Spell Hunter fr-1

by R. J. Anderson

  “No, but Foxglove did-my old mentor. What, did you think I was making it all up out of my head?”

  Thorn’s tone was sardonic, and Bryony felt her face burn. “No,” she said. “I just wondered how you knew.”

  “Valerian keeps a book,” said Thorn. “Every time one of our people dies, it’s written down: the name, and the way she died. And if you don’t want your name to be next, you’d better listen to me when I call you. The first time, d’you hear?”

  “I hear you,” said Bryony, wincing as she rose. Her whole body ached, especially the wing muscles.

  Thorn glanced up at the sky again. “We’ve been out here long enough,” she said. “Best to head back, before the crows start getting interested.” She stomped off through the grass.

  “Have you ever fought one?” asked Bryony, hurrying to keep up with her. “A crow, I mean.”

  “If I had,” said Thorn, “I wouldn’t be talking to you now.”

  “And what about humans? How do you deal with them?”

  “I don’t,” said Thorn flatly. “And neither will you, if you’ve half as much wits as a rabbit. When they’re mucking about in the garden, or cutting the grass with that noisy wagon of theirs, we lie low and wait until they’re gone.” She gave Bryony a sharp look. “Unless you have some other idea?”

  Bryony shook her head.

  “I didn’t think so. Now if you’re ready to use your wings properly instead of playing the fool with them, it’s time we were flying home.”

  From that point on, the weeks blurred together as Bryony spent day after day with Thorn, learning the Hunter’s craft. At her mentor’s command, she ran, climbed, and flew about the Oakenwyld, ever more aware of its dangers, but growing bolder nonetheless. Flying was still her greatest pleasure, but soon she began to enjoy her lessons for other reasons as well: her pride in her growing strength and agility, the excitement of hunting prey, and the bargaining power her new skills gave her. Now at last she could barter with her fellow faeries as an equal and get things like proper candles and whole bars of soap, instead of having to make do with the stubs and scraps she had earned doing chores.

  On days when bad weather or human activity kept them inside the Oak, Thorn taught Bryony to make her own weapons, then to use them. Once she had crafted her first bow and arrows she fired at targets until she could hit the center eight times out of ten before moving on to mice, frogs, and flying insects. Her fingers grew calloused, her muscles wiry; her senses of smell, hearing, and vision became acute.

  Thorn taught her how to gut a kill and cut it up quickly before the crows could come to investigate. She showed Bryony the best hiding places the Oakenwyld had to offer, and the secret hedge tunnel into the Oak that only the Hunters and Gatherers knew. And as Bryony listened and learned, and practiced her new skills, she felt more and more certain that the Queen’s magical Sight had not deceived her: Of all the tasks in the Oak, this was what she, Bryony, had been meant to do.

  One summer evening Bryony and Thorn were coming home from a successful hunt, their packs heavy with squirrel meat, when Bryony spotted a dark shape perched at the top of a nearby tree. It was a crow, a big one-and its yellow eyes were fixed hungrily on them.

  “It’s him,” hissed Thorn. “Old Wormwood. Run!”

  She and Bryony leaped toward the shelter of the hedge, but the crow swooped down to block their path, croaking. One black wing knocked Bryony off her feet, and by the time she struggled upright Thorn was trapped beneath the crow’s scaly talon, yelling as its beak stabbed at her. A moment later Old Wormwood tossed his head back and swallowed, and Bryony felt sick; then she realized that Thorn had managed to shove her pack in front of her, and the crow was gobbling up their store of meat instead.

  There was no time to think, only to act. Bryony flung her pack aside, snatched the bone knife from her belt, and launched herself at the crow. As she dropped astride his back, the reek of dust and carnage made her head reel; her knees skidded across his slick feathers, and she tumbled off before she could even strike a blow. But she landed on her feet, and when Old Wormwood flapped about to face her, Bryony was ready for him. With all her strength she drove her dagger into his shoulder, and the great crow shrieked.

