Torch

by R. J. Anderson

  And it would be. Because in the flowering warmth of that June night Ivy and Martin would be married, and he—who’d once been guilty, despised, homeless, and last of a dying race—would be crowned Jack of the Delve.

  Ivy scanned the bustling crowd in the Engine House, spotting one familiar face after another: Mica furrowing his brow in concentration as he tuned their father’s fiddle, Dagger staggering toward the wakefire with a pile of wood so high he could barely see, Daisy scolding Thrift for muddying her dress while Pearl stood meekly by. Hew was hooting and slapping his thigh over a prank Quartz had just played on him, while Teasel piled wedges of nettle cheese onto plates and passed them to Jewel and Ruby to serve.

  Meanwhile old Copper sat in the corner with a face like a wet week and a few of the knockers who’d followed Gossan huddled guiltily against the back wall. They’d pleaded for mercy and Ivy had granted it, but they were still ashamed to look her or Martin in the face.

  But they’d come here instead of hiding, so there was hope yet. It would take time to undo the damage Betony and Gossan had done to their people, but bringing them all together was a start.

  “Ivy?”

  Cicely turned crimson and scuttled away as Mattock walked up, a basket hooked over his arm. “You came!” Ivy exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

  He made a diffident gesture with his half hand. “Well enough. You look . . . nice.”

  Teasel had made the gown for her, knitting its draped neck and long sleeves from wool she’d spun and dyed a deep cornflower blue. Then she’d passed it to Jewel, who’d embroidered it with silver vines that twined from Ivy’s wrists to her elbows and up both sides of the softly flaring skirt. It was the loveliest thing Ivy had ever worn, and deliciously warm—though the fire she carried inside her meant that she was never really cold anymore.

  “Mica told me you weren’t coming,” she said, as Mattock walked to the dessert table and began to unpack his basket of saffron buns.

  Matt blew out an exasperated breath. “Mica thinks everyone’s as moody as he is. I never said that. I only said . . .” His eyes became distant. “I’m not sure what good I’m doing here anymore.”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” Ivy told him. “I’m just glad you’re here.” But Mattock shook his head.

  “I want to do something. I just don’t know what.”

  Ivy’s heart went out to him, but she had no answer. Matt was learning to use his left hand, but he was still clumsy with it, unable to wield a knife skillfully or do most of the other tasks that had once filled his days as a hunter. He’d never swing a thunder-axe like his knocker father, or cut and craft gemstones with the older piskey-men. He still loved baking, but as tonight’s well-laden tables showed, there were plenty of good bakers in the Delve.

  Cicely plucked her elbow. “Thorn wants to talk to you outside. It’s important.”

  Ivy knew her little sister was only doing her duty as the Joan’s attendant, but it was hard not to be frustrated at her timing. “We’ll talk more later,” she promised Mattock, and hurried out the door of the Engine House.

  Thorn was waiting on the path, arms folded over her swollen belly—it was big enough to notice now, and her unbuttoned jacket and loose tunic did little to hide it. “Is it true?” she demanded. “You invited Queen Valerian and didn’t tell me?”

  Well, at least one person wasn’t in awe of her. “I sent a message, but she didn’t answer it. Why?”

  Thorn jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Because she’s here.”

  Despite all the wards Ivy had laid around the hillside to keep unwanted guests at bay, a car was driving slowly toward them, headlamps sweeping the lane like searching eyes. It crunched to a stop above the Engine House, and a tall blonde woman jumped out of the passenger seat to open the back door.

  It was Peri McCormick, the one the faeries called Knife.

  Thorn went rigid, fists clenched at her sides. At piskey height, surrounded by gorse and bracken, she and Ivy were all but invisible; Thorn could have leaped away in an instant, and Knife would never know she’d been there. But as Queen Valerian stepped out of the car she looked straight at the two of them and beckoned.

  Thorn swore under her breath, but she was too loyal to disobey her own monarch. She squared her shoulders, grew to human size, and stomped up the slope to meet them. Feeling awkward and a little apprehensive, Ivy followed.

