The School between Winter and Fairyland

by Heather Fawcett

  “Teach me how not to be afraid,” he said. “Teach me how to be like you.”

  All the wind went out of her. In a moment, she would fall to the ground like a popped balloon. Cai Morrigan wanted to be like her? Now she knew he wasn’t joking—he was mad.

  Into the deafening silence, Cai went on. “I think that if I could get used to being around dragons, I’ll get better. That’s how you’re supposed to get over a fear, right? You could show me the dragons in the menagerie. Tell me what they’re like, how they think. All we learn in school is how to fight them.”

  “I’m not a teacher,” Autumn said slowly. “I’m just a beastkeeper.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t help me.” Cai gazed at her. “Master Bellows once said that the boggart follows you around like a pet.”

  Autumn let out a sharp laugh. The boggart, a pet? The boggart had once led a troupe of bards straight into a dragon’s garden for singing out of tune. He’d shoved one of Autumn’s ancestors into an oven for raising a hand to his wife, the boggart’s favorite at the time. A boggart made a fine companion if he liked you; if he didn’t like you, he’d be the cause of your untimely and probably painful death and laugh about it afterward.

  “The boggart isn’t anyone’s pet,” she said. “We’re friends.”

  Cai shook his head. “Friends.”

  Autumn remained suspicious, but she hid it behind the dull mask all servants perfected. “I’m not a teacher. You wouldn’t learn anything from me.”

  Cai’s face fell. Had she hurt his feelings? Autumn wasn’t used to thinking of Cai as someone with feelings. He was like a constellation, distant and remote, not a person.

  But what did it matter, anyway? She didn’t want anything to do with Cai or his world. She’d just found Winter—he was alive somewhere, waiting for rescue. All she wanted was to go get the boggart, and together they could rack their brains.

  She bent awkwardly to retrieve Cai’s staff. It was warm against her skin, but perhaps that was just where Cai had been holding it. The crystal at the end was filled with starlight, for Cai was a star magician—the rarest kind, naturally. The kind Autumn would choose to be if she had a choice, which nobody did, least of all her. People said star magicians were more powerful than the rest, because the magic from stars had to be stronger to cross such great distances. Autumn, of course, had no idea whether that was true—what she knew about magic could fill a thimble. But she did know that all magicians were rare, and almost all were born to magician parents. They were often called the Minor Nobility, for having magic in your family’s veins was almost as good as having royal blood. It also made you rich, for the king and queen paid their magicians handsomely and gifted them with land. The most celebrated magicians, those who had slain terrible beasts or hewn paths through the Gentlewood, had huge estates on the sunny southern coast of Eryree near the capital of Langorelle.

  Autumn brushed the crystal with her fingertips, unable to help herself. Its light was cool and silvery, and left traces on her skin like potter’s glaze.

  The back door of the cottage creaked open. “Why are you lurking out there in the cabbages, child? Dinner’s on the table.” Gran’s voice faltered. “I see you’ve made a friend.”

  “Um, this is—” Autumn stopped. She was struck by an absurd but unshakable certainty that Gran wouldn’t believe her if she said Cai’s name, though he was standing right there—that she would laugh and tell Autumn to stop making up stories.

  Fortunately, Cai had his wits about him. “Hello, Mrs. Malog. I’m Cai Morrigan. Sorry for keeping Autumn.”

  “Cai who?” Gran snorted at her own joke. Then her expression darkened. “You’ve missed your own dinner, boy, yakking away with my granddaughter. You’ll eat with us.” The door slammed behind her.

  Cai looked alarmed. Autumn didn’t blame him—it had sounded more like a threat than an invitation.

  “You don’t have to,” Autumn pointed out.

  “That’s all right.” Cai managed a smile. “It’s nice of her to offer.”

  Autumn suspected it was the first time in recorded history that Gran had been referred to as nice, but she didn’t argue. Feeling unaccountably as if she were leading Cai to the gallows, or possibly heading there herself, she gestured, and they went inside.

  It was a very strange dinner.

  Dead silence fell when Cai walked through the door. Emys’s eyes went buggy, which Autumn made a mental note to imitate the next time she was alone with him. Fortunately, Choo was there to break the tension, erupting into an ecstasy of full-body wagging at the arrival of another admirer. He threw himself onto Cai, who laughed and patted him and politely ignored the muddy pawprints Choo left on his cloak. Choo sneezed all over him, and Cai ignored that too.

  Everything Cai did, Autumn couldn’t help noticing, was polite. He even managed to sit down politely, something Autumn had never seen before. She tried to imitate it, but something must have been off, for Jack gave her a strange look and asked if she needed to use the bathroom.

