Torch

by R. J. Anderson

  “Should never have come here in the first place.” Thorn kicked a pebble out of the way and stamped on. “Fat lot of good it did either of us.”

  Ivy was startled. “How did you know?”

  “You look like you asked Queen Valerian for an egg and she gave you a squashed hedgehog, that’s how,” said Thorn. “But there’s nothing to be done about it, so back we go.”

  It took them only a short time to return, but the journey was far from easy. They had to do it in stages, resting between each leap, and every place they stopped it was raining. By the time they reached the barrow, Ivy was hungry, wet to the skin, and sorry she’d ever heard of the Oak or Queen Valerian.

  Wearily Ivy followed Thorn up the steps, and nearly bumped into her when the faery woman halted. “Odd thing about this place,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  “What?” Ivy asked.

  “It doesn’t stink. With no windows anywhere it ought to, but even cooking smells don’t hang about for long.”

  She was right. The spell that had held the barrow in stasis was broken, so Martin and the children should have been suffocating long before Ivy brought a pack of dirty, sweaty piskeys to join them. Yet the air held no trace of staleness. “There must be vents hidden somewhere,” Ivy said, but Thorn snorted.

  “They must be budding good ones, then. The Oak’s full of windows, and even in springtime it doesn’t smell as fresh as this place.” She stepped into the main chamber, and Ivy followed her—only to stop short, amazed.

  After just two days of spriggan hospitality, the wall of prejudice between the piskeys and Martin’s people had crumbled. Thrift and Pearl were playing happily together, and the skinniest of the spriggan boys—Martin called him Falstaff, though no one else understood the joke—was tossing a ball with Clover’s two young sons. Even Jewel’s shy admiration of the piskey-women’s shawls had born fruit: now Teasel sat with her by the back wall, teaching her how to knit.

  “Mam told me you went to visit the faeries,” said Mattock, coming over to Ivy. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  Matt studied her, taking in her dripping curls and slumped shoulders. Then he picked up a blanket and wrapped it around her. “All right,” he said, steering Ivy into the adjoining chamber and shutting the door. “Now. Tell me.”

  Ivy sank down on one of the boxes. “I talked to Queen Valerian, but she wouldn’t help me stop Betony. She couldn’t even teach me a single spell.” She pulled the blanket closer, shivering. “So I came back. That’s all.”

  Mattock blew out his breath. “Well, nobody can say you didn’t try. But I think . . .” He scratched the back of his neck self-consciously. “Ivy, you have to stop.”

  She’d known this was coming, but it didn’t make it easier. Ivy bowed her head, waiting for the pick to fall.

  “I like him,” Matt burst out, surprising her. “Martin, I mean. He cured me of that fever, and I thought that was the end of it. But while I was waiting for you to bring the others, he showed me around the barrow and introduced me to all the children. We’ve talked a fair bit now, and he’s been teaching me to fight left-handed.”

  Was that what they’d been doing? Ivy had noticed Mattock didn’t seem to be around much, but she’d assumed he was out walking to build up his strength or gathering wood for the cookfire. She’d never guessed he was sparring with Martin.

  “Anyway, I understand what you see in him, Ivy. He’s a good man.”

  Knowing about Martin, it was hard not to smile at that. But Matt was so earnest, she didn’t want to seem like she was mocking him. “In his own way,” she agreed, not quite steadily.

  “He told me how he met you,” Mattock went on, turning his cap in his hands, “before he even knew he was a spriggan. He said he would have died if you hadn’t saved him from that cell we put him in.” He looked at the floor. “He didn’t say it, Ivy, but I could see it in his face. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.”

  That wasn’t how Ivy remembered it. She’d never seen daylight before she met Martin, and a lifetime of breathing the Delve’s poison had left her pale, scrawny, and humiliatingly wingless. She’d been filthy from climbing the Great Shaft, her curls tangled and limp with sweat. There’d been nothing beautiful about her.

  “He’s a bit dramatic,” she said. “You may have noticed.”

  Mattock made an exasperated noise. “Ivy, will you stop being difficult? This is hard enough as it is.”

  She reddened. “Sorry.”

