Wayfarer

by Anderson, R. J.

  “And there are other verses that make me think of you, too,” Timothy went on more quickly as the Empress began to tap her foot. “Like, ‘How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news,’ because that’s what you were trying to do for your people. And I know you thought you were too young to make any difference, but as Jesus said, ‘The least of you shall be the greatest—’”

  His words ended in a choking gasp as Rob grabbed the back of his neck and pushed his head nearly to the floor. “I beg your pardon, my Empress,” Rob said. “I had thought he might tell us something useful. Forgive my poor judgment.”

  Timothy had been trying to give her a message, Linden realized. But what? Why had he chosen those verses?

  The least of you shall be the greatest…. That meant her, surely: She was the smallest person in this whole room. Perhaps if she figured out what Timothy meant, she could do something great to save them. But what?

  How beautiful are the feet…. But there was nothing special about her feet that she could think of. Maybe it was the good news part he wanted her to think about. Telling her not to lose hope, because he had a plan to save them? And then there was that first verse he’d quoted, about how iron sharpens iron…

  Iron! What if he’d found some, to replace the key he’d lost in Wales? But even if he had, why go to the trouble of telling her about it? She was a faery: She couldn’t touch iron without losing what little magic she had….

  “Enough of this folly,” snapped the Empress. She raised a hand toward Linden’s cage, sparks of baleful light flickering around her fingertips. “As Empress of all Faery, I proclaim Linden of the Oak to be traitor and rebel, outcast and Forsaken, and worthy of no better fate than death. So be—”

  Her words ended in a gasp as Timothy leaped up from his crouch, sprang onto the platform, and hurled himself at her. She staggered back into the throne, which toppled over with a crash, sending the two of them tumbling onto the floor. But somehow Timothy had got his wrists free, and while he gripped the Empress’s throat with one hand, he reached for his ankle with the other.

  Feet! thought Linden, suddenly realizing why he’d been limping. But her epiphany came too late. Timothy’s fingers had barely brushed the edge of his sock when the Empress brought up her hands and the white lightning of her power ripped through him, tearing him away from her and hurling him into the air. He landed on his back at the very edge of the platform, open-eyed and still.

  “No!” Linden screamed. Reckless energy flooded her, sweeping away the last of her caution: She had to get to Timothy, whatever the cost. She clenched her fists and willed herself, with all her might, to grow.

  Her head struck the top of the cage in an instant of blinding pain, and then the bars sprang apart and she dropped to the platform, free. She threw herself down beside Timothy.

  Thank the Gardener, he was alive. His chest rose and fell, and his eyelids fluttered. Something had protected him from the full impact of the Empress’s power. Linden grabbed his right foot, peeled down the sock—and the iron cross fell out into her hand.

  It was pure agony. Her heart, her lungs, even her thoughts stopped. Linden crumpled, dropping the pendant onto the stage, as her magic sputtered out and left her helpless.

  But she was still human size.

  “Remove the boy,” the Empress croaked from the back of the platform, rubbing her throat with one hand while she struggled to push herself upright with the other. “Robin, do you hear me? Take him away!”

  Until now Rob had stood motionless, apparently stunned by what Timothy had done; now he shook himself as though waking from a dream, and climbed the stairs to obey. But as he stooped down and his hands closed on Timothy’s wrists he whispered to Linden, “Use it.”

  Use what? The cross? But how could she, when it had crippled her just to touch it the first time, and she was so weak she could barely…

  The least of you shall be the greatest.

  Was it possible? Could her very weakness, in this moment when the Empress was distracted, become her strength?

  Linden’s magic was gone; she could no longer change size, or fly, or cast a glamour to protect herself. But the iron cross still lay within her reach. And as Rob dragged Timothy out of the way, Linden seized the leather cord, leaped up, and whipped the cross at the Empress as hard as she could.

  The cord snapped. But the cross kept flying, flashing in the candlelight as it spun through the air and struck the Empress’s cheek. With a shriek she bent over, hiding her face in her skirts, while a cry went up from the watching crowd.

