Faery Rebels

by R. J. Anderson

  “What is this?” Knife asked as she took it.

  “Just read,” said Thorn shortly.

  Gingerly Knife unrolled the note and laid it across her knee. In spidery, faded handwriting, it read:

  For years now I have lived in forgetfulness and confusion, my mind wandering from one moment to another; like so many of my sisters, I have often counted myself grateful to remember my own true name. But the Silence in its cruelty has brought my lost youth back to me, and as my death approaches, I remember everything.

  I remember a time when magic sang through my veins, when my mind was whole and my hands shaped things that were beautiful and new. I remember what it was to have purpose, to know that my existence was not in vain; I remember art, and friendship, and laughter—all the things that make a life worth living. But those things are lost to us now, perhaps forever, and the Oak I once loved has become less a home than a prison.

  I surrender my body to the cold in a last act of service to my people, for if I delay any longer the Silence will consume me, and I will have nothing left of myself to give. May the Great Gardener have mercy upon my egg-daughter, if she survives; may she be blessed with the courage I lack, and free our people from their chains. To Wink, faithful apprentice and child of my heart, I give my love; to Queen Amaryllis, who has done all she could to help us, my respects; and to the rest of our people, who may never know what they have lost, my everlasting pity. Farewell.

  The letters grew shakier and shakier as the letter went on, and finally ended in an almost illegible scrawl. Still, Knife was just able to make out the signature: Bryony.

  “My egg-mother,” she whispered in disbelief. “She took her own life, to give me mine. And all this time, I thought…”

  “That she was a silly old woman who’d lost her wits and blundered out into the cold by accident?” said Thorn. “That’s what I thought, too, when Wink came to tell me she’d gone missing. It was a foul night, too, I don’t mind telling you—I’d nearly given up when I tripped over the egg with you in it. And then when I picked it up, I found this letter underneath.”

  “That’s really how it started,” said Wink. “Thorn and me wondering what had gone wrong with us, I mean. Because I was there when she got back with your egg, and I saw the letter, too, and, well—”

  …Queen Amaryllis, Bryony’s words repeated in Knife’s mind, has done all she could to help us…

  “I understand,” said Knife quietly.

  Over the next few weeks the snow came and went, but the cold remained, and the earth lay lifeless beneath a shroud of dead grass. Prey became scarce, and hunting a dismal chore. Late one morning Knife was crouched at the foot of the humans’ bird feeder, blowing on cold fingers and hoping for a sparrow to come by, when she heard the low growl of an approaching car.

  At first she paid it little mind: A thick tangle of hedge stood between her and the road, and these metal wagons always moved too quickly for their drivers to notice her, in any case. But when the car slowed in front of the House and began to turn into the drive, she realized that this one was about to become a dangerous exception.

  Pulling up the hood of her jacket, she crouched down and flattened her wings against her back, trying to look as much like a bird as possible. The car rumbled to a stop a few crow-lengths away, and when its doors opened, she was startled to see a stranger unfold himself from the passenger seat and reveal Paul sitting behind the wheel.

  “Good driving,” the man called as he rounded the car and pulled Paul’s wheelchair out of the backseat. “A bit more practice with those hand controls, and you’ll be ready for the motorway.”

  Knife caught her breath. For weeks now she had agonized over the map Thorn had given her, wondering how she could possibly get from the Oak to the place where Heather’s diary was hidden. But if Paul was learning how to drive…

  I have to talk to him, thought Knife, watching Paul as he hauled himself into the chair and began wheeling toward the House. Seeing him after so long apart, she felt a desperate urge to fly to him at once; but the strange man stood in her way, and she dared not move.

  “I’ll manage the chair from now on, thanks,” Paul said to the man. “See you next week.”

  “Right then,” the stranger replied, hopped into the car, and drove away. As soon as he was gone, Knife leaped up and flew after Paul. If she could catch him before he reached the House—

  “Wait!” she called, but Paul did not hear her. With a vigorous push he cleared the threshold, and Knife could only watch helplessly as the door swung shut in her face.

  When Knife returned to the Oak she was cold, windblown, and empty-handed. She wrapped a rabbit-wool blanket about her shoulders and sat on the sofa shivering until Wink thrust a cup of hot chicory into her hands.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Knife mumbled.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t worry,” said Wink absently, tickling Linden with a strand of her hair until the baby chuckled. “We’re not starving yet, and you can always hunt again tomorrow.”

  Knife was tempted to correct her, but then she realized that she might be better to let the misunderstanding pass. If Wink did not know that Knife planned to see Paul again, then she would not be blamed even if Knife were caught.

  And yet, was it really fair not to tell her?

  Knife sipped the chicory until its hot bitterness revived her, then set the mug down and held out her hands for Linden. “I’ll take her now,” she said, but Wink’s face was averted, and she did not respond.

  “What is it?” Knife asked.

  Wink lowered her head, her cheeks coloring. “It’s just…I know it can’t be very nice being a Hunter, and I really wouldn’t want to do it myself. But you can go out whenever you like, and even if it’s cold and miserable you at least get to see and do new things every day, and, well…” She picked a loose thread from Linden’s smock and rolled it distractedly between her fingers. “I’ve spent my whole life in this room sewing the same patterns over and over, and sometimes I envy you, just a little.”