  Her brothers were polite to Cai in a wooden sort of way. They clearly had no idea what to make of him, and apart from a few hellos and you’re-welcomes, were as mute as the chairs. Autumn considered this a vast improvement over Emys’s complaints and Kyffin’s boasting, but Cai couldn’t have known what he was being spared from. Gran shot Cai looks out of the corner of her eye that might have been suspicious, disapproving, or curious, to name just a few possibilities. Only Choo was at ease, and he sat at Cai’s side throughout dinner like a jovial ambassador.

  Autumn wasn’t sure what to make of Cai either. He seemed intimidated by Gran, which said something for his common sense, and after giving her a few polite—naturally—compliments about the meal, he turned his attention to Jack. Autumn could understand why Jack would present an obvious conversational target, being close to Cai’s age and nonthreatening in a moonfaced sort of way, but Jack just stared at Cai as if he were a species of boy he’d never encountered before. At one point, when Cai asked Jack if he enjoyed working in the menagerie, Jack’s spoon missed his mouth entirely and hit his ear. Fortunately, Cai seemed to realize quickly that the small talk he’d learned at fancy dinner parties wasn’t going to get him anywhere at Gran’s table, and he turned his attention to his meal, like the Malogs.

  Autumn found herself seeing the cottage in a new light. She’d always thought it big enough, if she’d given it any thought at all. Now she realized it was small, minuscule even, all of them crammed around the table in the kitchen, where herbs hung in bunches from the ceiling. The cottage had only three rooms, not including the attic—one belonged to Kyffin, Emys, and Jack, and the other was Gran’s. Autumn wondered how many rooms Cai’s house had.

  The food was certainly nothing like what Cai was used to—onion stew and Gran’s infamous black bread, sliced thick and ladled with cheese sauce. (Gran steadfastly refused to divulge the source of the black color, which was likely for the best.) There was no meat. Meat was expensive, especially heading into winter. If the fishmongers who made the winding eight-mile trek to Inglenook from the harbor town of Yr Aurymor couldn’t offer Gran a good price on herring or rock crab, the family often went without. Cai made no complaints, tucking into his food with a gusto that rivaled Emys’s.

  Like Gran, Autumn kept an eye on him through dinner. Her opinion of him hadn’t changed much—in fact, she found him even less impressive now that she knew he was afraid of dragons. She wondered if he was going to slay the Hollow Dragon by choking him. Not in a heroic way—by getting stuck in the monster’s throat.

  For her part, Autumn could barely touch her food. She kept seeing Winter staring out of that cold glass and counting the minutes until she could sneak back to the castle. Cai kept getting muddled up with Winter in her mind, because he was the thing her eyes kept drifting to, sitting there perfectly improbable at Gran’s table. Cai, who knew all about magic and Inglenook, and who had come to her for a favor.

  And slowly, an idea took shape
.

  The sky darkened beyond the windows. Nightfall was when the Gentlewood came alive, full of whispering shadows and sighing leaves. Autumn was used to the sound of it weaving through her dreams. Cai, though, couldn’t stop staring at the forest. When he looked at the Gentlewood, he seemed to forget where he was—his spoon drifted back to his bowl, and his face emptied, as if he was no longer behind it but out there in the darkness somewhere. He was motionless for so long that even Emys looked at him askance, and Emys wouldn’t notice a pack of howling Hounds if there was a bowl of stew in front of them.

  Autumn elbowed Cai. She was mildly worried they’d poisoned him—perhaps the digestive systems of world-famous magicians were so unused to ordinary food that it made them sick.

  Cai blinked at her, then smiled. He had a nice smile, though there was something vacant about it. Not because it made him look stupid or foolish, but because it didn’t seem to hold any real emotion, as if he was only smiling because he felt he should, because it was polite. Autumn wondered if that was what all famous magicians were like, putting on a show for people all the time, and wondered also why they didn’t just grow a backbone and zap people who didn’t like them.

  She spent the rest of dinner deep in thought. At the end of the meal, Cai offered to help clear away the dishes, but Gran just shooed him out of the cottage without replying to his thank-yous, possibly because she didn’t know how to. Gran didn’t have guests for dinner, apart from Sir Emerick, a shabby old wandering knight whom Gran had once rescued from a pair of wyverns. And Sir Emerick didn’t really count as a guest, for he and Gran had known each other since before Gran’s chin hairs came in, as she liked to say. They spent Sir Emerick’s visits drinking and arguing about the Old Days until they both fell asleep in their chairs.

