by Tam Erskine
Chapter 5: In which they come to a meadow where a meadow shouldn't be
As Jack looked around, he had the illusion that they were in a meadow lit by the midday sun--until he looked up into the sky where stalactites hung from the cave-like ceiling.
On the ground, moss-covered rocks broke through the thick ferns. Strange birds flittered around, with eyes big as the bottoms of mugs. In front of them, a pond of orange water rippled as if a strong breeze played over the surface. It was stunning.
But Jack was too tired to want to explore.
Odd, he thought, considering that all I did was sit there while Ivy fought off the Twitches.
Dizzy, he slipped from the back of the horse and settled on a mossy rock. Gently, he opened his sack and peered inside. "Come on, now. We're past the Twitches."
The Ellyllon crept out, strangely silent. Even Clematis seemed subdued.
"We are indebted to you, Jack Merry," Jonquil murmured before buzzing off in the direction of a vibrant squirrel with an extra tail or two.
Jack realized he was sitting down--gaping at their surroundings--when it was Ivy that had done the hardest work. He struggled to stand. "Do you need help?"
"No, Jack Merry. Sit and rest. I'll not ask more of you just now, not after all you've done." Ivy unwound her fingers from the horse's mane--wincing as her skin tore and bled--and slid down to stand beside him. She nodded to the horse. "Go on."
The horse bowed its head and galloped toward the orange pond, beginning to melt before it even reached the water.
Jack watched the horse sink into the water, leaving no trace of its presence behind. "I was useless, no weapon. I did nothing but prattle on while you . . ."
"Hush. You've done far more than you realize . . . and you've shed blood for the Ellyllon, Jack. There's great honor in what you did." Ivy handed him an iridescent cloth. "You could have avoided that blow if you let the Twitches near the Ellyllon."
Jack tried to wipe the sticky brown goop from his face and neck, considering. He'd been an outcast his whole life--tolerated, sure, but truly accepted . . . not ever. He'd spent years dreaming that one day he'd find that the stories were true, that one day he'd be whisked away into a world where he mattered.
Shaking his head, he said, "No. I couldn't have."
Perhaps, later there'd be time enough to think about what would come. For now, he needed to get rid of the brown sludge on his skin and rest a while. He gestured toward the pond. "Can I wash in that water?"
Ivy nodded, letting out the breath she'd been holding while Jack was thinking. He wasn't asking any questions, didn't seem even to think of asking about their narrow escape from the Twitches. She needed to tell him. She'd suspected that he could do it, could bend the world, but to see the truth of Jack's gift . . . well, it was a marvelous thing indeed.
As she watched, her horse re-formed just enough to spit streams of orange water at the Ellyllon.
Still unsteady on his feet, Jack settled at the water's edge with the Ellyllon.
As the horse continued to surface and dowse them, Jonquil darted towards the shore. Legs dripping, she plopped down on a toadstool.
Daisy dried her face with a large violet, before announcing, "I'm going to forage for something to eat."
Jack dipped Ivy's iridescent cloth in the water, wrung it out, and held it out to Jonquil. In the process, the severity of the wound on his arm was exposed to her for the first time.
With a gasp, Jonquil darted off, returning promptly with a length of spider's lace and a bundle of moss.
"Stay still." She positioned a section of moss over Jack's bleeding arm and began weaving the spider's lace over it to tether the moss to the wound, muttering, "We can't be having him sick. Indeed. Injured so soon . . . too much to do."
All the while, Clematis sat rather silently on Jack's shoulder, watching her sister work. After Jonquil was done, Clematis still stared at Jack's arm. "Perhaps it'd been wiser to leave Jack at the lake."
Feigning patience, Ivy walked over and sat down on a damp rock beside Jack. "Wiser today, perhaps, but things don't get better for delaying what needs done."
Clematis folded her arms over her chest. "He doesn't even know what he can do."
"I didn't know before, not for certain." Ivy thought of all the times she'd thought about doing this, risking it, but her courage had failed her every time--until today. "If I'd fetched him last harvest, or even last moon, how different would it'd have been?"
"Fetch me?" His voice was woozy now.