  The next few heartbeats passed in a frenzy of black feathers and thrashing wings. Bryony’s bone knife snapped, and she staggered back with the useless hilt still in her hand. Her leg stung like fire, but she ignored the pain as she scooped up a pebble and hurled it at the crow’s head. It glanced off his skull, and with a squawk Old Wormwood leaped into the air, wings beating.

  Thorn clawed her way up the slope and disappeared among the roots of the hedge, leaving her pack behind. Bryony threw another stone to keep the crow at bay, then darted after her. Exhausted, they lay together in the darkness, watching Old Wormwood peck at their abandoned packs. When nothing remained but a few shreds of leather, he gave a querulous caw and flapped away.

  Thorn was the first to crawl through to the far side of the hedge. She moved stiffly, one hand pressed to her bruised ribs. “You midge-wit. You could have been killed!”

  Bryony limped out to join her. Her leg still bled where the crow’s talon had scratched it, but fortunately the wound was not deep. “I know,” she said.

  “You attacked him. A full-grown crow.” Thorn shook her head in disbelief. “Why didn’t you run?”

  “I don’t know,” said Bryony. “It just-it seemed like the only thing to do.”

  “You,” said Thorn shortly, “are mad.” She shouldered her quiver and began walking toward the Oak. Bryony followed, but they had only gone a few paces before Thorn stopped. She bowed her head, and purple tinged her cheeks as she muttered, “And I suppose…I owe you my life.”

  “Oh,” Bryony said, and then, “well,” but she couldn’t think of any other reply.

  “Just never do anything as flea-brained as that again!” snapped Thorn, and stomped away.

  “I wounded him, though,” said Bryony, catching up to her. “He’ll be stiff in that shoulder from now on.”

  Thorn gave an incredulous snort and kept walking.

  “If we fight together,” Bryony continued, “we might even be able to kill him.”

  Her teacher whirled on her, seized her by both shoulders, and shook her so hard, her ears rang. “Don’t you ever think about that again. It’s impossible, even for you. Do you hear me?”

  Bryony heard the words, but the warning in them scarcely registered. Only one phrase echoed in her mind: even for you. Her head felt light; coming from Thorn, that could be no idle flattery. Impossible, even for you.

  Not impossible, she thought as she watched the older faery stalk away. All I need is a better knife.

  Three

  “You’re making that edge too thin,” said Thorn.

  Bryony scarcely heard her, all her concentration focused on chipping her new knife into shape. This was her latest of several attempts at crafting a fighting blade, but deep down she knew it would fail like all the others. The more she honed the edges, the sooner they crumbled; the sharper the point, the more readily it would snap.

  “This is useless,” she said at last, throwing the flint down. “Why don’t we have any real weapons?”

  “Made of metal, you mean?” asked Thorn, brushing a curl of wood from the stake she was whittling. It was raining, so there was little for either of them to do but sit in the East Root and wait for the clouds to move on. “Why should we?”

  “Why shouldn’t we? There are metal things in the Oak.”

  “Only what’s left over from the Days of Magic. Lanterns, bits of jewelry, a few tools. But most of that’s brass or copper, too soft for weapons. Anyway, the Queen doesn’t like too much metal around: You never know what it might be made of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cold iron,” said Thorn impatiently, and when Bryony still looked blank she went on: “It stops magic-if it’s pure, that is. But there isn’t much iron around here anymore; these days you mos
tly find steel.”

  “Steel,” said Bryony. “That’s iron mixed with…?”

  “Gardener knows,” said Thorn. “All I know is that if I happen to bump into some, I can still fly afterward, and that’s good enough for me.”

  It had never before occurred to Bryony to think of flying as magical, but now she realized that it must be. “So we still have some magic after all.”

  “Well, it isn’t much use, since we can’t control it,” said Thorn. “Now and then one of us manages to cast a spell by accident-I saw Foxglove change size once, trying to get down a mouse hole. But it always wears off in an hour or two.” She gave a little snort and added, “You can’t use it to kill Old Wormwood, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  Bryony pushed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “There has to be some metal we could use,” she said.