  Rob grabbed his guitar from beside the platform; it blurred in his hand, and became a sword. He leaped in front of the Empress as though to defend her, but it was to Linden that he spoke:

  “The Stone! Give it to me!”

  There was no way he could know that she had it, unless Timothy had told him. Quickly Linden dug it out of her pocket and held it out to him.

  Rob closed his hand around the Stone, and relief washed over his face. “You were wrong, my lady,” he said with savage triumph as he turned to confront the Empress. “I can deny you—and I do.”

  The Empress raised her head, eyes burning with hate—and Linden gasped.

  “Jasmine!” she cried out, scrambling to her feet. “Rob—she’s the faery who stole my people’s magic!”

  The touch of cold iron had not only robbed the Empress of her ability to cast spells, it had stripped away the powerful glamours she had used to disguise herself. Dark haired and proud featured, she was now the image of the portrait Linden had seen in Paul’s book. But now the heavy-lidded eyes and sensual mouth were surrounded by deep creases, and the once black hair bore streaks of gray. Signs of age, such as no faery before had ever shown—how many years had she lived as a human before regaining her magical powers?

  “Defend the Empress!” rasped a familiar voice from below them, and Corbin Blackwing leaped up onto the stage with sword in hand. Rob sprang to meet him, shouting, “Rebels! To me!” and the entire room erupted in confusion. Some faeries appeared to be plunging for the exits, others toward the platform, while still more milled about uncertainly.

  “The Empress has lost her power!” Linden shouted into the jostling crowd. “Come here quickly, before it’s too late—Rob has the Stone, he can free you!” At first she despaired that anyone could hear her, there was so much shouting and wailing going on, but then she heard a female voice cry out, “The Stone of Naming!” and another echo, “The Stone!”

  Within seconds the chaos on the floor resolved itself into two sides: the rebels pressing eagerly toward the stage, and the Empress’s servants trying to hold them back. Birds wheeled about the ceiling, animals leaped and tussled on the floor, light sizzled and metal rang, and in the half-darkness it was impossible to tell which side was winning.

  The Empress clawed at her fallen throne, dragging herself to her feet. She staggered forward and swiped at Linden, who ducked away just in time.

  “I should have burned that blighted Oak to the ground,” Jasmine panted. “And when I regain my powers—I swear to you that I will—”

  But at that same moment Rob and Corbin came clashing toward them, all swords and spell-fire. Linden scrambled back, shielding her eyes—and when she looked again, the Empress had flung open the door at the back of the stage and fled, leaving it open behind her.

  Linden darted to Timothy where he sat slumped against the wall. She grabbed his shoulders and shouted in his ear, “Can you move? The Empress—she’s getting away!”

  He looked at her dazedly, then gave a weak nod. Linden slung her arm around him and helped him struggle to his feet, then yelled, “This way!” and pointed at the door.

  “Just a minute—” Timothy stumbled across the platform and bent to snatch up the iron cross from beside the fallen throne. Corbin’s sword whistled toward his head, but Rob blocked the stroke and kicked the Blackwing off the stage. Within seconds an enraged raven came whirring back toward him; Rob dodged the attack just
long enough to stoop and clasp hands with someone in the crowd, then shouted back to Timothy and Linden, “Run! Save yourselves!” and suddenly whisked off into the darkness….

  Linden blinked. Had he really changed himself into a fox?

  “Free!” cried a melodious voice, and Linden looked around to see the faery who had helped them at Euston Station holding the Stone of Naming high in the air. Other faeries were fighting their way toward her, plunging through walls of blue fire and dodging fountains of red and green sparks; as the first of them reached the faery, she passed him the Stone, and his voice echoed hers in exultation, “Free!”

  With a screech one of the Blackwings dove out of the shadows, straight at Timothy’s face. Timothy flung up the iron cross; the raven dropped like an anvil and crashed to the floor as Byrne, unconscious.

  “We have to go, Timothy!” Linden called urgently. Clutching the cross in front of him, Timothy began weaving his way past the other faeries swarming onto the stage—but just as he reached Linden, he stumbled and crashed to his knees.

