Spell Hunter fr-1

by R. J. Anderson

  Knife flexed her shoulders. She could feel her wings, but only just; they were mere ghosts of themselves now, light as dry leaves and almost as brittle. She had to concentrate hard to lift herself off the ground, and once in the air she could only glide a short distance before dropping back to her feet again. In accidentally making herself human for the second time, she had used up nearly all the magic that made her a faery.

  She settled for walking again, with a few intermittent leaps, until she reached the road. But she had only gone a little way along it when she saw an enormous dead crow splayed across the pavement, no doubt struck by some passing car. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Knife began to limp past-then stopped.

  This was not just any crow. This was Old Wormwood.

  She ought to have been glad to see him dead. But instead she felt disappointed, even a little sorry. She had imagined meeting him in one last battle, all her wits and skill concentrated into giving him the death he deserved. But that could never happen now, because the humans had killed him first-and not even on purpose.

  One of the crow’s breast feathers lay at her feet. Knife picked it up and tucked it into her belt. Then she spread her wings again and continued her awkward journey home.

  “Oh!” gasped Wink, dropping her sewing as Knife climbed through her window. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be back until-” She stopped, her brows crooking together. “Knife…you look awful.”

  Knife glanced about the room, rubbing her cold arms. Linden appeared to be comfortably asleep in her cradle, but she stooped to drape another blanket over the child just in case. “Do you know where Thorn is?” she said.

  “She’s in her room, I think-but what happened to you? What’s wrong?”

  Knife dropped into the nearest chair and sagged forward, leaning heavily on her knees. “I don’t have the diary,” she said to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

  Wood scraped as Wink pulled up another chair beside her, and she felt a small hand warm her shoulder. “You did your best,” the other faery said. “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Oh, Wink. I only wish it were that easy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  In halting words Knife told her story. By the time she finished, her cheeks were burning, and she did not dare to look at her foster mother’s face for fear of what she might see there. But Wink only said, in an almost wistful tone, “Was it nice?”

  Knife blinked at her. “You mean…Waverley Hall?”

  “No, I mean what Paul did. Did you like it?”

  Knife choked back a laugh. “Wink, you are the strangest-after all the things I’ve just told you, how can you even think about that?”

  Wink only looked at her, but it was enough. Knife’s shoulders slumped. “It’s not about how I feel,” she said. “It’s about what’s possible. And this…isn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m too small!” Knife almost shouted. “And I don’t have enough magic to make myself human again, even if I knew how. So how could I bear to keep seeing him, talking to him, when I can never-”

  “You mean…you’re in love with him? Like Heather and Philip?”

  “I don’t know,” said Knife wretchedly. “I’m not even sure I know what love is.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Wink with surprising confidence. “For a while I wasn’t sure, but…you do care, Knife. Not just about Paul, but about Linden, me, even Thorn. You just aren’t good at admitting it.”

  Knife groaned and put her head in her hands. “But I don’t want feelings, Wink.”

  Wink put an arm around her shoulders. “I know. They can be awful at times. But I think you’re much nicer with them, myself.”

  For a moment Knife sat stiffly, resisting the embrace; then she sighed and dropped her head against Wink’s. “I’m sorry,” she said. “All my life you’ve been kind to me, and I haven’t always appreciated that the way I should.”

  “It’s all right.” Wink gave her a little squeeze before letting her go. “But Knife…this is serious, about losing Heather’s diary. I believe what you’ve told me, even if it scares me a little. But if we can’t find another way to prove that our people used to mate with humans, and that all our new ideas used to come from the humans as well-”

  Knife’s gaze slid to the open window and the distant House. “I know,” she said. “It’s going to be hard to make people believe. Maybe the Queen was right not to tell us, especially since it seems there’s nothing we can do to fix it.”

  “Thorn isn’t going to like that at all,” said Wink. “She’ll-”

  A rap at the door interrupted her, and she jumped up to answer it. Valerian stood on the landing, her Healer’s kit in hand. “There you are,” she said to Knife. “They told me you’d gone, but then I heard your voice…Campion’s asking for you.”