  “Not in the Oak,” said Thorn. “Unless you’d like to march up to the House and ask the humans for it?”

  Bryony’s mouth flattened as she picked up a new flint and bent once more to her work. Much as she had learned to respect Thorn, there were times when the older faery’s black humor went too far.

  But then a thought struck her: Did either of them really know that humans carried the Silence? After all, Bryony herself ought to be dead by now, if getting close to a human was all it took. What if Thorn had been wrong, and the disease came from some other source? In which case going to the House for metal might not be such a bad idea after all…

  I need to talk to Valerian, Bryony decided. The Healer had treated several cases of the Silence by now: If anyone knew how the illness worked, she would.

  “What would you ask of me?” said Valerian. Her manner was formal but courteous, and she seemed only mildly surprised to find Bryony at her door.

  “Knowledge,” said Bryony.

  “And what have you to offer in return?”

  “Herbs, any kind you like.” It would be easy enough to pick them the next time she and Thorn went hunting, and no doubt Valerian would appreciate not having to wait for the Gatherers to get around to it.

  Valerian’s brows rose. “Agreed. I’d like chervil, if you can find some; if not, I can always use more comfrey or willow bark. Your question?”

  “Is there any way to protect yourself against the Silence?”

  “None that I know,” said Valerian. Then, at the look of disappointment on Bryony’s face, she added, “Why do you ask? It’s been years since Sorrel died, and you shouldn’t be in any danger, not at your age.”

  “At my age?” Bryony was startled. “You mean you have to be older?”

  “Quite a bit older, I’d say. I’d hesitate to give an exact number, but so far, all the Oakenfolk I’ve seen taken by the Silence had been born well before the Sundering.” She gave a sad smile. “Even if they were too confused to remember it.”

  “But they all had some contact with humans,” said Bryony. “How much does it take?”

  Valerian frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s just”-Bryony hesitated, then plunged in-“now that I’m spending so much time outdoors, I’m afraid that one of these days I might end up crossing paths with a human again. So I need to know how serious-”

  “What makes you think the Silence has anything to do with humans?” Valerian sounded genuinely perplexed.

  “You mean it doesn’t?”

  “I can’t think how it would,” said Valerian. “None of the Oakenfolk I’ve treated had ever gone near a human-at least, not in my lifetime. In fact, one of my earliest cases was so terrified of humans that she refused to open her window even in summer, for fear of seeing one. And Daisy was such a timid little thing I can’t imagine she’d ever been different, even before she lost her magic.”

  Bryony sagged against the door frame, relieved. So it wasn’t true, this thing she’d grown up believing. Her instincts had been right, and Thorn was wrong.

  Which meant that as long as she didn’t let the humans catch her, she could sneak right into their House to look for metal, and no one would even know…

  “Are you all right?” asked Valerian. “Do you need to lie down?”

  “No,” said Bryony. “I’m fine.”

  Outside Bryony’s window the Oakenwyld lay shadowed, a sliver of moon barely visible in the cloud-streaked sky. Leaning on the sill, Bryony stared out across the garden, her stomach tight with anticipation.

  Even if she could find some shard or snippet of metal inside the House, could she really escape with it undetected? And if the worst happened and she was caught, what might the humans do to her?

  Bryony drew a deep breath and let it out. Then she climbed up onto the windowsill and dove headfirst into the darkness.

  Her translucent wings snapped open, and she glided down to the surface of the lawn, bare feet almost brushing the grass. At this hour most of the Oakenfolk were in bed, but she paused and glanced back over her shoulder just in case. If anyone knew that she was out at night, alone…

  But the great tree’s trunk remained dark, its windows closed. Reassured, Bryony turned and resumed her flight toward the House. As its gray bulk loomed up in her path her resolve began to falter, and for a moment she almost turned aside; then she remembered what she had come for- metal, the humans have metal -and made herself carry on.

  Soon the lawn beneath her gave way to stone pavement, and she drew herself up sharply, landing just outside the House’s back entrance. A pair of doors inset with glass panes towered above her, glowing with muted light. What would she find on the other side? Summoning courage, she pressed her face to the bottom pane and peered in.

