Spells

by Aprilynne Pike

  Laurel couldn’t imagine what this had to do with anything, but she answered anyway. “Like when water or wind wears away the ground?”

  “That’s right. Given enough time, wind and rain will carry the tallest mountain into the sea. But,” he said, raising a finger, “a hillside covered in grass will resist erosion, and a riverbank may be held in place by bushes and trees. They spread their roots,” he said, extending his hands with his story, “and grab hold. And though the river will pull at the soil, if the roots are strong enough, they will prevail. If they cannot, they will eventually be carried away too.

  “For nearly two thousand years, we have guarded our homeland from exploitation by trolls and humans alike. Where erosion threatens our defenses, we plant seeds—like yourself. When we placed you with your parents, you were only expected to do as most faeries do—to grow where you were planted. Your entire task was to live and grow and inherit the land, along with an unimpeachably human identity, which is helpful in concealing our transactions from the trolls. We didn’t intend to bring you back to the Academy until you reached adulthood in the human world.

  “But now your role will be more active.” He placed one hand on her arm, and Laurel was filled with sudden trepidation. “Laurel, someone is moving against us, against our land and our people, and time is not on our side. We need you to stretch your roots, Laurel. We need you to fight the raging river, whatever it may prove to be. If you cannot—”

  Abruptly he looked away, peering out the picture window at the countryside of Avalon spread out below them. It was a moment before he spoke again. “If you cannot, I fear that all of this will crumble into nothing.”

  “You’re talking about the trolls,” Laurel said when she found her voice. “You’re talking about Barnes.” She hadn’t spoken his name aloud in months—there had been no sign of him since December—but he was never far from her thoughts. Ever since last fall she’d been jumping at shadows and peeking around corners.

  “I would be a fool to believe that he acted alone,” Jamison said. He turned back to Laurel, meeting her gaze with his pale blue eyes that matched the barely distinguishable roots in his silvery hair. “And so would you.”

  “Who would align with him? And why?” Laurel asked.

  “We don’t know,” Jamison replied. “What we do know is that Barnes himself is alive and out there somewhere.”

  “But he can’t use me anymore. He can’t make me sell him the land,” Laurel protested.

  Jamison smiled sadly. “If only it were that simple. There are still many things he can use you for. Even though he knows where the land is, he doesn’t know where the gate is. He could try to use you to discover that.”

  “Why does he need to know? Can’t he just come in with his hordes and raze the whole forest?”

  “He could try, but don’t underestimate the skills of our sentries, or the strength of the gate and the magic of the Winter faeries. The gate can be destroyed, but it would require a tremendous amount of concentrated force. If he cannot find exactly where the gate is, he cannot destroy it.”

  “I would never tell,” Laurel said fervently.

  “I know that. And deep down, I suspect that he knows that. But that will not stop him from seeking revenge on you, anyway. There are no other creatures in whom the concept of revenge is rooted so deeply as trolls. They feel the desire for vengeance more acutely than almost any other emotion. For that reason alone, he will come for you.”

  “Then why hasn’t he?” Laurel asked. “He’s had plenty of opportunities. It’s been more than six months.” She shrugged. “Maybe he really is dead.”

  But Jamison shook his head. “Have you ever observed a Venus flytrap?” he asked.

  Laurel snickered inwardly, remembering her conversation with David about flytraps last year. “Yeah,” Laurel said. “My mom had one when I was little.”

  “Have you ever wondered how the flytrap is able to catch the flies?” Jamison asked. “The fly is faster, can see danger approaching, has the ability to flee with the greatest of ease. Logically, every flytrap should starve to death. Why don’t they?”

  Laurel shrugged.

  “Because they are patient,” Jamison said. “They are so still and seem harmless. They do nothing until the fly has wandered, complacently, into the heart of the trap. Only when capture is virtually inevitable does the flytrap move. Trolls are patient too, Laurel. Barnes will wait; he will wait until you relax and stop being careful. Then, and only then, will he strike.”

