tower pressed down on Fer like a heavy hand. It wanted her to sit against the wall and stare at the opposite wall. Eventually she would slow, and stop, and be stuck there, alive and unmoving.
“No, I won’t,” Fer whispered.
Summoning up all her human strength, and all her determination, she pushed herself to her feet. She would find a way out of here.
She looked up. The way out was the trapdoor, high above. She had to get up there somehow.
On her hands and knees, she crawled over the stone floor of the tower searching for anything she could use to escape. On the first search she found nothing. Her knees were getting bruised from the hard floor, and her fingers grew sore from poking at the stone.
“And again,” she whispered to herself. It wasn’t like she had anything else to do. So she started again, this time feeling the stone walls as high as she could reach, then down to the ground.
At last, at a spot she’d been over before, where the curved wall met the floor, she found something wedged into a crack. With sore fingers she picked at it, then eased it out.
She sat back on her heels to examine what she’d found. A shard of dull-gray rock about as long as her hand, pointed at one end.
“Ha,” she breathed. Take that, Forsworn. The shard wasn’t as sharp as a knife, but it was sharp enough.
Climbing to her feet, she gripped the shard. At the wall, she traced the crack between two stones. The mortar cementing the stones together felt sandy under her fingers. With the sharp end of the rock, she gouged at the mortar. A little of it flaked away, chalky white and dusty. She breathed in a little of the dust, and it made her cough. She gripped the shard more tightly and attacked the mortar again.
After a long time, she’d chipped away enough mortar that the crack between the stones was exposed. Then she did another one, at the same level. Then another, higher up.
By this time, she was covered with chalky, gritty dust; her hands felt sore from gripping the shard. Her eyes burned from the dust, and from staring at the stone blocks that made up the wall. The time-spell pressed down on her, telling her to give up, to stop, to be still and silent.
Part of her felt lulled by the time-spell. It was the same part of her that wanted the summer in her own land to go on forever, never changing, golden and warm and peaceful and safe.
Another part of her—the human part, she knew—didn’t want that at all. Her human part liked change and adventure, and it knew that a human life is short and the one living it had to seize every single moment before it flitted away.
That stubborn human part of her pushed the time-spell from her and kept working. Chip, chip, chip.
There. Time to try it. Sitting on the stone floor, she took off her sneakers and socks, then stood and stowed the rock shard in her jacket pocket. She reached and slid her fingers into the highest crack she’d made. She pulled herself up and wedged her bare toes into each of the lower cracks. She looked down. Three whole feet from the floor. She looked up. Maybe twenty more feet to go.
Determined, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the rock shard. Gritting her teeth, trying to ignore the cramps that were already setting into her fingers and toes, she chipped at the mortar in the next-highest crack between the stones. Making the next handhold, the next toehold.
And the next.
And the next.
“Never give up,” she told herself, her voice raspy with powdered mortar.
And the next.
“I am human,” she said, gritting her teeth. “I will not be trapped here.”
And the next.
Chip, chip, chip.
At last, after a long weary time and many trips up and down the wall as she worked, and a shard of rock that was starting to crumble, she made one final handhold at the top of the wall. Then she climbed down to the floor. What was left of the shard she put into her pocket.
She stuffed her socks into her sneakers and tied their laces together and slung them over her shoulder. The powdered mortar, she’d found, was useful; it made her fingers grip better without getting sweaty or slippery. She dusted her hands and bare feet with the powder. Then she looked up at the trapdoor, high above. This was going to take some fancy moves.
The time-spell pulled at her, making her arms and legs feel heavy and slow. It wanted her to sit down, to close her eyes, to rest.
If she did that, she knew, she’d never wake up again.
Summoning her human strength, she took a deep breath and started up the wall, pulling herself higher and higher. Her fingers knew how to cling to the cracks. She pressed herself against the wall, the stone gritty and cold under her cheek. The muscles in her forearms and calves quivered with tiredness as she pulled herself higher. At last she reached the top.
The trapdoor was in the middle of the ceiling. Too far to reach; and anyway, she couldn’t let go of the wall long enough to stretch out an arm. She’d have to jump for it.