  “Queen of spriggans,” said Valerian warmly, stretching out both hands to Ivy. “And now Joan of the Delve as well. Do you forgive me?”

  “Of course,” Ivy told her, clasping the queen’s fingers in her own. Hurt though she’d been by Valerian’s reluctance to help her, she understood it now. It wasn’t faery soldiers or spells that Ivy had needed, it was her own readiness to die for the people she loved. Only the belief that she had nothing left to lose had given Ivy the courage to face Betony, and that strength, not Valerian’s, had made her the Joan.

  “And Thorn,” said the queen, turning to the faery woman. “You fought bravely to help Ivy when I could not, and bring peace where it seemed most hopeless. I am proud of you.”

  Thorn stood with head bowed and lips pressed tight together, while a fat tear slid down her cheek. Then she swiped furiously at her eyes and said to Knife, “I know this isn’t fair. I never wanted this, and you wanted it so much—” She heaved a breath. “I’m sorry.”

  Knife regarded the faery woman, distraught. Then she stepped forward and wrapped Thorn in a fierce embrace. “How gnat-witted do you think I am?” she demanded, as the shorter woman blinked dazedly against her shoulder. “I knew something was wrong the minute Wink told me you’d left the Oak. It drove me half-wild that you ran away to Cornwall before we could talk. When Timothy told me he’d seen you and thought you were expecting . . . I wasn’t even surprised.”

  “Well, I was,” said Knife’s husband Paul, leaning out the window of the car. “Of all the Oakenfolk, Thorn, how on earth did you end up being the first one to get pregnant?”

  Thorn’s lips quivered, and Ivy braced herself for an outburst. But then Knife snorted, Thorn spluttered, and they both burst out laughing.

  Paul watched the two of them in consternation. “I need a drink,” he muttered, which for some reason only made Thorn and Knife laugh harder. It was a long time before the two of them stopped giggling like piskey-girls and straightened up again.

  “It really isn’t fair, though,” Thorn said, as Knife wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her winter jacket.

  “Stop feeling guilty,” Knife told her. “You haven’t stolen anything from me. I helped raise Linden and Timothy, and if you’ll stop trying to avoid me, I’ll be glad to help look after your child as well.” She stepped back, taking Paul’s hand through the window. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from becoming human, it’s that missing something doesn’t mean you can never be happy without it.”

  Thorn looked skeptical but said no more. Knife turned to Valerian. “Paul and I will be going now, but we’ve booked a cottage close by. If you need anything . . .”

  The queen smiled at her. “You have done all I could ask, Perianth. Go with my blessing, and rest.”

  “This is the Draft of Harmony.” Ivy’s voice rang across the Engine House as she lifted the bowl of piskey-wine, the wakefire she’d just lit blazing behind her. The pendant Martin had given her hung openly around her neck now, its green depths dancing with golden light. “As we pass it from one to another, piskeys and spriggans and faeries alike, may we put aside all past divisions and hatreds, and drink to friendship and peace.”

  “To peace,” her people echoed, but it sounded feeble. They hadn’t expected to find Queen Valerian of the Oak at their feast, and they weren’t sure what to make of her. Thorn and Broch were almost as good as piskeys in their eyes, but Valerian was the image of the lovely, perilous faeries in their droll-tales, and they were all waiting for her gracious facade to crack.

  Well, they’d be waiting a very long time. Ivy wasn’t sure how w
ise or good a Joan she’d be compared to Betony: only time and testing could prove that. But she knew what kind of ruler she hoped to be, and she could find no better example than Queen Valerian. Ivy sipped the draft and handed it on to Martin, who stood up and held the bowl high as well.

  “A blessing on the Delve!” he called out, his voice resonant, and Ivy’s people sat up at once. Those words at least were traditional, and something they could all agree on. They shouted back the blessing as Martin drank, firelight glinting on the signet ring that had once been his father’s and the silver vines Jewel had embroidered on his doublet. But instead of handing the draft to Mattock, who sat on his right, Martin walked across the circle to Valerian.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, and lowered himself to one knee.