  Laurel felt her throat tighten. “What can I do to stop him?” she asked.

  “Practice what Yeardley has taught you,” Jamison replied. “That will be your greatest defense. Be especially careful when the sun is down—”

  “Barnes can go out during the day,” Laurel interrupted. “We already know that.”

  “It is not foolproof,” Jamison said, his voice betraying no annoyance at her interruption, “but it is still a fact that Barnes—any troll—will be at his weakest during the day, and you will be weakest when the sun has gone down. Being careful after sundown will not stop them, but it will at least cost them their advantage.” He sat a little straighter. “And it will give your guardians theirs.”

  “My guardians?”

  “After the incident last fall, we placed sentries in the woods near your new home. Shar did not want me to tell you—he feared it would only make you skittish—but I feel you have a right to know.”

  “I’m being spied on again?” Laurel said, the old grudge rising up within her.

  “No,” Jamison said firmly. “You are simply being guarded. There will be no faeries peeking into your windows or infringing upon your private moments. But your house is being watched and protected. It has also been warded against trolls; as long as you are in it, only the strongest of trolls can reach you. But be aware that the woods behind your house are home to more than just trees. The sentries are there to keep you from harm.”

  Laurel nodded, her jaw tight. It still bothered her that she had been closely watched—and occasionally made to forget—by sentries for most of her life in the human world. Even this slightly less intrusive reinstatement of her personal guard felt instantly confining. But how could she argue? She had seen Barnes’s rage firsthand, watched him shoot Tamani, then drop twelve feet from a window and run off after Laurel shot him. He was a force to be reckoned with and even though Yeardley had faith in her fledgling skills, Laurel didn’t. She needed help, and there was no way to deny it.

  Jamison was right, as usual. He exuded wisdom—even the wisest instructors at the Academy were pale, flickering candles next to the nourishing solar illumination of Jamison’s insights. It seemed silly that he was here, comforting her in the face of fear and self-doubt, when Avalon could be benefitting more directly from his guidance.

  “Why—” But Laurel cut off her own question. She’d often wondered why, with so few Winter faeries to choose from, Jamison had not been selected as the ruler of Avalon. But it was none of her business.

  “Go on.”

  Laurel shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

  “You want to know…” Jamison studied her face, then smiled. He looked a little surprised but not at all displeased. “You want to know why I’m not King?”

  Laurel drew in a breath quickly. “How did you—?”

  “Some things in life are nothing more than chance, and this is one of them. The late Queen was a few years older than me but young enough to become the Queen at the time of succession. And by the time she passed to the earth”—he laughed—“well, I was no longer a sapling, to be bent and shaped into the role. Perhaps if there had been no other Winter faeries to take the crown…but thankfully, we have not been so desperate in many generations.”

  “Oh.” Laurel didn’t know what else to say. I’m sorry seemed somehow inappropriate.

  “It doesn’t bother me,” Jamison said, again seeming to read her thoughts. “I spent more than a hundred years as an adviser to one of the g
reatest Queens in Avalon’s considerable history.” The sparkle returned to his eye. “Or, at least, that is how I feel.” He sighed wearily. “This new Queen…well, with the growth that only time and experience can bring to fruition, perhaps her judgment will improve.”

  His criticism of the Queen, though gentle, shocked Laurel. As far as she could tell, no one ever said anything untoward about her. But it made sense that another Winter faerie would have more freedom to speak his mind. She couldn’t help but wonder what, specifically, he thought the Queen was misjudging.

  The thoughtful look on Jamison’s face made Laurel think of Tamani’s father. “Will you become a…a Silent One, Jamison?”

  He looked down at her and laughed very softly. “Now who told you about them?”

  She ducked her head in slight embarrassment and said nothing. When she looked up, Jamison was not looking at her but out the eastern window, where the World Tree’s gnarled branches and vast canopy could just be seen over the tops of the other, more ordinary trees, if you knew what you were looking for.