  “The point is, you and he have been through a lot together. And I think—” He swallowed. “If anyone deserves a happy ending, it’s you. So I think you should stay here. With him.”

  “And leave you and the others to die? There’s nothing happy about that ending.” Ivy shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  Mattock tossed his cap aside and knelt in front of her, laying his good hand over her clenched ones. “What have our folk ever given you, Ivy? The whole time you were growing up they never thought you’d amount to anything. You were just poor Marigold’s sickly daughter.” His grip tightened. “When you went missing from the Delve, they didn’t even send out a search party.”

  “Stop,” Ivy said tightly. “Stop trying to turn me against them.”

  “I’m only telling the truth. Our people never gave a pebble for you, until you came back to save us from the Claybane. Even when you stood up to Betony, they were too cowardly to stand up for you in return. They only left to get away from the poison, and because they hoped you’d find them a new home without them having to dig one.” He gave a short laugh. “And you’ve been half killing yourself to please them ever since.”

  Ivy wanted to deny it, but how could she? It was true that she’d never felt appreciated, or even fully accepted, in the Delve. Her winglessness made her an outsider, and she’d always been too faery-like to blend in as Mica and Cicely did. And once Marigold went missing, Ivy had been so busy trying to fill her mother’s shoes that she’d had no time to carve space of her own.

  Maybe that was why she’d been so anxious to prove herself when the piskeys turned up on her doorstep. To show they’d been wrong to overlook her, that she was worth more than they’d ever guessed. Her heart had soared with every sign of her people’s approval, while the slightest rebuke sent her plummeting into despair. But no matter how hard Ivy worked or how much she sacrificed, it was never enough. And perhaps it never would be.

  “You tried to be the Joan we needed,” Matt continued softly. “No one could have tried harder. But you don’t have the power to fight Betony, and the next time you cross her, she’ll kill you.”

  Ivy gazed down at his big, calloused hand on hers. Then she said, equally quiet, “I know.”

  “Then you know why I have to say this.” He sat back, squaring his shoulders. “We’re going back to the Delve.”

  “Matt, no!”

  “It’s the only way to save our men, and you know it. If Betony spares us, maybe we’ll find another chance to escape. But . . .” He stood up. “You won’t be coming with us. That’s final.”

  Tears burned Ivy’s eyes. “You can’t do this.”

  “I can and I will.” He moved to the door. “Because I still love you, Ivy. And I’d rather know you’re alive, even without me, than have to watch you die.”

  “It’s a little high-handed,” said Martin thoughtfully, “but I can’t argue with the sentiment. I wouldn’t want to see your aunt burn you to death, either.”

  From the moment Mattock had left Ivy in the storeroom, he and the piskey-women had stopped talking to her. They’d even excluded Thorn, who had called them a lot of rock-headed fly-wits and stomped off for a walk to relieve her feelings—which, Ivy knew, meant she’d become fond of the piskeys and was deeply worried about them.

  “I don’t even know what their plan is,” Ivy said, wiping her eyes. They were sitting together on the hillside above the barrow, watching the spriggan boys chasing one another across the heath below
. “He wouldn’t even tell me that.”

  “What plan? Matt’s no fool: he knows he can’t ask those women to fight Betony. Not without putting their children in danger, and probably getting their husbands and sons executed as well.” Martin picked a bit of gravel off the rock between them and flicked it down the slope. “All they can do is surrender and hope your aunt comes to her senses before it’s too late.”

  Which was possible, but scant comfort to Ivy. How many more piskeys would die before Betony admitted she’d been wrong about the poison? How much suffering would it take to convince her that holding her people captive was no way to keep them safe?

  “I hate this.” Ivy dug her fingers into her crossed arms. “I hate that I can’t make fire. I hate that I can’t do anything to stop her. I hate that I’m so—” Her throat tightened with the old, helpless grief of it, the shame she’d battled all her life. “Weak.”

  Martin reached out and stroked her hair. “You,” he said gently, “are a better woman, and a better leader, than Betony will ever be. They’re going back to her because they’ve got no choice, but they’ll never love her as they love you.”

  Ivy gave a shaky laugh. “After all I’ve done to disappoint them? I don’t think so.”