  The piskeys gaped, and Dagger started to his feet in outrage. But Valerian shook her head, smiling, and rose to take the bowl from Martin’s hands.

  “You honor me, king of spriggans,” she said. “But tonight I am only a guest, and your servant.” She touched his cheek with a mother’s tenderness, then crossed the stones and offered the draft to Mattock.

  Hesitantly he accepted it, his face full of wonder—and when he had drunk, Valerian took it back and offered the bowl to Mica. Patiently the faery queen carried it around the circle, presenting it to each piskey and spriggan in turn, and holding their gazes with her own until they either drank or looked away. Not until she’d attended all of them did Valerian drink and hand the bowl back to Ivy. Then she returned to her seat.

  So many had sipped the piskey-wine, there was only a few mouthfuls left. Encouraged, Ivy drank and poured the dregs into the wakefire. She handed the empty bowl to Cicely and was about to announce the start of the feast when Martin stepped in front of her, offering his arm.

  She’d almost forgotten—there was one more important ceremony to come. Blushing, Ivy let Martin lead her to the back of the Engine House, where a throne stood on a wooden dais. She stepped up onto the platform, feeling small and strange, and turned to face the crowd.

  There was a minor eruption at the back of the ranks as Thrift and Pearl squirmed through, clutching a lumpy cushion between them. Together they trotted over the grass, heedless of Daisy’s protests, and held up their gift to Ivy.

  It was a golden circlet, so beautifully crafted that only piskeys could have made it, but with a slight dullness that hinted it hadn’t been used in many years. Three equal-sized gemstones adorned its center, one airy blue, one moss-green, and the middle dark as granite; while all around them the gold was shaped like tiny, leaping flames. Ivy had never seen anything like it before, but she knew what it must be: the ancient, long-lost crown of the Joan.

  “We found it in the treasure,” announced Thrift, and Pearl added hastily, “Not in the Delve. In the barrow.”

  “Of course.” Martin looked solemn, but his lips were twitching. “Spriggans might be grave-robbers, but let it never be said that we’re thieves.” He lifted the circlet and set it on Ivy’s head, then stepped back and swept his arm toward her. “All hail Joan the Wad, queen of the piskeys, knockers, and spriggans!”

  “All hail our Joan!” shouted Mattock, clapping loudly, and Hew and the other rescued men joined in. They kept it up until the whole crowd was cheering with them, and Ivy’s blush grew so hot she thought she might burst into flames right there. Shyly she lowered herself onto the throne that had once been Betony’s and waited for the noise to die down.

  “’Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won,” Martin quoted, putting a hand on her shoulder. “For which I will divide my crown with her.”

  Ivy laid her hand over his and smiled. Then she called out, “Let the feast begin!”

  Ivy was sitting with her empty plate in her lap, wiping the last crumbs of saffron bun from her fingers, when Broch walked up to her.

  “I’ve found something that may help unite your people.” He opened his hand and showed her a smooth, dark gray pebble with a few crumbs of mortar clinging to it. “It seems all those stones in the entrance of the barrow weren’t just there for decoration.”

  He dropped it into Ivy’s palm, and she started in astonishment as a moonlit landscape appeared before her eyes, and a lilting voice began to speak: “In the days of the good Joan Chalcedony, there lived a piskey who had lost his laugh . . .”

  “Lorestones.” Broch took back the pebble, and the vision faded. “My people, the Children of Rhys, used seeds for a similar purpose—to record stories and events that might otherwise be forgotten. I haven’t had a chance to study more than a few of the stones in the barrow yet, but if you need more proof of how things used to be . . .”

  Ivy nodded, grateful. Her people might not be great readers, but they loved stories, and viewing these lorestones would do more to convince them that spriggans, piskeys, and knockers had once lived together in harmony than Ivy’s words, or her crown, ever could.