  Knife watched her for a moment in silence. Then she set down her cup and rose to fetch a stick of charcoal and a piece of paper. “What are you doing?” asked Wink, but Knife only shook her head, sat down at the table, and began to draw.

  She meant to sketch some of the clothing she had seen the humans wear, much as Jasmine had done for Heather. But though she concentrated with all her might, the figure she traced was a crude one, barely recognizable as human. She was attempting to clothe it in one of Mrs. McCormick’s pleated skirts when the charcoal broke in her hand; she threw it down and crumpled up the paper in frustration.

  “Knife,” Wink said in a hushed tone, “was that really…a picture? But where did you learn—”

  “From Paul,” said Knife, too miserable to guard her tongue anymore. “But I haven’t talked to him in so long, and I’m starting to forget everything he taught me.” She slumped forward. “I miss him, Wink.”

  Wink untangled Linden from her curls and put the baby down hastily. “A human,” she breathed. “Thorn said you’d been to the House, but I never guessed you’d been that close.”

  Knife sat up, the color easing back into her face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. If the Queen finds out that you know, we’ll both be in trouble—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Wink quickly. “Just tell me. Tell me everything.”

  When Knife had finished, Wink did not move for a long time. Then she raised her head, her face white except for two spots of color on her cheeks, and said, “You have to go back.”

  “Back?” said Knife.

  “To the House. To him—that Paul.” She clasped her hands against her heart. “I can feel it’s important, this connection you have with him. And if you wait much longer, you might lose it completely—Knife, we can’t let that happen.”

  “We?” said Knife. “Wink, I already told you, the Queen—”

  “The Queen is wrong!” Wink burst out, with a passion that startle
d them both. She flushed and glanced nervously at the door before continuing in a lower voice, “Wrong about this, I mean. And you’re wrong, too, to try to protect me from her. I know I’m not strong like you, or clever like Thorn, but I want to help—so for the Gardener’s sake, let me do what I can!”

  “You do help,” said Knife, and all at once it seemed natural to put her hand on Wink’s shoulder. “You’ve done so much already, I didn’t dare to ask for more. Are you really sure about this?”

  Wink sniffed, then nodded. “I’ll look after Linden whenever you need me to, day or night, and I won’t tell the Queen or anybody.”

  “Then I’ll go,” said Knife quietly. “Tonight.”

  “Knife!”

  Paul slid up the window so quickly that Knife nearly fell off the ledge. Recovering her balance, she hurried forward, into the House’s warm embrace.

  “I was beginning to think you were out,” she said, shaking the sleet from her cloak. “I knocked and knocked—”

  “I thought it was hail,” Paul said. “God knows I didn’t think there was a chance of it being anything else.” His mouth flattened. “Where have you been?”

  He had missed her, too, Knife realized with a flare of happiness. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The Queen gave me a…new responsibility, so I couldn’t leave the Oak at night. I’ve only just been able to get away.”

  “You could have left a note,” said Paul.

  “You thought I’d forgotten you?” She spoke lightly, hoping to wipe the shadows from his face, but they only deepened.

  “I thought you were dead,” he said.

  Knife sat down hard on the windowsill. “Oh,” she said.

  Paul passed a hand over his eyes. When he took it away, the anger had vanished, leaving only weariness. “Well, never mind that. You’re here now. So…how have you been?”

  Confused. Frustrated. Lonely. “I’m all right,” she said. “But—” She looked up into his face. “I need your help.”

  Quickly she explained about Heather’s diaries, and what she had learned about the Oakenfolk’s past interest in humans. “I know it sounds strange,” she finished, “but it’s important. There’s a connection between your people and mine—and that diary may be the only way to find out what it is.”

  “And you think this could help you get your magic back?” said Paul.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “So where do I fit in?”

  Knife bit her lip. “I have to get to a place called Waverley Hall. And this morning, I saw you driving a car…”

  “You want me to take you there?” He looked surprised, but not displeased. “Well, I probably could—just not right away. I’ve still got six lessons left, and then I have to pass the road test.”

  Relief washed over Knife. “I can wait that long,” she said.

  Sixteen

  “He’s really going to take you there?” exclaimed Wink. “Knife, that’s wonderful! When do you leave?”

  “It’ll be a few weeks yet,” Knife said, pulling off her cloak and hanging it up to dry. “Paul needs time to prepare, but he’s promised to give me a signal when he’s ready.”

  “You mean…you’re not going to see him until then? But—”

  “It’s all right,” Knife reassured her. “We talked about it, and we both understand that it’s for the best.” Tempting as it was to take full advantage of Wink’s offer to help, she knew it would be unwise to try and see Paul any more than necessary. The Queen had already caught her sneaking out at night once; she might easily do so again, and then their whole plan would be ruined.

  “I know,” said Wink dolefully. “But if you don’t see him, then you won’t be able to draw—and I really wanted to see that picture.”

  Knife let out a disbelieving laugh. “Is that all?” she said. “Well, give me some paper and I’ll see what I can do.”

