Wayfarer

by Anderson, R. J.

  “We’ll have to go as quietly as we can, and hope we don’t bump into anyone,” Linden whispered. “It makes my head hurt to keep up too many different glamours at the same time, so I won’t make us invisible unless I have to—but it’s a long way up to the Queen’s chambers.”

  Timothy nodded his understanding, and the two of them began climbing the stair together.

  They trudged up past one landing, then another, all ringed with closed doors that looked virtually identical. He saw no paint or pictures on the walls, no carpeting, not even a single piece of furniture to distinguish one landing from another. The staircase itself was a fantastic piece of engineering, but on the whole, the inside of the Oak seemed to be a place built for function rather than beauty.

  Still, to think of all this, carved into the heart of a single tree—he ran his hand wonderingly along the rail, feeling the age-polished wood. In all his childhood daydreams he’d never imagined anything like it.

  “Someone’s coming,” hissed Linden. She pulled him back against the inside curve of the stair, and sparkling heat rippled over him as she cast a glamour to hide the two of them from view.

  Now he could hear the sound of bare feet padding down the stairs, see the glow of a lantern bobbing toward them. As the other faery passed he caught a glimpse of a square face and bluntly cut dark hair, saw the wings that sprang from between her shoulder blades. She paused to sniff the air, frowning, and Timothy held his breath—but then the faery stomped on down the steps and was gone.

  Who was that? mouthed Timothy when Linden nudged him to start climbing again.

  “Thorn,” she whispered back. “She’s a friend…well, mostly. I’d love to introduce you, but trust me, this would be a very bad time.”

  Timothy could believe it. From the scowl on Thorn’s face, he could just imagine the kind of tongue-lashing she’d be capable of giving out. Especially if she knew that Linden had brought a human into the Oak…

  Meanwhile, the stairs kept spiraling upward. Timothy had played football so often back in Uganda, and even since he’d come to Greenhill, that his leg muscles were in pretty good shape; but as the two of them climbed through turn after turn, the gentle burn in his calves grew to a fiery ache. He was just about to beg Linden to stop and give him a chance to rest when she stepped up onto another landing, and he realized they’d reached the top at last.

  An intricately carved archway stood in front of them, hung with red curtains as soft as velvet. This is more like it, thought Timothy, limping after Linden as they passed through into a paneled corridor gently lit by brass lamps. A bit more like a high-class hotel than faeryland, but at least some thought had gone into decorating it—even if all the furnishings looked at least a hundred years old and the draperies were worn through in several places.

  They were almost at the end of the corridor when a voice spoke up primly from behind them:

  “Her Majesty is not to be disturbed.”

  Linden made a startled noise and spun around, putting herself between the newcomer and Timothy. She pushed him back into the shadows, her invisibility spell prickling over him again.

  “But Bluebell,” she said as the other faery advanced, “I have to talk to her right now. It’s important.”

  Bluebell swept up to them, her long skirts almost brushing the floor. The last time Timothy had seen a dress like that was in a museum. “There were two of you here a moment ago,” said the other faery suspiciously. “And what is that smell? Have you been with the humans again?”

  “The Queen will want to see me,” Linden insisted. “I know she will. Just ask Valerian.”

  Bluebell gave a disdainful sniff. “I find it hard to believe that the judgment of a mere Healer should matter more than the word of Her Majesty’s own personal attendant. I tell you, the Queen is resting. If the message you have for her is so important, then you can deliver it to me.”

  “So you can repeat it to Mallow?” retorted Linden with a fierceness that surprised Timothy. “No, I will not. What I have to say is for Her Majesty’s ears alone, and if you won’t show me in, then I’ll just have to announce myself.” And with that she reached out and rapped on the nearest door.

  Bluebell gasped. “How dare you! You impudent—” But the door opened almost immediately, revealing a tall, gray-robed faery with brown hair hanging loose about her shoulders.