  “You’ve given me a precious gift,” she told Broch. “I owe you and Thorn more than I can say.” The words knotted her throat, but she had to speak them. “I’ll miss you when you go back to the Oak.”

  Broch looked puzzled. “Are you sending us away, then? I know you’ll want someone to help negotiate the peace treaty, but I thought you had someone else in mind.”

  He gestured to a bench by the wakefire, where Queen Valerian sat talking quietly to Mattock. His half hand lay relaxed on his knee, and he was listening to her with obvious interest. Not in a romantic way, or at least Ivy hoped not: despite her youthful appearance the faery queen was far older than he was, and showed no sign of wanting a consort. But if Mattock could talk to Valerian, then he might not mind becoming the Delve’s ambassador to the Oak as well.

  “I do now,” Ivy said, with a smile. “And if you and Thorn want to stay with us, I’d be honored.”

  A pointed cough made Ivy look around. Martin stood behind her, firelight washing his skin with gold and gleaming in his white-blond hair. He’d lost his pinched look, and the embroidered doublet and fitted breeches suited him; he no longer moved like a fugitive but with the calm dignity of a king.

  “My Joan,” he said, holding out one hand. “Will you honor me?”

  Ivy followed his gaze to the mossy square at the center of the Engine House, where a few couples—Daisy and Gem, Ruby leading a red-faced Dagger, and to her faint surprise, Mica and Yarrow—were dancing. Then she put her hand in Martin’s and let him lead her to the floor.

  She’d always been a good dancer, light-footed and graceful as her faery mother. But her lack of wings had always hampered her, and she’d seldom danced with anyone but Cicely until tonight. Now with Martin’s arm about her waist, she could finally leap and twirl as a piskey-girl should. And with the airy grace of his spriggan heritage he matched her steps flawlessly, smiling at her all the while.

  Joy swelled in Ivy, warming her chest. It had been worth everything—all the doubts and fears that had tormented her, all the hardships she’d endured—to come to this place, this moment. Her people were free, her home truly safe again. And as Martin gathered his strength and threw her high into the air, Ivy felt as though her heart was flying.

  The End

  I was eager to write this third book of the trilogy as soon I’d finished Nomad, but it took a few years longer than I’d anticipated. Thanks to the many faithful readers who sent e-mails begging for more about Ivy and Martin in the meantime, reassuring me that I wasn’t the only one to think there should be more to the story!

  Still, this book wouldn’t exist without a lot of other generous and hard-working folk behind it. I am deeply grateful to Steve Laube at Enclave Publishing for giving Torch the chance to shine as a published novel, Lisa Laube for her thorough and patient editing, and Lindsay Franklin for her great work as copyeditor (any errors that remain are entirely my fault). Thanks also to Jordan Smith and Trissina Kear for their mad marketing, publicity, and Instagram skills, Kirk DouPonce for the beautiful covers, and Josh Adams for agenting above and beyond the call of
duty.

  Love to my fabulous first-draft cheerleading squad of Deva Fagan, Rosamund Hodge, and my brother Peter Anderson, plus Erin Bow who made Encouraging Noises about the early chapters over tea; and my heartfelt thanks for the sharp-eyed critiques of Chawna Schroeder (author of the wonderful Beast and The Vault Between Spaces, also from Enclave!), Kerrie Mills, Leng Malit, Rebekah Brown, Emily Sather, Aubrey Heesch, and Erin Fitzgerald.

  Kelsi Johnson and Liz Barr read the revised draft and gave me crunchy delicious feedback, while E.K. Johnston took me out for crunchy delicious chicken and waffles (an essential part of a balanced author). My mother Joan lived up to her queenly name and supported me with daily love and prayers, while my brother Mark and sister-in-law Lisa checked in on me regularly to find out how the writing was going. Thanks to you all.

  And finally, these books would not exist, let alone be published, apart from the grace of my Heavenly Father, Saviour, and Guide. If there is anything of lasting worth in these stories, it comes from Him.

  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.