He took a step back as if she’d slapped him, his eyes wide. Then he turned fierce again. “You know what I am, Fer,” he growled.
“Yes, I know what you are,” she said, and turned away. He was a puck.
And maybe that was answer enough.
Nine
In the very early morning, Fer went to be sure that Phouka and the rest of her bees were settled in the nathe’s stables. She’d left the other bee behind to keep an eye on Rook. He wouldn’t like that—he’d probably call it spying—but she’d taken responsibility for him, and she couldn’t let him mess this up for her.
When she got back to her rooms, Rook had shifted into his dog shape and was crouched in a shadowed curve of the wall. As she came in the door, his fur bristled, and he growled.
“Grrr yourself, Rook,” she muttered. He thought he looked so fierce, but in his dog-shape he had one ear that stood up and one that flopped over, and it made him look sort of funny. She looked more closely and saw that her bee was perched on the sticking-up ear. Clearly he hadn’t noticed.
Leaving him to his growliness, she went into her room to get ready for her first encounter with the High Ones. Today the competition would begin, and she would have to prove herself worthy—in their eyes—to become the true Lady of the Summerlands. Her stomach jumped with nervousness. What would the contest be like? What would she have to do to win?
As soon as Twig had tied off the end of her braid, Fer examined herself in the room’s long mirror. She wore her usual clothes and patched jacket. She looked like her own true self, just what Arenthiel had advised.
“You’re ready,” she told her reflection. Taking a deep breath, she paced into the main room.
Fray was ready too, burly and strong and dressed in wolf-guard gray. She stepped closer and bent to whisper into Fer’s ear. “What about that puck, Lady?”
She eyed Rook. He was still a dog. Nice for him; it meant he couldn’t talk, so he wouldn’t have to answer any questions. “He’d better come with us,” she whispered back. “So we can keep an eye on him.”
A knock, and the door opened. The nathe-warden strode in. She looked Fer up and down, and Fer was sure she saw something in those green eyes. Was it scorn? “Gwynnefar,” the warden said formally, “you are summoned to the nathewyr to prove your claim of Ladyship over the Summerlands. Come!”
In his dog shape, Rook trotted behind Fer and the idiot wolf-guard, following them through the twisty passages of the nathe. The warden led them to a grand double door inlaid in silver with a picture of some kind of flower. Fer had studied healing, and she knew about things like herbs and flowers; she’d know what it was. Rook glanced up at her. She looked nervous. As she should be, he thought.
The double doors swung open. Here it was, the nathewyr, a place that pucks had never been allowed to enter. This was where the High Ones showed themselves to their people, accepted their people’s sworn oaths, and where they would pass their judgments. They’d brought Fer here to decide whether she could be the Lady of the Summerlands or not, which was stupid, since Fer was obviously a Lady and didn’t need to win some competition to prove it.
He’d come here for another reason altogether. A puck reason.
The hall had several doorways in the walls—that was the first thing he noticed. Lots of ways out, then. Following Fer and the wolf-guard, he padded farther into the huge room. Along the walls were pillars made of living trees with silvery bark; they grew up from gnarled roots in the polished floor to twine their branches in a high, graceful ceiling. Glowing crystals hung from the tree-pillars’ branches and sat in niches in the walls.
The nathewyr was crowded. A big hall like this, full of people as it was, should be echoey, but the silence pressed against his ears. To his dog-nose it smelled stuffy and old, just like the forest outside. Time didn’t pass here, it just was.
Keeping their distance from him and Fer and the wolf-guard were Lords and Ladies of all kinds, some drooping like graceful flowers, others short and green-skinned like mossy stumps, or looming and hairy like broad bears, or blinking at him with wide deer eyes. Beautiful, all of them, with false glamorie, and shimmering with false power. As he passed, they snuck glances at him and Fer, and whispered to one another. Rook bared his fangs and grinned at them. At that, they exclaimed and drew away like salted snails.
Oh, would they be in for a shock, once he’d done what he’d come here to do.