  “Asking?” said Knife, startled. “But I thought the Silence had taken her.”

  “Yes, so did I,” said Valerian. “But she only slept through the night, and when I visited her this morning, I found that she could still hear and speak. She’s been holding on, waiting for you to come back and tell her more…I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Knife turned quickly to Wink. “Can you find Thorn, and tell her where I am? Tell her I need Heather’s third diary right away-not for me, but for Campion.”

  “I will,” said Wink. “But Campion needs you. Go!”

  Campion’s cheeks were sunken, and her hair lay lank and dull upon the pillow. But when she caught sight of Knife her face brightened, and her hand fluttered toward the bedside chair, beckoning.

  “I’m here,” said Knife, limping over and sitting down. “But-” She glanced back at Valerian uncertainly.

  “I cannot claim to be deaf,” said Valerian, “but I can at least pledge to be discreet. Whatever you say here will remain here.” She opened her Healer’s bag and took out a roll of bandages. “Now, will you lift that injured ankle so I can bind it up while you talk?”

  Still Knife hesitated, but only for a moment. Campion was surely dying anyway, and would take these secrets to her grave; and Valerian was the Oak’s only Healer, so she could not be punished too severely even if the Queen found out. Turning to Campion, Knife took the Librarian’s hand as she had done the night before and began to tell her what she had learned from Heather’s second diary.

  It did not take long for Valerian to bind Knife’s ankle, and after it was done she put her Healer’s kit aside and sat down on the end of the bed, listening. As the story drew to its close, with Heather preparing to return to the Oak and give birth to her daughter there, Knife saw Valerian’s expression become troubled; but Campion simply absorbed the words, like a parched root drinking water.

  “Is that…all?” she said when Knife had finished.

  “No,” said Knife. “There’s a third diary-but it won’t unlock without a password, and I’ll need time to read it before I can tell you the rest of the story.”

  Campion nodded, her eyelids drooping shut again. Valerian rose swiftly and laid her hand on the Librarian’s brow; then she motioned Knife to follow her to the other side of the room so that they could speak in private.

  “This is remarkable,” she said, glancing back at Campion. “She should have passed into the next stage of the Silence hours ago. Yet she seems no weaker than when you first spoke to her last night, and the delirium has passed. Perhaps I am seeing only what I hope to see, but…”

  “You’re not imagining it,” said Knife. “She actually gripped my hand, near the end. But what’s going to happen when there’s no more story to tell?”

  Valerian was silent for a long time, looking down at her folded arms. “This Heather you spoke of,” she said at last. “The one who married the human. She was Lavender’s friend, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do you think perhaps…” But she had no time to finish the sentence before the door scraped open and Thorn pushed herself through, disheveled and breathless.

/>   “I’ve got it,” she said, waving the book in her hand, then stopped short at the sight of Valerian. “Oh, blight.”

  “Make that blessing,” said Knife, steering her toward the Healer. “She’ll tell you what was in the second diary while I read the third one; it’ll be quicker that way.”

  “Are you cracked?” demanded Thorn. “Bringing her into this, when we don’t know we can trust her?” But Knife had already pulled the diary from her hand and raised it to her lips.

  “Philip,” she whispered to it, and it opened. I have missed the Oak, and part of me is glad to return; yet I long for my husband and my little James, and even these few days without them seem like an eternity. I could not bear to think of leaving my daughter here, were it not for the hope of seeing her again one day, and if not for my confidence that dear Lavender will care for her more tenderly than any human nurse-indeed, perhaps more so than I could do myself. Yet it has troubled me to find the Oak so altered from when I left it. Snowdrop is dead, and Jasmine has become Queen in her place; my sisters seem content enough to accept the change, but my heart is filled with foreboding. Jasmine-though I suppose I must say Her Majesty, now-welcomed me and received my report with all courtesy, and yet the coolness of her gaze made me shiver. If I had not pledged long ago to put the needs of the Oak above my own, I should gladly have returned to Waverley Hall at once; but I have sacrificed much to come this far, and I dare not leave before my daughter is born. Lavender has done much to reassure me about Jasmine, saying that she rules the Oak justly and well, and that I am wrong to fear her. Still, I think that I shall set a password upon this diary, just in case…