  “It was Tamani, was it not?”

  Laurel nodded.

  “He’s brooded too much since his father undertook the joining. I hope you can help him find his happiness again.”

  Again Laurel felt guilty and hoped Jamison didn’t know how long she had stayed away when Tamani had been expecting her.

  “I’d have dearly loved to follow in Tam’s father’s footsteps,” Jamison said. “But the time has passed for me. I wouldn’t have the stamina anymore.” He looked back down at her, his smile crowding the sadness from his face—though not entirely. “I’m needed here. Sometimes one must put aside one’s own desires in order to serve the greater good. I fear Avalon is—as it has been so often in the past—balanced on a knife’s edge. I—” He glanced over at the guards, but they were studiously looking away. Nonetheless, he lowered his voice. “I have been to the tree, and I have listened to the wind.”

  Laurel held her breath, her eyes locked with Jamison’s.

  “There is a task for me still. Something no one but I can…or will…do. And so I am content to stay.”

  Before she could question him further, Jamison stood and offered Laurel his arm. “Shall we proceed?”

  They followed the familiar path out of the Academy, down to the walled square that housed the gates, and the sentries closed ranks behind them. Laurel was excited to see how Jamison would open her magical road home. She waited for him to do something amazing—a shower of sparks and flash of light or at least an ancient incantation—but all he did was reach out and pull on the gate, which glided on silent hinges. With a glance at the faeries behind him, he swung it all the way open and suddenly another group of sentries stood in a half-circle on the other side. At the center of the arc stood Shar—grave and gorgeous—and to his right, Tamani. All were in full sentry armor; an intimidating sight, but one Laurel was getting used to.

  Jamison extended his arm once more, inviting Laurel to step through the gate. At the last second he grasped her shoulder gently and leaned close to her ear. “Come back,” he whispered. “Avalon needs you.”

  But as she glanced over her shoulder, he was closing the gate. Two more seconds and the sight of Avalon melted into shadows and was gone.

  “I’ll take that,” Tamani said, startling Laurel. She smiled and handed Tamani the large pink bag. He glanced at it and laughed. “Females and their clothes.”

  Laurel grinned and turned to the gate for one last look. But it had already twisted into an average-looking tree again. She shook her head, still amazed at everything she’d seen this summer.

  “As much as I wish we didn’t, we do need to hurry,” Tamani said. “We’re expecting your mother to be here soon and it would be better if you were waiting for her.” He placed a hand at her waist and Laurel sensed the other faeries melting into the forest as she and Tamani walked up the path.

  Laurel felt awkward, the way she always did when it was time to say good-bye to Tamani. They walked in silence until they reached a spot just barely in sight of the cabin and the long driveway. “No one’s here yet,” Tamani said. “But I suspect it’s only a matter of minutes.”

  “I—” Her voice caught, and she started over again. “I’m sorry there’s not more time.”

  Tamani smiled softly. “I’m glad you’re sorry.” He leaned against a tree, lifting one leg up to brace himself against the trunk. He didn’t look at her. “How long will you stay away this time?”

  Guilt burned in Laurel’s chest as she remembered what Jamison had said. “It’s not what you think.” She said. “I have to—”

  “It’s okay,” Tamani interrupted. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I simply wondered, that’s all.”

  “Not as long as last time,” she said impulsively.

  “When?” Tamani said, and looked at her, his unaffected facade broken, if only for a moment.

  “I don’t know,” Laurel said, not meeting his gaze. She couldn’t look into his eyes, not when they were so open and vulnerable. “Can’t I just come sometime?”

  Tamani was quiet for a moment. “All right,” he said. “I’ll find a way to make it work. Just come,” he added fervently.

  “I will,” she promised.

  Both heads turned as they heard a motor turn off the highway and draw near.

  “Your chariot,” Tamani said with a grin, but his mouth was tight.

  “Thank you,” Laurel said. “For everything.”