Fer stopped and stood five steps ahead with her back to him, straight and slim in her patched jacket. None of the other Lords and Ladies had given her any sign of welcome; they’d only stared. The tips of her ears, Rook noticed, had turned pink. She must be able to hear the loud whispers—“false Lady” and “half human” and “bringing a nasty puck into our midst.”
The crowd parted, and the golden Arenthiel creature glided up to Fer and bent over her, whispering. The fur on Rook’s neck bristled. He watched as Fer turned to Arenthiel, eyes wide, and nodded. Arenthiel smiled, and Rook saw that even though his smile was beautiful, it was chill and sharp. Fer didn’t have a puck’s vision; she couldn’t see it.
Arenthiel glanced aside at Rook and gave him a sly wink, as if they shared a secret. He knew that Rook’s puck vision had seen him for what he truly was, Rook realized. He felt a growl grumbling in his chest.
But wait. He wasn’t here to worry about Fer and her troubles. He was here to make trouble of his own. Trying to ignore Fer and the golden boy, he cast another look around the nathewyr, searching for the thing he’d come to find. There. At the end of the hall was a platform, and on it stood two carved wooden thrones. The High Ones’ seats. The thrones were inlaid with silver that glinted faintly. Next to the thrones—there was the thing he’d come to find.
It rested on a pedestal, on a pillow made of deep blue velvet. A crown made of silver—silver oak leaves twined together with white gemstones shaped into acorns with silver caps, all shining with a cold, clear light. This was the prize that the High Ones would award to the winner of their competition, the new Lord or Lady of the Summerlands.
This was the thing his puck-brothers had sent him to the nathe to steal.
Ten
The moment she stepped into the nathewyr, Fer knew she’d made a big mistake.
It was crowded, and every single Lord or Lady wore a glamorie. They were all so compellingly, glitteringly beautiful, it was like looking into the sun. Dazzled, she wanted to look away, at the floor or anywhere except at the people, but she kept her chin up and walked farther into the nathewyr.
As she passed, a tall bird-man with sharp black eyes and sleek, speckled feathers for hair wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelled something nasty. A graceful flower-maiden turned away, drooping. Others whispered and looked scornfully down their noses. Without a glamorie to hide her human side, Fer knew that to them she looked like a blot, a drab, plain thing. Not like a Lady at all.
Her ears burning, she found a place to stand, hardly aware of Fray at her side, or the dog-Rook a few steps behind her. Why hadn’t Arenthiel told her it would be like this?
And there he was—Arenthiel glided up to her, looking just as gorgeously golden as he had the night before. “My dear girl!” he said, smiling. “You didn’t wear your glamorie or finer clothes?”
“But—” she stammered. “You said—you made me promise not to wear the glamorie. You said my patch-jacket was right.”
Arenthiel shook his head, mock-sorrowful. “Oh, dear me, no. You must have misunderstood. That is not what I meant, at all.”
Fer’s heart pounded. No, she hadn’t misunderstood. He’d tricked her. She opened her mouth to ask him why, when the nathewyr fell suddenly silent. A cool, flower-scented breeze blew through the crowded room, and the doors swung open. The High Ones entered.
There were two of them, both women, tall and slender as birch trees, with dappled brown skin and hair as bright as braided sunlight. They wore white robes edged with silver and gold, and their feet were bare. The crowd parted and bowed li
ke grasses in the wind as they paced slowly to the platform.
The High Ones were beautiful, of course—Fer had expected that. But they had power, too. She could feel it humming around her. Their power filled the nathewyr like water filling a cup, making the air thick and hard to breathe. As the High Ones settled gracefully onto their thrones, the weight of the room settled around them, as if they had grown roots down into their land. They had been here always; and they would always be here. They were ageless and terrible, wise and beautiful, all at the same time. Fer found herself bowing, just like all the others in the hall.
Except for Rook, she noticed, glancing back. He was standing on all four paws, gazing intently at something on the platform. She tried following his gaze, but she couldn’t tell what he was looking at. Fray stood next to him; she’d keep him out of trouble, Fer knew.