“Don’t look down,” she told herself. Without a pause to steady herself, she flung herself away from the wall with all her strength; at the same time she reached with her hands. The time-spell clung to her, didn’t want to let her go—and then, with a snap, the spell was broken, and there was the edge of the trapdoor under her fingers. She clung for a moment, then hauled herself higher to get an elbow over, and she was wrenching herself out of the time-spell and up and out and lying on the roof of the tower, panting, with the rays of the setting sun slanting down.
Happiness flashed through her, and she laughed. She’d made it! She’d actually made it out! Free of the tower and the time-spell, at last! She heard the sound of waves pounding on rocks and breathed in the briny, fishy smell of the sea. Sitting up, she looked around.
The sun was setting, dropping over the edge of a wide, green sea. She got to her feet, feeling the ache of muscles from her climb, and turned in a circle. She saw ocean in all directions. Empty ocean with no birds flying over it, no clouds in the sky, no boats bobbing on the horizon. She went to the edge of the tower and peered down.
Steps were carved into the outside of the wall; that was something. But the tower sat on a scrap of land only a little bigger than it was. There was no beach—just sharp black rocks being lashed by the waves. Her smile died on her face. She was on an island. She had nothing to eat and nothing but salt water to drink. As the sun dropped over the horizon, the wind picked up and the air grew chill.
But wait. The Forsworn had brought her here; surely there was a Way nearby. She closed her eyes and lifted her hand, trying to sense, by the tingling in her fingers, a Way.
Yes. A Way opened right here, on the tower. She reached out for it, and used her Lady’s power to open it, but it stayed stubbornly closed, like a locked door. She frowned. The Forsworn must be stationed on the other side, sealing it.
The wind gusted, blowing icy spray from the rocks across the top of the tower.
Shivering, Fer sat down and put her head in her hands.
She’d escaped one prison only to find herself trapped in another.
Thirteen
Leaving his brothers, Rook went through the Way on his own, following Fer’s bee. It led him to a Way and across a peaceful, green land into yet another Way.
“Is this it?” Rook asked, but the bee bumbled in a circle around his head as if it was confused. The Way it wanted to go through was closed.
He frowned. It was a Way he’d used in his wanderings before, and it hadn’t been closed then. The bee led him back and through three other Ways. It was as if they were taking all the back Ways the bee could find. “I should have brought some food with me,” Rook complained.
Hmmmzimzum, and the bee led him into another Way, this one a wide prairie. Tall grasses waved and yellow flowers bobbed under a cloudless, late-afternoon sky. “We need to hurry,” Rook said. Fer might have sent the bee days ago. With an irritated buzz, the bee shot ahead; Rook had to shift into his horse form to keep up. He and the bee raced through the dry prairie grass for long enough that the sun started sliding over the edge of the sky, toward night. As its setting beams stretched across the prairie, the bee turned and swooped back at Rook. He dodged it and dropped into a walk, then stopped, spitting out his shifter-bone. Panting, he stowed the bit of bone in the pocket of his fine, embroidered coat. “What?” he asked the bee.
Zrrrmzmzm, it answered, then darted ahead and back again so fast that Rook had to duck into the tall grass to avoid being hit.
Then he saw what the bee was pointing him toward, and telling him to hide from. Ahead was a stand of trees, darkly silhouetted against the sky where the sun had just gone down. Young oaks, it looked like. He crouched, squinting. The sky was darkening, but he thought he caught a glimpse of a thread of smoke drifting up. Yes, somebody had built a fire at the edge of the trees.
The bee wanted him to be careful. Best to wait until full night, then. He shifted into his dog shape and settled into the grasses that waved higher than his ears. As night came on, the smell of the campfire was keen in his nose, along with the fainter smell of roasted meat; whoever was over there was cooking dinner. His stomach rumbled. A nice, fresh rabbit would taste good right now.
A sliver of moon hung in the sky. It was time. Still in his dog shape, he slunk toward the trees, a shadow passing through the high grass.