The combined force of blood loss and using his gift for the first time had worn him out at last.
Easing closer to Jack in case he toppled, Ivy glanced at Clematis. The temperamental Ellyll's wings fluttered so forcefully that she floated slightly above Jack's shoulder.
Ivy took a handful of moss and began using it as a sponge, dipping it in the water and trying to wash away the brown sludge and other things that clung to her skin.
Finally, Clematis slumped onto Jack's shoulder, petting his ear in a brief show of affection. "I just don't like it. Don't like what happened in the tunnel; don't like would could happen if the Queen realizes the legends were true."
"I'm scared, too." Ivy tried to keep her voice steady. Letting them hear how very terrified she was wouldn't do a moment's good. "But the alternatives all failed. I hoped she'd get well, but I can't just let things go on this way. The realm remakes itself in the Queen's image, and unless the Queen is well . . ."
Jonquil darted over, murmuring to Clematis, tugging her away. "Come now. It'll all be quite fine."
But Clematis had never been one to take well to tender emotions. She yanked her arm free from her sister's grasp and fled behind a clutch of wildflowers.
"You're doing the right thing, Ivy." Jonquil smiled briefly before darting after Clematis, calling back, "Remember that."
"Fetch me?" Jack mumbled.
"Shush, now, Jack Merry." Ivy helped him lean back. The morrow was soon enough for talking. "Talk will come later. Take a rest. You've earned it."
Jonquil snagged a wing on a broken twig hidden in the thick plant-cover. Sometimes she was certain Clematis didn't have an easy emotion in her entire being. Far less painful to apply salve to a wounded Hedge-Child than sooth Clematis. The Hedge-Children squirmed, but at least they appreciated the salve.
Clematis looked up as Jonquil touched down beside her. "We could've all died in there."
Jonquil nodded—and waited.
She wished she could tell her about the plans she'd made, the shadowed meetings she kept secret so long, but Clematis wasn't looking for answers, not yet. After, well, then she'd be ready to listen, but she needed to talk first.
"I mean the Twitches aren't ever pleasant. Still and all, I figured Ivy's visits to the mortal town were just a game, figured the legends were a grand lie, nothing serious enough to endanger the Queen." Clematis tugged at little tufts of moss, absently, not hard enough to rip them free of the rocks. "I didn't know he mattered. Just a mortal that caught Ivy's attention . . ."
"Things have been getting steadily worse." Jonquil kept her voice low and melodic. "If you knew, would you have tried to stop her?"
Clematis frowned. "Well, no, but he's here, and he does change things. Once the Queen hears, we're truly in danger."
From above them Daisy's voice joined in, "If you'd have known, you'd have helped her."
She dropped down to stand in front of them, hands on her hips, looking more like their mother every moment. "You've been vocal enough about the changes in the realm to end up in the Queen's ill graces a number of times. If the Queen were to start taking your belligerence seriously . . ." Frowning, she tapped her foot on the hard ground.
There is no peace being the middle sister, Jonquil thought yet again. Maybe that's why she'd ended up mediating in so many meetings. Even the feral folk are more amenable than Matty and Daisy most days.
She stifled a sigh and glanced at Clematis, whose violet eyes glowed angrily. "Clemati
s has never feared trouble."
Almost casually, Clematis tugged a flower down by the stem and rubbed her cheek on the white petals. "Perhaps you could go stay with Uncle Connlin for a while. Harvest isn't truly that far away, and he could use the help."
"No. I've waited for this to come to pass." Jonquil smiled to soften her tone. "I'll stand with Ivy and Jack. One of them's as likely as not to be injured, and neither knows a thing about healing. And you?"
Daisy shrugged. "There's nowhere except above-ground that's going to be truly safe now, not until this is done, and hiding up there is not for me."
"And if Ivy fails? What if one of you get hurt or worse?" Clematis kept her face hidden in the flower, but the rising tone in her voice betrayed her anger. "What then?"
"We won't." Jonquil cupped her sister's face and forced her to look at them. She smoothed her sister's hair back and whispered, "You'll have your own battle-tales to tell Arth, afterwards."