One of the High Ones nodded, and a huge bear-man with bristly brown hair and a beard that grew all the way up to his close-set eyes stepped onto the platform. When he spoke, his deep voice filled the nathewyr. “The High Ones begin the contest.” He pointed to a pedestal that stood next to the thrones. On it, a gleaming silver crown rested on a pillow. “The High Ones offer this crown. Whoever wins it also wins the power to rule the Summerlands as its Lord or Lady. Who would compete for this prize?”
Determined to be first, Fer started to step forward.
But another competitor beat her to it. “I will compete for the Summerlands crown!” shouted someone from behind her.
Fer whirled to look. A girl strode forward and bowed quickly toward the High Ones. She was taller and older than Fer. She didn’t wear a glamorie, but she was beautiful anyway, dressed in silken finery, her black pants and long jacket studded with glittering rubies. She looked sturdy and strong; her skin was the color of charred paper; she had black eyes and wore her black hair in four long braids. Squinting, Fer could see smoldering orange coals at the tips of each of the girl’s braids.
“I am Gnar of the Drylands,” the girl announced in a crackling voice. “I am kin of the Lord there, and I seek to win a glamorie and a land of my own.” She cast a keen look around the nathewyr. “No one here shall defeat me!”
On the platform, the High Ones nodded. The bear-man nodded too. “Who else would compete for the crown?”
Fer stepped forward. “I do,” she called out. She felt prickly as everyone in the nathewyr stared at her; she heard a faintly outraged “hmph!” from the Gnar girl.
“What is your name and your claim to the Summer-lands, human?” the bear-man boomed.
“I’m Gwynnefar,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “My mother was Laurelin, the Lady of the Summerlands, and I defeated the Mór, who killed my mother and father and tried to become the Lady in their place.”
The High Ones stared down at her, their faces cold and blank. Were they even listening to her? If they ruled over all the lands, they must have known about the Mór and her evil. They hadn’t done anything about it, though, had they? Maybe they didn’t care.
“I . . .” Fer faltered. How could she convince them? “I feel a connection to the Summerlands and to the people who live there. I can open the Way between my land and the human world. And I have a crown that Leaf Woman gave me.” The leafy crown, she meant. The wise and powerful Leaf Woman had crowned her with it after Fer had defeated the Mór. As she stated her reasons for being Lady, she felt the rightness of them. The High Ones had to see that she was the rightful Lady of the Summerlands.
Unless . . . unless they already had a reason not to see it.
On the platform, one of the High Ones whispered something to the bear-man.
“Yet, you are human,” the bear-man said. “In all time, no human has ever been a Lord or Lady of a land. And you do not wear your glamorie. Perhaps you are incapable of wearing it. How could you rule a land and its people without it, human girl?”
Fer nodded. So that was it. “Yes, I’m human. Half human. My father came from the human world. And yes, I have a glamorie, but I don’t like wearing it. I don’t trust it.”
At that, the whispers broke out, filling the nathewyr with the sound of rustling leaves.
“The High Ones know that you have not taken oaths from the people of the Summerlands,” the bear-man said.
“No, I haven’t.” Fer shook her head. “The deep-forest kin wanted to swear, and the other people do too, but I wouldn’t let them. Taking oaths feels wrong to me.”
At that, a few people exclaimed; the whispers grew louder. The bear-man raised a pawlike hand and a heavy silence fell. Then, “You do not wear the glamorie; you do not accept oaths. Are you all human, Gwynnefar, or are you one of us?”
Fer gulped. Oh no. Maybe they wouldn’t even let her compete. “I am half human and I am one of you. I am both. And I am the true Lady of the Summerlands,” she said firmly.
The High Ones leaned their heads together and whispered. One of them shook her head; the other one frowned and whispered something else. After a long moment, they nodded, agreed. “Hmmm,” the bear-man growled. “You must prove yourself worthy, half-human, before the High Ones allow you to claim the Summerlands. That is their ruling. The High Ones will allow you to compete.”
Fer released a relieved breath.
“Who else would compete for the crown?” the bear-man asked.