  “Timothy!” cried Linden in alarm, and he gasped back, “Legs went numb—don’t know what’s wrong, but I can’t—”

  Linden helped him to his feet again, and together they limped toward the door. They had almost reached it when a slim figure slipped out to block their path, tossing the pale hair from his eyes and greeting them with a familiar mocking smile.

  “Martin, get out of my way,” Timothy panted, brandishing the cross, but the male faery only laughed.

  “I have no quarrel with you, human boy,” he said. “Why should I? I have not had such entertainment in many a year.” And to Linden’s amazement, he swept them a bow and disappeared again.

  A noise like thunder cracked across the room, and all the candles went out. “Run!” screamed Linden, and she and Timothy plunged through the door. They found themselves at the top of a stairwell, with a second and heavier door before them; Timothy shoved it open, and the two of them tumbled out onto a concrete step, dazzled by the cold blue light of morning.

  There was no sign of the Empress, and behind them the battle of Sanctuary still raged. But at least—or so Linden thought, as she clung to Timothy in exhausted relief—at least the two of them were safe.

  Eighteen

  Timothy sat in the back parlor at Oakhaven, gazing out across the garden. Two days had passed since he and Linden escaped from Sanctuary: They’d huddled in an alleyway for a miserable hour or so until her magic returned, and then she’d turned them both invisible and they’d taken the train home. They’d arrived on Paul and Peri’s doorstep, filthy, starving, and half dead with cold—but they were alive.

  The only question was, for how long?

  Resignedly Timothy opened his Bible to the fifth chapter of Matthew and reached for his notebook. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven….

  He had just started scribbling down some thoughts for the essay he owed the dean when a spasm went through his hand, and his pen tumbled to the floor. He was trying to make his nerveless fingers pick it up again when he heard Paul’s voice from behind him.

  “You all right, Tim?”

  “I’m fine,” Timothy said quickly, sitting up as his cousin rolled into the room. “Just an aftershock from the Empress’s spell.” It had frightened him the first few times, but by now the spasms were weaker and less frequent, and he was pretty sure they’d soon go away. Still, it was a chilling reminder that if he hadn’t been touching iron when the Empress blasted him, he’d be dead right now.

  “Let’s say we just call her Jasmine,” said Paul, wheeling the chair around to face him. “I don’t think she deserves the title, do you? And if Rob can get enough rebels on his side, she won’t be holding on to it much longer anyway.”

  “That’s just the thing,” said Timothy reluctantly. “I don’t know if he can. I don’t even know if he and his followers are still alive. For all we know the Emp—I mean, Jasmine—could be coming here with an army to take over the Oak right now, and there’s not much any of us can do about it.”

  Paul was silent, his fingers steepled against his lips. Then he said, “True. In which case maybe we should just call your parents and get you on a plane to Uganda before things get any worse.”

  “Are you joking?” demanded Timothy. “I’m not going to run away and just leave you all here!”

  “Why not? You’ve done everything you can to help the Oakenfolk, Tim, and a good deal more than anyone expected of you. Believe me, Peri and I appreciate all you’ve been through for Linden’s sake. But I’m still your guardian, and I’d be a pretty poor one if I let you hang about in the middle of a war zone.”

  Timothy dropped his head into his hands, fingers furrowing up his hair. To be forced to confront his parents on such short notice, when he still hadn’t decided what to tell them, would be bad enough…but even worse was the thought of being thousands of miles from the Oakenwyld, not knowing if his friends there were dead or alive.

  “I want to stay,” he said huskily.

  Paul frowned, but then Peri’s voice echoed in from the corridor. “I seem to remember another young man who refused to run away when his life was in danger, too.”

  She walked into the room and crouched beside Paul’s chair, laying both hands on his arm. “I know you feel responsible for Timothy, and so do I. But after all that’s happened, I think he’s got a right to choose where he wants to be.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Paul retorted. “Unless you’re volunteering to call his parents and tell them their only son is dead?”