"I heard that," Daisy muttered, but she picked up the thread and kept on, distracting her sister. "If I'd have known that lollygagging with the Red-Caps would encourage you so . . . well, I'd have done something about it."
Straightening her back, Clematis said, "Arth said he'd talked to the Bollynoggins about a longbow. Grandmother Nogs even sent me this." She pulled out a short dagger from under her tunic.
"What are you thinking?" Daisy scowled, running her hands over her face like Mother used to do when she was altogether frustrated. "You do realize that we're tiny fey? You're as bad as Hagan."
Leaving them to their bickering, Jonquil took to the air in search of a resting place. Her sisters would be fine. They would all be fine.
Eventually. Maybe even soon.
As evening fell, the false light faded to an artificial dusk. It was never truly dark in the meadow, and for the first time Ivy was glad of it.
When she was above-ground, she'd watched the stars come out, marveled at tiny points of light glimmering in the sky--like Will o' the Wisps tempting one to touch the impossible, whispering of secrets just beyond her grasp. She'd spent hours imaging the possibilities. Tonight, though, she took comfort in the starless ceiling above her; there was comfort in knowing there were no hidden reaches above her.
Listening to Jack's rhythmic breathing as he slept, Ivy walked back to the high grass where she'd dropped the sword Jack had spoken into being during their battle.
The make of it was as fine as any that the Queen's warriors carried. The blade was of forged steel, an awful thing for one of faery blood to even touch, but the guard was of silver, protecting her hand from touching that poisonous metal.
As she wiped it clean, she could see that it was, in truth, a thing a beauty: inlayed on the blade were etched vines, like those she'd braided as she sat beside Jack at the lake.
Once it was clean, she spread a cloth over the blade, hiding it from sight, and lay down beside it. But before she drifted to sleep, she slipped her hand under the cloth and rested her fingers on the hilt.
Chapter 6: In which Jack learns the truth
A foot prodded Ivy in the ribs, ribs that were already sore from yesterday's battle. Eyes closed, Ivy wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her sword, just in case. But when she opened her eyes, what she saw was worse than even the most troublesome folk. Standing in the meadow, in full court regalia, was her eldest sister, Princess Ada.
Ada kicked Ivy again, with more force this time.
Ivy sat up, but her hand was still hidden. "Ada, how very . . . surprising to see you."
Ada walked over to a massive boulder, where she could sit without soiling her robes. Her delicate sandals were already ruined, stained by the damp meadow grass, but Ada never went anywhere looking less than stunning. "You missed the dinner, Ivy. I though it prudent to see where you were."
"You were worried?" Ivy glanced at Jack, still sleeping peacefully. She wondered if it were better to let him rest or to wake him.
Ada laughed, not a real laugh, a titter. "No, dearie, I was irritated."
Ivy decided to let Jack sleep, no sense in both of them having to listen to Ada's twisted truths. Cupping her hands, Ivy scooped up water and washed her face.
For a blissful moment, Ada remained silent, but it didn't last. "Mother expected you to be there, Ivy, as did I."
"Mother doesn't even attend most of the dinners." Ivy let her hair fall forward and dipped it in the pond. She'd washed it several times last eve, but she could still smell the lingering stench of the Twitches. "Are you claiming she missed me?"
"Not really." Ada brushed a stray bit of pollen from her gown, scowling. "Yet I am curious as to why you are out here sleeping on the ground.”
"We had a bit of . . . difficulty. The Twitches seemed to think I was not welcome home." Ivy glanced at Jack; his eyes were still closed. She kept her voice low. "I'm lucky to be unharmed."
Ada stood over Jack, peering down at him. She didn't touch him. "You've brought the mortal. This is the one you've watched, isn't it?"
"He wears my mark, Ada. He comes here under my protection." Ivy kept her voice calm and hoped that Ada would be polite at least.
She wasn't.
"And does that give you leave to break the Queen's geas? You'd anger the Queen over a foolish legend? I won't allow this." Ada stood and stepped so close that her skirts brushed Ivy's feet.
Refusing to be cowed, Ivy pushed her away. "That's not your concern, Ada. You do not wear the crown."