  He shrugged, his hands jammed into his pockets. “I didn’t do anything special.”

  “You—” She tried to find words to articulate how she felt, but nothing seemed right. “I—” This time her words were cut off by a series of short blasts on the horn. “That’s my mom,” she said apologetically. “I have to go.”

  Tamani nodded, then stood very still.

  The ball was in her court.

  She hesitated, then quickly stepped up to him and kissed his cheek, darting away before he could say anything. She hurried up the path and toward the car, which was now parked and silent. She stopped. It wasn’t her mom’s car.

  “David.” The name escaped her lips an instant before his arms enfolded her, pulling her to his chest. Her toes left the ground and she was spinning, the same way Tamani had spun her outside the Academy. The sensation of her cheek against his neck brought back memories of snuggling with him on the couch, in the grass at the park, in the car, on his bed. She clung to him realizing—half ashamedly—that she had scarcely thought of him since she’d left. Two months of longing hit her all at once, and tears stung her eyes as her arms twined around his neck.

  Gentle fingers lifted her chin and his lips found hers—soft and insistent. She couldn’t do anything but kiss him back, knowing that Tamani must be just out of her sight, watching the reunion with that guarded expression he wore so well.

  NINE

  “LAUREL?”

  The tiny cylinder of sugar glass shattered as she startled. “Up here,” Laurel called wearily.

  David strode through her doorway and slung an arm around her, dropping a kiss on her cheek. His eyes shot to the equipment in front of her. “What are you doing?” There was no disguising the excitement in his voice.

  Letting the tiny shards of glass tinkle out of her hand and onto the table, Laurel sighed. “Attempting to make sugar-glass vials.”

  “Are they seriously made out of sugar?”

  Laurel nodded as she rubbed her temples. “You can eat those pieces there, if you want,” she said, not really expecting him to do it.

  David looked dubiously at the pile of glass splinters, then picked up one of the larger pieces. He studied it for a moment before licking the flat side—far away from the sharp, pointed end. “Kind of like rock candy,” he said, putting the piece back on the table. “Weird.”

  “Frustrating is more like it.”

  “What are they for?”

  Laurel turned to her kit and removed a glass vial—one Yeardley had made, n
ot her. She hadn’t managed a decent one yet. She handed the vial to David. “Some potions or elixirs or whatever can’t be stored in their final form. So you make them in two parts. As soon as they mix, whatever effect you’re going for happens right away. So you store the different parts in sugar vials so you can mix them at the right time, or crush them in your hand in an emergency.”

  “Sounds painful,” David said, handing the delicate vial back to Laurel with care.

  Laurel shook her head. “It’s usually not thick enough to cut you. But even if it does, the sugar would dissolve and you wouldn’t have to pick bits of glass out of your hand or anything—that’s why you don’t use regular glass. Ideally you just dump them both into a mortar, or whatever, but you have to be prepared for anything.” I have to be prepared for anything, she added to herself.

  “Don’t the potions dissolve the sugar?”

  “They don’t seem to.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, David,” Laurel said tersely. “They just don’t.”

  “Sorry,” David said softly. He pulled a pink padded stool over and joined her at her desk. “So how do you do it?”

  Laurel took a deep breath and got ready to try again. “I have this powdered sugarcane,” she said, pointing to a cloth bag of fine greenish powder, “and I mix it with pine resin.” As she talked she followed her own directions, trying to concentrate despite David’s breath near her ear, his eyes studying her hands. She could almost hear his mind whirring as he tried to take it all in. “It gets all thick and sticky like syrup,” she said, stirring the mixture with a silver spoon, “and it heats up.”

  David nodded and continued watching.

  “Then I get this little straw,” she said, picking up what looked like a short drinking straw made of glass. She didn’t tell David it was one solid piece of diamond. “I dip it in the sugar mix and blow it, just like regular glass.” It sounded easy, and most of the Mixers her age had been making their own vials for years. But Laurel hadn’t quite gotten the knack.