As he drew closer, he realized why the bee had brought him here. A Way opened in the trees. Surely Fer was on the other side of it.
He slunk closer, then paused, belly to the ground, watching. A dark figure crossed in front of the fire. It was looking out, he realized. Straight toward where he was hiding.
A watcher. The figure said something in a low voice and was joined by three others. Guards, then. Guarding the Way.
Moving quietly, he spat out his shifter-tooth, keeping it in his hand in case he needed it fast. The bee settled on his collar, buzzing softly.
The crescent moon didn’t give him much light to see by. He crawled closer, the prairie grass prickly and dryly rustling. Shhhh, he told it.
One of the figures had stepped away from the fire. It was glowing, he realized, with its own light.
A glamorie!
He froze. Those were Lords and Ladies, those watchers. Forsworn, no doubt. He felt a nibble of fear. If the Forsworn had taken her, as they’d tried to do before, Fer must be in big trouble on the other side of that Way. He had to get to her, and soon.
He could try to get past them to the Way. But there were four of them, and—he saw a glint of a knife in the pale moonlight—they were armed and ready.
Slowly he rose to his feet. He heard one of the Forsworn hiss a warning to the others, and he heard the swish of an arrow being drawn from a quiver. He crouched down again.
“It must be the puck,” he heard. Trying not to rustle the grass, he crept away from the spot where they’d sighted him. No point in giving them a target to shoot at.
“Don’t let him touch you,” one warned. “He killed Marharren with a touch of his hand.”
Marharren—must be the name of the Birch-Lady. “She’s not dead!” he shouted, and immediately scrambled away. Two arrows slammed into the spot where he’d just been hiding.
Good shots, these Forsworn.
“I need to get through that Way,” he called, and as he leaped to the side, he felt an arrow flash past his ear. He flung himself flat onto the ground. They were Forsworn, and that meant they wouldn’t hesitate to spill his blood in this land if they caught him.
This wasn’t going to work. He’d have to try something else.
Silently he edged out of range of their bows, then shifted to his horse shape to gallop back to the Way he’d used to come into this land. While he ran through the high grass, as the stars climbed up into the sky, he thought about what he should do next.
He could go and ask his brothers for help, but they’d made it clear they wouldn’t do anything to help Fer. He couldn�
�t go back to the nathe; that would be to admit to Arenthiel that there was a we, and anyway, the nathe wasn’t a good place for a puck to go unless he wanted to get reacquainted with its underground prison cells. It’d have to be the Summerlands, then, and hope that the stupid wolf-guards would listen to what he had to say before ripping his throat out.
It wasn’t just a prison, Fer realized. It was a death sentence. She was on an island in the middle of a saltwater ocean. It had been a long time since her bee had flown away in search of help. Maybe nobody was coming to rescue her.
“Okay,” she breathed. She would have to keep herself alive; that was all.
She went to the edge of the tower and peered over it. A narrow staircase was carved out of the rock, winding around the tower to the ground. Carefully she climbed onto the steps and edged down them. It was way easier than climbing up the inside walls of the tower, anyway.
When she reached the ground, Fer brushed off her hands and explored the island. It didn’t take very long. The island was only a little wider than the tower, and covered with huge, bare black rocks. Down near the water, the rocks were encrusted with seaweed and barnacles; higher up they were dry and warm from the sun. The wind blew steadily; the sun shone down from directly overhead, leaving only a puddle of shadow around the base of the tower.
Shading her eyes, she looked out over the sea. Up close to the island, the waves were rough and edged with foam, crashing against the black rocks, throwing up spray. In the distance, the sea looked smooth, like a rippled, blue, silken cloth. She couldn’t see any sign of a ship anywhere.
“That doesn’t mean there aren’t any ships,” she told herself, needing to hear the sound of her own voice instead of the incessant rush and crash of the wind and the waves.
A fire—that’s what she needed. A signal fire.
She circled the island again, finding bits of sodden driftwood wedged in cracks between the rocks, and pulling up swathes of kelp from the edge of the water. She lay the kelp and the wood on a flat rock to dry.
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