"But I do handle many of Mother's affairs now. She listens to me, and you'd do well to remember it." Ada's eyes narrowed. "Take the mortal back above-ground, Lillian, and leave him there. I'd loath having to tell Mother. Imagine: punished for belief in a nursery tale. You're as mad as Mother."
Ivy drew several calming breaths. She'd not show her sister the strength she'd gained by Jack's tale-telling in the tunnel, not yet.
Ada moved closer, her breath warm on Ivy's face. Smiling, she murmured, "Be a good girl, and do as I say."
It took all of her self-control to resist walloping Ada. But Ivy stepped back, fists curled, and merely watched her sister stroll away.
Jack stayed still, listening to Ivy and her sister. Maybe he was better off not having had a family of his own; Ivy's family seemed a lot less than pleasant. When he heard the soft sounds of Ivy sitting down beside him, Jack rolled over, wincing as he bumped his wounded arm.
"Are you awake?" Her voice wasn't much louder than the whirring of the Ellyllon's wings. "She's gone."
Surreptitiously, he glanced at Ivy's face and was relieved to see that she looked angry, not upset. He wasn't eager to repeat the whole tears bit, Ivy's crying made him decidedly uncomfortable, like he should find a way to fix something, and soon. "She's a real charmer."
"And that was her good mood." Ivy flashed a brief grin, before looking off into the direction Ada must have gone. Then she turned back to Jack. "Hungry?"
His initial response faded as he thought about his sack. "I don't have much left to eat."
Eyes twinkling, Ivy hopped to her feet. "Wash up, Jack Merry. We'll find you something to feast upon."
As Jack kneeled and scooped up a handful of water, he tried not to disturb the tiny fish darting in the pond. When he sat back, the fish clustered, watching him with an almost human awareness. As he leaned closer to the water, they swarmed away. Finally, they all fled to the center of the pond.
"Are you well, Jack Merry?"
He glanced up to see Jonquil, sitting on a floating leaf. Her feet were dangling in the water and the swarms of fish were poking their scaled heads out of the pond for her to pet them.
"I am. You were very gentle." He touched his bandage, realizing he'd not thanked her. "I appreciate it."
She nodded, absently, her attention still on the fish. "A word of advice, Jack Merry, in our land we don't offer thanks. It's bad manners to do so."
"Oh." He wracked his memory to think of another way to say he was thankful without saying it, and in the moment came up empty. "Ca
n I ask what I'm to do then?"
Jonquil floated up, like a leaf lifted by the breeze. "When one does a kindness for you, remember it, and repay it as best you can. Words are powerful. Choose ones with depth."
Jack started, fearing that she thought he didn't really appreciate her gentle stitching. "But they do have depth . . ."
"No," she corrected in a voice far more melodic than her sisters'. "You know finer words than that. In this realm, choose your deeds and words with care." She hovered over the pond, dropping down to trail her toes over the surface every so often. Fish jumped up, nipping at her toes as she went.
"They are fine stitches, sister." With only the briefest of sounds, Clematis dropped down to stand on Jack's wrist. She leaned close to Jack's bandage. "I don't believe the White Widow herself could make finer. If it were my wound, I'd gift you with the softest fur shorn of the brightest squirrel I could find."
Jack lifted his arm so Clematis was near his face.
Lips pursed, she stared pointedly at the bandage.
"Right," Jack started. "Well, I have no idea how to convince a squirrel to share its fur, but if I could I'd give you the finest gift I could find . . ."
"Close your eyes, Jack," Clematis urged. "What do you see there that would be fit to show Jonquil the worth of her kindness?"
Why does everyone think I need to close my eyes to imagine things?
Shaking his head, Jack did as he was told and closed his eyes. He heard Ivy humming as she returned, but he kept his eyes closed, imagining what Jonquil would most appreciate. "If I could, I'd give you something precious, that no one could use but you."
"And what would that be . . ." Ivy's hand brushed his arm. "What would you offer our little healer, Jack Merry?"
At Ivy's comment, Jack felt foolish, but he'd already begun so there was no sense in backing away. "I'd offer you the gift of healing without anything but your touch."
Jack felt Clematis lift off his wrist.