  “I am very sorry,” she said, lowering her somber gaze upon them. “But I fear that you have come too late.”

  She stepped back, holding the door open. Inside, Timothy saw a splendidly furnished bedchamber, complete with a four-poster fit for a dying Queen to lie in—but now the covers lay smooth on both sides, with a hollow ridge down the middle, and the pillows by the headboard were empty.

  “You mean…” whispered Linden, and the tall faery put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m afraid so, child. Queen Amaryllis is dead.”

  Eight

  Linden felt frozen all over, numb with shock and grief. She had pinned all her hopes on this meeting with the Queen, trusting that once Amaryllis heard their story, all would be well. She would forgive Linden for running off to the city, she would welcome Timothy to the Oak, and they could all sit down and discuss what to do next. But instead Amaryllis had died, never knowing where Linden had gone and why, or even whether she was still alive.

  Bluebell pushed past her and stumbled into the chamber, sobbing. “Oh, my lady,” she wept as she dropped to her knees beside the empty bed. “What will we do without you?”

  “We will mourn her, and honor her memory,” said Valerian. “And then we will go on, as she would have wished us to do. Linden?”

  The low pulse in her temples reminded her that Timothy was still by her side, invisible, uncertain, waiting. There was a stone in her throat and a bruising ache deep in her chest, but Linden knew her duty. She pulled herself up, brushing at her wet cheeks, and said, “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “What?” Bluebell whirled on them, eyes hollow with rage. “You speak treason, girl! I am the Queen now—I, by right of seventy years’ service!”

  “Indeed, you served Amaryllis faithfully,” said Valerian, “and you will be well rewarded for it. But as this testament written and signed by the Queen’s own hand will prove”—she reached into the dressing table and drew out a sealed parchment—“she did not choose you as her successor. She chose me.”

  “Lies!” sputtered Bluebell. “The notion is absurd! Who are you to rule over the rest of us? You know nothing about matters of state!”

  “Nor do you,” Valerian reminded her gently. “For all the fine clothes she gave you, Bluebell, you were Amaryllis’s servant, not her councillor.”

  Bluebell pinched her lips together. “I knew nothing good could come of you being here,” she said. “Whispering in Her Majesty’s ear, poisoning her against me. Conspiring with your human-loving friends”—she spat out the phrase as though it were blasphemy—“to put yourself on the throne. But we’ll see about that!” She flounced out the door again, adding over her shoulder, “You’re not Queen yet!”

  Valerian remained silent until they heard the distant sound of Bluebell’s door slamming shut. Then she said, “Well. That was unfortunate.”

  “You were right.” Linden bit her lip in distress. “What you told me before, about not being able to trust her…but she never used to be like that. What’s gotten into her?”

  “This is Mallow’s work, I fear,” said Valerian. “Bluebell is vain and easily flattered—and just as easily controlled. But let that be, for now.” She took Linden by the shoulders. “Where have you been? Knife came to us yesterday, half mad with worry for you, and then we heard that the boy had disappeared as well—”

  Timothy gave a little cough at that, and Linden colored. She shut the door, then turned back to Valerian and said apologetically, “I know. Because I went with him, and now…”

  She concentrated, and the ache in her head eased a little as the invisibility glamour dissolved. Timothy stood
awkwardly on the carpet in his muddy shoes, his hands in his pockets and the backpack sagging off one shoulder.

  “Er, hello,” he said.

  Valerian stared at him a moment, then turned on Linden. “What in the name of the Great Gardener possessed you?” she demanded. “To reveal our secrets to—” Then she stopped and took a deep breath, as though recollecting herself. “But no, I speak too soon. You came to tell the Queen something of great importance, and it would be folly to judge you before hearing what you have to say. Very well, go on.”

  Relief spread through Linden. She would miss Queen Amaryllis terribly, but with someone as wise as Valerian taking her place, perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad. “It’s a long story,” she said. “Perhaps we should call some of the others to hear it, too?”