  “What?” yelped Thorn from the other side of the room, where Valerian was explaining what Knife had found in the second diary. “The bit about Heather marrying a human was bad enough, but now you expect me to believe she had a baby, too?”

  “You should believe her, if you believe anyone,” interrupted Knife, putting her book down. “She’s Heather and Philip’s daughter.”

  Valerian turned sharply. “It’s true, then? I was right?”

  “I’m sure of it,” said Knife.

  “But that’s ridiculous,” Thorn objected. “All right, we had magic back then and we weren’t frightened of the humans, but why go to all this trouble and nonsense to have children with them? There were still plenty of Oakenfolk alive in Heather’s day without having to make more, and if it weren’t for the Sundering and then the Silence, there still would be. Why fuss about with humans when you can make a perfectly good egg on your own?”

  Knife and Valerian exchanged glances. “I cannot tell you that,” the Healer said at last, “and clearly Knife is not yet sure of the answer herself. But I am not certain that leaving eggs behind when we die is as natural to us faeries as you think. In fact, since no other creatures do likewise, one might well call our method of doing things… un natural.”

  “Speaking of strange things,” said Knife, waving the diary in her hand, “did either of you know about Jasmine becoming Queen, when Snowdrop died? I knew I’d heard her name somewhere before, but I’d thought the throne passed straight from Snowdrop to Amaryllis.”

  “I…know,” said Campion’s weak voice from the bed, and they all turned to look at her. She gave a thin smile and went on, “Finally…reading all that history…worth something.”

  “What can you tell us?” asked Knife.

  “Can’t prove it, but…now I know more about Jasmine, I think…maybe Snowdrop’s death wasn’t…an accident.”

  “But the South Root tunnel collapsed on top of her,” said Valerian. “I read of it in the death records-three other faeries perished the same way. What else could it be?”

  “You’re forgetting,” said Thorn, with sudden grimness. “Our people had magic then. All of them.”

  Campion nodded. “By then…Jasmine had…already made herself popular at Court,” she said. “She was…next in line…for the throne. And she was there…when the roof fell in.”

  “But there must have been witnesses,” Knife said. “If she’d used magic, they would have noticed-”

  “No,” said Campion. “Kitchen workers…heard a rumble, went to see what was going on…found Jasmine scrabbling in the dirt…trying to get to the Queen.”

  “As any loyal subject would do,” said Valerian.

  “Or any murderer who wanted to look like a loyal subject,” retorted Thorn. “I know it’s a thin twig for such a heavy acorn. But my gut tells me Campion’s right.”

  “So does mine,” admitted Knife. “But if it’s true that Jasmine murdered Snowdrop-what does that say about Amaryllis? Surely, if Jasmine was that powerful and that determined, she’d never have given up the throne except by force?”

  The faeries all looked at one another, but no one spoke.

  “Let me finish this diary,” said Knife, sitting down by Campion’s bedside and opening it up again. “Then maybe we’ll know.” My time is near now, I can feel it; I am glad that Lavender has prepared herself to attend me, so that I shall not have to labor alone. Such a dear and faithful friend-whatever should I do without her?

  The next entry read: The ordeal is past, and my daughter safely born. I wish that Philip could see her, with her gray eyes so like his. She is perfect, a faery to make the Oak proud: I have nursed her and laid her down to sleep, but I find it hard not to steal glances at her even as I write. Already it breaks my heart to think of leaving her, and I cannot help wishing that there were another way…

  But Heather’s delight in her new daughter was soon shadowed by uneasiness as she learned more about the situation in the Oak. It disturbed her particularly to learn that she was not the only one who had lately returned from Outside; apparently Queen Jasmine had sent word that all the Oakenfolk must attend her to swear fealty, and three other faeries had already left their missions in order to do so.