  “No,” replied Peri, “but you won’t have to do it either. If Jasmine comes to Oakhaven, she’s hardly going to stop at just killing Timothy.”

  Paul threw up his hands. “Oh, well, in that case there’s nothing to worry about. Good news, Tim! We’re all going to die together!”

  His tone was sarcastic, but Peri put her arms around his shoulders and kissed his cheek, and when she let him go his mouth had pulled into a resigned smile. Timothy grinned back, feeling his own tension lift a little.

  “I can think of worse ways to go,” he said.

  Linden gazed out the slit that was all that remained of her bedroom window—Rob had done that, she remembered, and the thought was laced with regret. He’d risked so much to help them, and she’d never had the chance to say good-bye. Was he even still alive?

  The garden below was somber with rain, the flower beds buried in black mulch, and the rose hedge a withered skeleton. All seemed quiet, but surely that couldn’t last. The Empress had escaped the battle at Sanctuary, and by now she must have recovered her powers, just as Linden had done. And the faeries who’d seen Jasmine’s true face, with its telltale lines of age, were just a tiny fraction of the many under her command. How long would it be before she gathered her forces and came back to take her revenge?

  Linden leaned heavily against the windowsill. It seemed so wrong that it should end this way. The Oakenfolk still squabbling over who should be their next Queen, most of them still blind to the greater danger; Knife trapped in the Oakenwyld, her fate bound to the faeries’ even though she was no longer one of them; and Paul and Timothy, condemned for no greater crime than being human….

  Sunk in gloomy reverie, she barely noticed when the whispering wind changed its tune. A gust swirled through the Oakenwyld, scattering twigs and long-dead leaves across the grass—and when Linden looked out the window again, the Oak was surrounded.

  A bone of terror lodged itself in her throat. She jumped off the cot and pelted out of the room, shouting up the Spiral Stair, “Your Majesty!”

  “Queen Valerian’s busy,” came Thorn’s irritable reply from two landings above. “What’s the matter?”

  “They’re here,” gasped Linden, and dashed off down the Stair. The window-slits were too narrow for her to climb through, but she might be able to sneak out through the hedge tunnel, fly to the House, and warn Knife and Timothy. Yet even as she ran, a pounding no
ise reverberated through the Oak, like a heavy fist demanding entrance, and she realized it was already too late. They’d found the door in spite of all the glamours she’d put around it, and now…

  She skidded to a halt in front of another window-slit, squinted out again—and immediately her fears drained away. The faeries outside were far too big to be Oakenfolk, that was true. But they were still less than half human size. Linden galloped down the last flight of the Spiral Stair, dashed to the Queen’s Gate, and heaved up the bar to let their visitors in.

  The first through the door was Garan—but now he stood only a little taller than herself, and when she threw herself into his arms her exuberance nearly knocked him over. “You came! You came after all!” she cried, and he let out a surprised laugh.

  “Get off me, you mad girl,” he said, detaching himself and holding her at arm’s length. But his eyes twinkled as he added, “Mind, had I known to expect such a welcome, I might have come sooner.”

  Linden blushed and stepped back as the other Children of Rhys came in. There was the guard Garan had called Llinos, and a few others whose faces she had seen at the great council, including—Broch?

  “But you—you were against us,” she stammered, looking up into that sharp, sardonic face. “You said—”

  “I know what I said,” Broch cut in impatiently. “That it was for the Elders to decide how best to help you. But the Council is divided, and there have been nothing but arguments since you and the human boy left. And by the time Garan announced that he had given you the Stone of Naming and that the rest of us were cowards and traitors to our own kind, I’d heard enough shouting to last me the next two centuries, so I came.”

  Linden looked at Garan in delight. “Did you really say that?”

  “I am only sorry I could not say it earlier,” replied Garan, sounding a little gruff with embarrassment. “But I dared not draw attention to myself before I had safely given you the Stone. And I hoped that given time I might be able to persuade more of the Plant Rhys to support your cause—a hope that was not wholly in vain, as you can see.” He nodded respectfully to his companions. “We are only thirty-eight men, but we are yours to command.”