  “I know so. Do you think Hew and those other piskeys who surrendered were cowards? They could have fought and maybe even escaped.” He traced the shape of her ear, over the pointed tip and down to the soft curve of lobe beneath. “They gave themselves up to save you.”

  Just like the women and Matt were doing now. “It’s not right,” Ivy said thickly. “I’m not worth it.”

  “Ivy.” He dropped his hand and laced his fingers through hers. “You can’t put a price on love, or deserve it. You have to take it as a gift or not at all.”

  “It doesn’t feel like a gift,” she whispered. “It feels like a terrible burden.”

  “I know. But it will pass. You’re not being selfish by letting your people go, Ivy. It’s what they want.”

  Her resistance crumbled, drowned by the aching need for comfort. She leaned against Martin and he tugged her close, pressing a kiss to her temple.

  “Ew!” yelled a boy’s voice from below. “Disgusting!”

  Martin let go of Ivy, exasperated. “No, Benedick, your boots are disgusting. And for that remark, you can clean everyone else’s as well.” He stood up, brushing dirt from his trousers, as the spriggan boy groaned and flopped over the fallen tree in anguish. “The rest of you, inside. It’s lesson time.”

  “Lessons?” asked Ivy. “What are you teaching them?”

  “Shape-changing, mostly,” Martin said. “They come by it naturally, as you’ve seen, but they haven’t got much of a repertoire. They’re a bit like your people, afraid to try anything new. But I’m showing them how to take bird-shape. And they’ve taught me a few tricks, too.”

  “Really?”

  Martin turned to face Ivy, holding her gaze. Little by little his features altered, bones squaring and jaw broadening, eyes changing from gray to summer blue. Ivy watched, mesmerized, until his pale hair began to redden and she realized with a jolt who he was mimicking. “Martin, no. Stop.”

  “I made it green again, didn’t I?” He shifted back to his own shape. “Dratted color-blindness.”

  She’d forgotten about that, but it was hardly the problem. “No, it was red. Just don’t.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “I thought you might like it. Best of both worlds, as the humans say.”

  Ivy knew he was teasing, but the thought of Martin with Mattock’s face nauseated her. She shook her head. “He likes you, you know,” she said after a moment. “In spite of everything.”

  “I like your Matt, too.” He turned toward the barrow, a lean silhouette against the cloud-rumpled sky. “If I get myself inconveniently killed at some point, you might consider giving him another chance.”

  “Martin,” said Ivy between her teeth, but he only laughed and vanished.

  She was still sitting on the hillside when Thorn returned from her walk and sat next to her, red-cheeked with cold and exertion. “So that’s the end, I suppose,” she said.

  Ivy rested her chin on her knees, feeling emptier than ever. It wasn’t just her own people she’d let down, it was Thorn and Broch, too.

  “It’s too bad,” Thorn went on. “This Cornwall of yours is all right. Not a lot of big trees, and all that wind and rain’s a mite tedious. But it’s a no-nonsense kind of place. Sturdy. Good roots.” Her hand strayed to her belly, rubbing the growing roundness there. “I thought he might like it.”

  “How do you know it’s a boy?”

  “That’s what the queen said.” Thorn shrugged. “She knows these things.”

  But she hadn’t known how to stop Betony, or at least she hadn’t been willing to try. Now that the first shock of disappointment had faded, Ivy didn’t blame Valerian for that: she wouldn’t have sent an army of piskeys to fight the Empress and defend the Oak, either. But it was hard not to feel like the faery queen had given up on her. “Do you think she’s disappointed about the treaty?”

  “Couldn’t say.” Thorn leaned back on her elbows, squinting at the clouds. “Not much surprises her, though. Maybe that’s why she didn’t argue when I told her I wanted to leave. Maybe she knew I’d be back in a few weeks anyway.”

  Ivy was quiet, studying a patch of lichen between her feet. Only when Thorn began to rub her nose furiously did she realize that the faery woman was crying.

  “I hate this,” she snapped. “I don’t want to go back to the Oak. If it weren’t for the dratted baby, I’d—I’d march off and fight that blighted aunt of yours myself.”