As Fer looked around, another competitor stepped forward, leaving puddled footprints behind him. He was tall and thin and greeny-pale all over, from the tips of his curly hair to his long, slender feet. Like Gnar, he didn’t wear a glamorie, but his white satin suit was covered with tiny diamonds that glistened like dewdrops. He wavered into a deep bow. “I am Lich of the Damplands, kin of the Lady there. As is the way of our people since long before any”—he glanced aside at Fer—“humans came here, I will compete for the crown and become Lord of the Summerlands.”
The bear-man nodded. “You may compete.”
Fer frowned. They hadn’t even questioned Gnar or this boy Lich. Was this even going to be a fair contest?
“Is there a fourth competitor?” the bear-man asked, gazing around the nathewyr.
Arenthiel stepped up beside Fer. She glanced aside at him, and he gave her a wide, glittering smile. “Things are about to get interesting, dear girl,” he said. In a louder voice, he announced, “I will compete for this prize!”
Fer stared. What?
Up on the platform, the High Ones were whispering again, and then they nodded and the bear-man was accepting Arenthiel as a competitor.
“Yes, Gwynnefar,” Arenthiel murmured. “Long have I waited for the chance to claim a land of my own. At last my day has come. I am planning to become Lord of the Summerlands.” His golden smile sharpened as he looked her up and down, seeing, she knew, her lack of glamorie, her ordinary clothes. “As you can see, I am already winning.”
“You cheated,” Fer protested.
He blinked, all innocence. “What a thing to say! I am no cheater. I only started the contest a bit early.”
So he had. It had been a trick, him pretending to be her friend. She narrowed her eyes, but her glare bounced right off him. His smile glittered just as brightly. He ran a hand down the front of his embroidered coat, as if to say—see how perfect I am?
Around them, the nathewyr was emptying as the High Ones glided down from the platform, followed out of the hall by the Lords and Ladies. The other two competitors—the Gnar girl and the pale Lich boy—came to stand with Fer and Arenthiel, and the bear-man stepped down to join them.
Fer’s knees felt shaky, standing there. The contest was beginning, and she was already losing. Oh, she had been stupid to believe Arenthiel’s lies!
The bear-man surveyed them all, his furry face stern. “You may call me Lord Artos,” he rumbled. “The contest begins later, this day. Your fitness to rule will be tested. You will ride, shoot bow and arrow, and demonstrate your mastery of the glamorie. Your strength will be tested. And”—and here Lord Artos turned his gaze on Fer—“also your weakness.
”
The girl named Gnar tossed her smoldering braids. “I will defeat you dull embers. I will win the crown and turn the Summerlands into a beautiful, dry land, with burning sand underfoot and no clouds in its ever-blue sky.”
The tall Lich boy looked down his nose at her. “You will not, spark-thing. As the Lord of the Summerlands, I will bring to it coolth and peace and dripping fogs.”
Arenthiel said nothing, but he smiled his perfect golden smile at all of them. He was confident, Fer could see. So sure he was going to win.
Inside her chest, Fer felt her heart turn into a hard knot. Hard and determined. They wanted to turn the Summerlands into desert or swamp. Or—she eyed Arenthiel—into something worse. She was not going to lose her land and her people to any of them.
Eleven
The contest would begin, Lord Artos had said, with a race. They would meet in the afternoon at the stables.
Fer arrived dripping wet, the first one there. She wiped rain off her face and leaned against Phouka’s flank, looking out the stable’s arched doorway. Outside, rain pounded down from low, lead-colored clouds. “It’s going to be a wet ride,” Fer murmured, and patted Phouka’s neck. “Maybe muddy, too. Are you sure you don’t mind running the race with me?”
As an answer, he whuffled his nose against her shoulder. He would do it, that meant.
“Thanks,” she whispered, and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.
After meeting the High Ones, Fer had only stopped in her rooms for a few minutes, to eat a quick lunch and grab her backpack with its box of herbs in it. If Phouka got hurt in the race—or if she did—she might need the herbs for healing. She’d also left Rook in the rooms, watched over by Fray and Twig and one of her bees. He’d growled at her, clearly not liking it, but she had to make sure he didn’t go out while she was gone and stir up trouble.
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