  “I don’t want to be rude,” whispered Timothy in Linden’s ear, “but is there anything to eat around here? I’m starving.”

  They were sitting at the table in the late Queen’s study, waiting for Valerian to return from summoning three other faeries—the Council, she’d called them—to hear their story.

  “I’m hungry, too,” murmured Linden, and then in a louder voice as Valerian came back in, “Val—I mean, Your Majesty, do you think we might have something to eat?”

  “Periwinkle is bringing refreshments, I believe,” said Valerian, sitting down at the end of the table. And sure enough, it was only a short time before the door opened again and a little red-haired faery bustled in with a tray almost as big as herself.

  “Thorn and Campion are on their way,” she said breathlessly as she set it down. Then her eyes fell on Linden and Timothy, and she clapped both hands to her mouth with a little squeak. “Oh! But you’re—I mean he’s—”

  Quickly Linden rose and embraced the other faery, who burst into tears and clung to her. “How could you go off like that and just disappear and not tell me or Knife or anyone, don’t you know we thought you were dead!”

  “I’m so sorry, Wink,” Linden said. “Please forgive me.”

  “Of course she will,” said a gruff voice from the doorway, and Timothy recognized Thorn, the faery who had passed him and Linden on the stairs. “Though if you ask me, she shouldn’t. Of all the fly-witted things to do—” Her eyes fell on Timothy. “Great Gardener! Who or what is that?”

  “I apologize for the shock, Thorn,” said Valerian’s calm voice from the back of the room, “but I thought it best to summon you here first and explain later. Ah, Campion, there you are. Would you mind shutting the door behind you?”

  Timothy had been through some bizarre experiences in the last couple of days, but this had to be one of the oddest: sitting at a table with five faeries—all of whom had noticeably pointed ears and long, translucent wings—while they took turns looking at him as though he were the strange one.

  “I am grateful to you all for coming here at such short notice,” said Valerian. “The news of Her Majesty’s passing will soon spread throughout the Oak, and this may be our last opportunity to meet together for some time. Linden has brought us a human visitor, as I am sure you could not help but notice. I realize that this act is unprecedented, but there was reason for it, as you will soon hear. Linden?”

  As Linden stood up and began telling their story, Timothy took a sip of his drink and nearly choked, it was so bitter. The cakes Wink had brought were dry and heavy, with hardly any sweetness to them, and only a generous dollop of honey helped them go down. He would have done anything for a plate of starchy matoke with some fish or beef sauce to flavor it, as he used to eat back in Uganda….

  “WHAT?” yelled Thorn, and Timothy jumped, spilling his cup down the table. Wink grabbed a napkin and began mopping up the puddle, and Timothy was stammering an apology when he saw that Wink was smiling.

  “I knew it!” she told him in hushed tones, as though they shared some wonderful secret. “I knew they were real, no matter what anyone said! I even thought you might be a faery yourself at first, only you don’t have wings….”

  Oh. Now Timothy understood why Thorn had shouted: Linden had just told the Council there were male faeries. He’d been so focused on filling the emptiness in his stomach, he’d stopped paying attention to anything else.

  He forced himself to concentrate as Linden explained what she’d learned from her conversation with Rob: how the Oakenfolk were considered Forsaken by the other faeries, that neither Rob nor any others under the faery Empress’s command would help them, and last of all that the Empress would execute any faeries or humans who defied her. She finished by telling how she and Timothy had fled the city, then dropped back into her chair, rubbing her forehead and looking spent.

  “So all the other faeries hate us because they think we’re too friendly with humans?” said Wink in bewildered tones, and Thorn remarked acidly, “Now there’s an irony.”

  “This Empress…” Campion toyed with her pencil, frowning. “She must be clever as well as powerful, to have so many faeries under her control. I wonder how she managed it? Especially if she’s been avoiding humans all this time, and they’re where our cleverest ideas come from.”