  This time the lines flowed smoothly, and soon she had completed three sketches: not only the skirt she had failed to draw before, but a blouse and tailored jacket to go with it. “Here,” she said, handing them to Wink.

  The Seamstress gazed at the drawings, oblivious to Linden’s attempt to climb up her skirts. Then her eyes welled up and she let the pages fall back to the table. “They’re so beautiful,” she said in a quavering voice. “And I would love to sew them, if I could only figure out how…but then I couldn’t wear them, or everyone would want to know where I’d got the ideas from. And what’s the good of making something beautiful that nobody else will ever see?”

  “I know,” said Knife. “It’s hard. But I promise you, Wink, it won’t be this way forever. Once I get Heather’s second diary, and once we know the truth—” She clenched her fist around the charcoal, feeling it crumble against her palm. “Things in the Oak are going to change.”

  “This is your request?” asked Amaryllis incredulously, looking down at Knife from the height of her carved throne. “Three days away from your duties, nothing more?”

  It had been Thorn’s idea that Knife should ask the Queen for three full days, to make the claim that she was going out to look for other faeries more plausible. “I’d like to do some more exploring,” Knife said, trying to keep her voice casual. “Not now, of course, but once the ground’s thawed and the crows stop flocking…”

  The Queen’s brows rose. “Exploring, you say. What do you hope to find?”

  Here it comes, thought Knife. Please the Gardener she doesn’t use the Sight on me—and that I’m not as obvious a liar as Paul thinks. Aloud she said, “When I was gone for those two days last summer, I came across a place that reminded me of a Wyld. I didn’t see any faeries there, but it made me think that if I looked around a little more, I might find some—or at least a clue to help us figure out where they went.”

  Amaryllis’s lips parted, but she did not reply, and as the silence deepened, Knife’s temptation to fidget became an even stronger impulse to bolt. Had the Queen seen through her request? But finally, Amaryllis spoke:

  “I have long yearned to send out an emissary to search for other Wylds,” she said. “Yet in a hundred years and more I have found no one fit for such a task, let alone willing. That you have come to this of your own free will, and would ask it of me as a boon—it is more than I dared hope.”

  She spoke quietly, without a trace of her usual imperious manner, and Knife’s stomach twisted with guilt. “It’s not too much,” she said. “I’d be glad to help.” After all, she told herself, just because she was going to find Heather’s second diary didn’t mean she couldn’t keep her eyes open for other Wylds on the way. And there would always be time to make a proper survey later.

  “Then I would be pleased to grant your petition,” said the Queen, and for the first time Knife saw her smile. “But you need not spend your Midwinter Gift on this. Save your request until you have thought of something that you, and you alone, desire. Whatever you ask, I swear it shall be yours.”

  “Aren’t you afraid I’ll ask for half the kingdom?” Knife said, shaken.

  “I know you do not want it. And that is well, for I would not wish such a burden on anyone.” She smiled again, but thinly. “You may go. Come again when you are ready to leave—or when you know what you truly want.”

  “I will,” said Knife.

  As she walked back down the Spiral Stair, the Queen’s words reverberated in her mind: Whatever you ask, I swear it shall be yours. How much did she mean what she had said? Amaryllis was not given to making promises she did not plan to keep. But then, she did not know how close her Hunter had already come to betraying her.

  Or did she?

  Soon winter began to lose its grip on the Oakenwyld, finger by icy finger; frost melted into dew, and rain coaxed life from the frozen ground. Crocuses exploded into bloom at the foot of the Oak, and new grass dappled the lawn.

  For Knife, however, spring that year was marked by a different sign entirely—a piece of yellow paper stuck to Paul McCormick’s bedroom window, announcing in bold let
ters:

  I PASSED!

  When she caught sight of the note, Knife was just returning from her morning’s hunt. She knew she ought to wait for nightfall to respond—but that was hours away. Did she dare to visit him now? She cast a furtive glance at the Oak, then shoved her pack beneath the hedge and doubled back around the front of the House.

  He was still in his room, as she had hoped. The curtains were open, a shaft of sunshine slanting into the room and making the dust motes dance. And in that beam of golden light sat Paul, half dressed and with his hair still tousled from sleep, lifting weights.

  One hand gripped the heavy barbell, the other the wheel of his chair; his clenched fist lifted and curled toward his shoulder, the lean muscles of his arm flexing. His hair stuck damply to his brow, and beads of perspiration slipped down his back. Helpless, the Queen had called him, but looking at Paul now, Knife could see nothing but strength.

  She had missed him more than ever these past few weeks, seen his face a hundred times in her dreams. And yet she was suddenly struck by how beautiful he was, in a way she had never noticed before. Her heart bounded giddily at the sight of him, as though he were some marvelous work of art the Gardener had created just for her. Paul. Her human. Her friend.

  She raised her fist eagerly and rapped upon the glass.

  Paul stopped exercising at once, snatching up a shirt from the bureau and pulling it on before skimming across the room to meet her. He flung up the window, and she stepped through onto his outstretched palms.

  “You got my message,” he said with a flash of a smile.