  At first she could make out only dim shapes. She cupped her hands against the glass, squinting through the sheer curtains. What she saw then made her gasp, and she let her hands drop, stunned. The ugly stone House, where the human monsters lived…inside, it was beautiful.

  Never in her life had she seen such magnificently crafted furniture, with its fluid curves and dark wood polished to a sheen. The Oak’s finest tapestries were crude compared to the pattern of twining leaves that covered the humans’ sofa, and no hand-knotted rug of Wink’s could rival the plush carpet that flowed across their floor. Even the walls were impossibly smooth and straight…were they really painted blue, or had it just been a trick of the light?

  Wait. The light. Where did it come from? She had seen no fire, no candles, yet the whole room shone with radiance. Bryony darted back to the window, intent. Ah, there was the source: a pair of lamps set on either side of the sofa. But how could the flames inside them burn so steadily? And why did their papery shades not catch alight?

  Magic, she thought in dismay. The humans have magic.

  Bryony sat down heavily on the doorstep. She knew, now, that the humans could not be monsters. They might still be dangerous, but they were not animals, living by mere instinct. They were intelligent. They were people.

  All at once a shadow passed over her, and she leaped up in panic before realizing that she was still safe, that the dark shape remained on the far side of the door. In fact, with such bright light coming from inside the House, and nothing but darkness in the garden where she stood, it would be difficult for the humans to see her unless they already knew where to look. Silently rebuking herself for her cowardice, she crouched by the window again.

  “Did you see?” The voice sounded hollowly from the other side of the glass. “We had a letter from Paul today.”

  The speaker was an older female, her hair a loose cap of brown curls streaked with silver. She picked up a tray from the tea table and padded out of sight again, adding as she went, “He’s sounding much happier lately. I wonder if he’s met someone?”

  They speak our language, thought Bryony in amazement. How could they have lived so close to us for so many years, and we never knew?

  “I doubt that,” said a deeper voice, and Bryony craned her neck to see a second human enter the room and sit down in one of the armchairs. She frowned a moment, bemused by th
e square jaw, flat chest and heavy hands; then she realized that the two humans were a mated pair, and this must be the male. What a strange-looking creature he was! But he also reminded her of the boy she had met climbing the Oak, all those years ago. Did he live in the House, too?

  “Well anyway, he’s enjoying the choir,” offered the woman, “and they’ve made him captain of the rowing team this year.”

  “Beatrice,” said the man, waving a folded piece of paper at her, “I can read.”

  His mate made a clucking noise and was silent. Eventually the man let the page fall to his lap and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

  “Away for Christmas,” he said dolefully.

  “Oh, George, he’s young. At sixteen, would you have given up an opportunity to go to Paris just to sit at home with your parents? At least he’ll be well looked after, and we’ll have him for the New Year.”

  “I suppose.” He tossed the envelope onto the tea table. It skittered across the surface and tumbled to the floor. Bryony read the address written on it quickly- George and Beatrice McCormick -then ducked back into the shadows as the man approached.

  “Do you need help with those dishes?” he asked, stooping to retrieve the letter. “I’ll dry up, if you like.”

  “All right,” said the woman, and then as if it were nothing she added, “Thanks.”

  Bryony took a step back, appalled. How could the human thank her mate, just like that? Putting herself forever in his debt, all for the sake of a few dishes?

  On the other hand, she realized as the shock subsided, the man had seemed just as unconscious of his own strange behavior-offering help without being asked for it, and not even taking the time to bargain. Did he really value his own services so little? Wasn’t he afraid that his mate would take advantage of him?

  Or was it possible that these two humans had reached some sort of understanding, and no longer needed to bargain with each other at all?

  Part of her wanted to stay and find out. But she had wasted enough time already: She could see no useful metal here, and she dared not go into that room in any case. With a last wistful glance through the glass, Bryony backed up a few steps and launched herself up to the next window.