  Ivy knew pregnancy made women emotional, but it sounded as though Thorn really meant it. “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said. “But you don’t have to leave, unless you want to. I’m sure Martin won’t mind.”

  Thorn humphed. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t go anywhere until—” She sat up sharply. “What’s that?”

  A long wail echoed from inside the hill, then broke into hiccupping sobs of despair. Daisy marched out of the barrow with her daughter in her arms, while Clover and her two sons followed.

  “I’m not going!” Thrift pummeled her mother’s shoulders. “I want to stay with Pearl!”

  “Be quiet!” Daisy told her. “And don’t you dare say a word about spriggans from now on! Do you want to get us all killed?” She gave Thrift a little shake and set her down, then grabbed her again as the little girl tried to bolt.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mattock, climbing out of the barrow to join them. “I can put a silencing spell on her until we’re in the Delve.” He waved his hand at Thrift.

  “No!” she shrieked. “No, n—” But though her mouth kept moving, no sound came out. She collapsed to the ground at Daisy’s feet, weeping.

  The light from the door flickered, and Pearl stepped out. She slipped past the piskey-women, knelt, and patted Thrift’s shoulder. “I lost my mam,” she whispered. “You’ve still got yours.”

  Thrift threw her arms around the little spriggan girl, hugging her fervently. Then she got up and clung to her mother’s skirts.

  “All ready?” Mattock looked around at the cluster of women and children, who nodded and linked hands. He put his half hand on Teasel’s shoulder and gazed up at Ivy.

  “Good luck,” he said, and all the piskeys vanished. Only Pearl was left, standing forlorn at the foot of the hill.

  “Take one, my—I mean, Ivy.” Jewel nudged her with the platter. “You’ve not had a bite all day.”

  Ivy raised her head blearily. After Matt and the others left she’d lost track of what time it was, or even where she was. But she must have followed Pearl back into the barrow, because she was sitting against the wall of the treasure chamber, and someone had draped a blanket around her.

  “Pasties?” Ivy murmured, reaching for one. The pastry was poorly crimped and a little black around the edges, but they smelled good. She rolled the meat pie from
hand to hand until it cooled enough not to burn her fingers, then bit into it as Jewel watched hopefully.

  “Did I use enough salt and pepper?” she asked. “Teasel was going to show me, but . . . she left.”

  “You did very well,” Ivy told her, and with a smile Jewel moved on to serve the other girls sitting around the cavern. All of them were surrounded by piles of half-polished jewelry and loose gemstones: they seemed to have made it their business to clean the whole hoard, and by the looks of it there was enough to keep them busy for weeks. But their faces were somber, and it was clear they felt almost as sorry to lose the piskeys as Ivy did.

  “Pearl,” called Ivy, and the little girl shuffled over. Her expression was tragic, her mouth trembling, and she slumped next to Ivy like an abandoned doll. “I’m sorry about Thrift, but you were very brave and kind to help her. Here.” She pressed the rest of her pasty into Pearl’s hands. “You should eat something, too.”

  The spriggan girl took a bite, chewed and swallowed with a visible effort. Then she dropped the pasty and curled up with her head in Ivy’s lap.

  Ivy stroked Pearl’s silky hair, feeling helpless. She was so young—they all were. And though like Martin they’d survived against all odds, they’d lost their families, their clans, and the world they’d grown up in to do it. No wonder these girls had been drawn to the motherly piskey-women and Pearl had embraced Thrift like her own sister. They must be terribly lonely.

  Soon Pearl’s thin shoulders drooped, and her body grew heavy with sleep. Ivy eased out from under her, leaving her pillowed on the blanket, and went out to the main cavern to find Martin.

  He was sitting cross-legged in a circle of spriggan boys, watching them play a complicated game with sticks, stones, and a small knife. But when he saw Ivy, he got up at once. “Broch came back a little while ago,” he said. “He and Thorn have gone off for a . . . private conversation.”

  His tone was innocent, but his smile and the way he hooked his fingers like quote marks said otherwise. “I’m sure talking will be involved at some point,” said Ivy tartly. “And will you stop trying to provoke me? I know you’d rather see me annoyed than miserable, but I don’t want to be angry at you.”