  Why this made Heather so anxious, Knife was not sure, but it was not long before she found out. Only two entries later the Oak’s uneasy peace was shattered forever. I can scarcely write these words for weeping, and the pain within me is so great that I fear my heart must burst rather than contain it. Jasmine-I will not call her Queen now, for she is no liege of mine-has betrayed us all. Great Gardener, have mercy upon us!

  With pounding heart Knife read through the few pages of the diary that remained. She had already begun to suspect Jasmine of having a hand in the Sundering, but even her darkest imaginings had not prepared her for Heather’s final entry: Lavender is lost to me, her reason and her memory overthrown; she babbles nonsense, and whenever I speak of humans she claps her hands to her ears and screams. The whole Oak is in chaos, faeries milling and bleating like sheep; they hear only Jasmine’s voice, not mine, no matter how I plead. The horror is unbearable-I cannot leave my daughter here-I must escape. Yet how can I return to Waverley, trapped in this small body and robbed of all my magic? Even if by some miracle I could survive the journey, how could I endure the sight of Philip’s face when he learns that he has lost not only his daughter, but his beloved Muse as well? Yet I have no choice. It will not be long before Jasmine discovers that my mind remains unclouded, and that I cannot submit to her schemes. I must leave tonight, with the moon to light my path and my little Valerian in my arms; for even if we perish, it will be a better fate than the one Jasmine offers us. I shall put this diary away in a secret place, with a prayer that someday it may be found by those with the wits to comprehend it, and the courage to bring the truth to light again. Forgive me that I can do no more. Farewell.

  Numbly Knife let the diary fall. “Jasmine,” she whispered. “She cast the Sundering-but why? Why?”

  She glanced over at Campion, but the Librarian’s eyes had closed again. Across the room, Thorn was still arguing with Valerian about the practical merits of eggs as opposed to children, and neither of them seemed to have noticed Knife’s distress.

  Not that it mattered. She was grateful for their help, and Wink’s, too, but they had risked enough for
her already. This riddle she would solve alone, even if she had to demand the truth from Queen Amaryllis herself.

  And yet something nagged at her mind, a sense that she had the answer already but had somehow failed to see it. She thought back on all she had learned about Jasmine, fragments of Heather’s diaries floating through her mind: A gown in need of mending…the bodice was badly torn and one sleeve ripped… “I have gained some little skill as an artist since I went away.” She smiled, but her eyes remained bitter… I had thought she would be pleased with my good fortune, but her own sad experience had filled her with misgivings, and she all but pleaded with me not to go…

  His temper was legendary, added Paul’s voice unexpectedly, and just like that, Knife knew. Jane Nesmith, the beautiful, the mysterious; the woman who had vanished, and left Alfred Wrenfield madly painting faeries…

  Jasmine.

  Slowly Knife bent and picked up Heather’s last diary from the floor. She laid it on the bedside table and said in her calmest voice, “I’m just going upstairs for a bit.” Then without waiting to hear what Valerian or Thorn would say, she slipped out.

  Queen Amaryllis sat at her writing desk, her back to the door. She was dressed in a faded blue tunic and skirt that spoke less of elegance than comfort, her only mark of office a slim circlet about her brow. “What is it, Bluebell?” she said, but then her head came up like a fox on the scent and her body went very still, as though she had already realized her mistake.

  “Your Majesty,” said Knife, “we need to talk.”

  Twenty

  “Have you returned already?” asked Queen Amaryllis, turning in her seat. Then her gaze fell to Knife’s bandaged ankle, and she exclaimed, “You are hurt!”

  She sounded concerned, and Knife felt an unexpected stab of guilt. “It’s not serious,” she said. “I mean, it’ll take a few days to heal, but…that’s not what I came to tell you.”