  “Well, she hasn’t been avoiding them, obviously,” said Thorn. “Seems to me that she and her people find humans useful enough, or they wouldn’t be living right in the midst of them.”

  Linden nodded. “But human beings are just cattle, as far as the Empress and her people are concerned. They’ve become so selfish and proud, they won’t even consider that it’s wrong to deceive humans and take their creativity by force.”

  “Yes, but doesn’t it sound as though this Rob you met knew better?” Wink said. “If he went to the trouble of saving you and Timothy…”

  “I thought so, too, at first,” Linden replied sadly, “but it turned out he was just hoping I was one of these Children of Rhys he’d been looking for. I don’t think we can count on him to help us again.”

  The Council faeries all looked sober at this, and the room fell silent. Timothy waited for someone to come up with another idea or at least a question, but no one did. At last, frustrated, he spoke.

  “Don’t tell me you’re all giving up already? All right, so you can’t count on the Empress and her people. But they can’t be the only faeries in the world. What about trying to find the Children of Rhys yourselves?”

  “Timothy, I already told you—” began Linden, but Valerian held up her hand.

  “No, let him speak; I can see by his face he has more to say, and I would not dismiss his words without hearing them.” She turned to Timothy. “Please, go on.”

  “You’re assuming that if Rob couldn’t find the Children, you can’t either,” Timothy said. “But I’m not sure that’s true. You’ve been cut off from the other faeries for hundreds of years, so obviously they know a lot of things about the world that you don’t. But your people seem to know some things that the Empress and her faeries have forgotten, too. Don’t you have any legends or history books or something that might tell you about the Children of Rhys?”

  Campion pushed back her chair and rose. “There’s nothing about them in the archives downstairs, I know that much. But perhaps there’s something here….” She began inspecting the bookshelves that lined the room, her head cocked to one side.

  “Well thought,” said Valerian, inclining her head to Timothy. “If I had any doubt of Linden’s wisdom in bringing you to us, I have none now. Yet if we can find nothing in the Oak’s records to tell us of the Children, what then?”

  There was no mockery in her tone, no condescension; she really seemed to believe he might have an answer, and after a moment’s thought Timothy found that he did.

  “Then I’ll sneak back into town,” he said, “and look them up in the library.”

  Linden looked at Timothy with surprise: She hadn’t expected him to volunteer his services—especially at such risk to himself. Had he decided to join her on her quest to find more faeries after all?

  Thorn made a skeptical noise. “How’s that going to help?
You can’t think some human writer is going to know more about our own people than we do?”

  Timothy opened his mouth, but Campion spoke first. “Why not?” she said to Thorn. “You’ve never read the human legends about faeries, but I have, and you’d be surprised how often they were right about things we Oakenfolk had muddled up or forgotten. And,” she added with a touch of smugness, “there were male faeries in some of those stories, too.”

  “All right, fair enough,” Thorn replied. “But Rob didn’t know how to find these Children either, and he’s been living in the middle of a big human city for years. So if he couldn’t find out anything—”

  “Unless,” said Timothy, “he made the same mistake you’re making.”

  “Oh, really. And what’s that?”

  “Underestimating humans.” Timothy leaned forward across the table, his gray-green eyes intent. “If the Empress and her faeries believe they’re so superior to my people, of course they wouldn’t expect us to have any information that they don’t. And there’s another thing I noticed, though I didn’t think much about it at the time: Rob’s place didn’t have a television or a radio or even a telephone, let alone a computer. He’s probably consulted every faery book he could find, but I’ll bet you anything he’s never searched the internet.”

  Thorn looked blank, and Linden was wondering how to explain, when Campion broke in excitedly: “That’s a special sort of library in a box, isn’t it, where you can get information from all over the world. Don’t Knife and Paul have it?”

  Timothy looked discomfited, and Linden could guess why: He’d been counting on the faeries’ not knowing that particular detail. How could he explain to them that he’d rather walk all the way to the village and risk being caught by the Empress than go back to the House even for a few minutes?