  “Wait.” Autumn ran to catch up to Cai. He turned, his cloak shimmering gracefully. The wind smelled of the night-blooming flowers of the Gentlewood.

  “I’ll help you,” she said.

  Cai’s face broke into a smile. “Really? Autumn, you have no idea—”

  “If,” Autumn cut in, and Cai went politely silent.

  She regarded him. She didn’t like Cai, nor did she trust him. But that didn’t have to matter. You could still work with someone you didn’t trust, the way Autumn worked with the monsters of the menagerie, and you could work with people you didn’t like, such as Emys. What mattered was whether they could help you.

  And Cai could help her.

  “If,” Autumn repeated, “you help me find my brother.”

  Cai’s smile faltered. He gave her that soft-eyed look the masters wore whenever they accidentally called her Winter. The look that had been on Gran’s face when Autumn told her that Winter hadn’t been stolen away by the Hollow Dragon, that he was still alive somewhere.

  After a long moment, Cai said, “How?”

  “I think he’s trapped in the school,” she began slowly. She didn’t know how much she should tell Cai. The problem was that it all sounded like a hallucination. After all, she and Winter were practically identical—who would believe that she hadn’t just seen her own reflection and imagined the rest?

  “I don’t know why he’s trapped,” she went on, “or how. But you’ll help me look for him. You know the school inside out. You’re always having adventures there—like when you and Gawain found the hidden tunnel to that old coblynaw’s treasure hoard. Plus, people say you’re the strongest magician Inglenook’s ever trained.” Autumn didn’t mention how hard to believe she found this. “If Winter’s trapped by an enchantment, maybe you can find him.”

  “Autumn,” Cai said slowly, “your brother went missing a long time ago. There’s no way he’d still …”

  “I know it doesn’t make sense.” Autumn’s hands clenched. “But he’s alive. He is.”

  Cai let out his breath. Autumn thought he was going to argue more, but he just said simply, “I’ll help however I can.”

  “Really?” Autumn’s knees went weak with relief and amazement. “I— Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t call me that.” A shadow passed over his face, but his voice was as polite as ever.

  “Okay.” If Cai wanted to pretend they were friends, not servant and master, she didn’t care. She would go along with anything if he helped Winter.

  “Why were you named Autumn and Winter?” Cai asked curiously.

  “I was born first,” Autumn said. “It was just before midnight on the last day of fall. Winter was born—well, in winter. Ten minutes later. Though there was little difference between the two, Gran always says.” Autumn smiled as she remembered the familiar story. “Snow piled up against the house in drifts that were like another door when Gran tried to get outside in the morning. That day was just like Winter, she says. Still and quiet as new snow.” Her throat grew tight.

  Cai watched her. “I’m sorry. You must miss him.”

  Autumn didn’t reply.

  “I’ll need to consult a few books in the library,” Cai said after a moment’s thought. He didn’t look vacant anymore, but calm and decisive. “Meet me there after dinner tomorrow, as soon as you can get away.”

  Cai reached out his hand, and Autumn hesitantly shook it. He looked every bit a proper magician standing there with his staff, stardust glinting about him like dust motes in a sunbeam, and Autumn felt her hope swell to bursting. Cai smiled and vanished into the darkness.

   6

  IN WHICH AUTUMN VISITS THE SKYBRARY

  Autumn watched Cai go, her feet itching. She wanted more than anything to follow him to the castle. But if she went back now, she would have to explain everything to Gran, and Autumn was simply too used to being disbelieved to try. She knew Gran worried that she had never cried for Winter—she’d overheard her telling Sir Emerick. Autumn didn’t see the point in crying—it wouldn’t help her find Winter any faster, but try saying that to Gran. For a long time now, she’d accepted as truth that she was Winter’s only hope.

  Autumn thought of the look Cai had given her—coming from a less kind person, it could have been called pity. She wasn’t at all certain that Cai had believed her any more than Gran did, and if a magician couldn’t believe the impossible, what hope did she have of convincing anybody else?

  She would sneak back to the window first thing, and as often as she could after.

  She hurried back to the cottage and hopped silently up the front steps, avoiding the creaky one at the top.

  “Never thought I’d entertain a famous magician at my table,” came Gran’s voice from the shadowy porch.

  Autumn froze with her hand on the door. Had Gran heard what she’d said to Cai? If so, would she try to stop Autumn from seeing him?

  “Cai wants me to teach him about the dragons in the menagerie,” she said slowly. “About how they think. He says it will make him better at fighting them. Is that all right?”

  This wasn’t exactly how Cai had put it, but it also wasn’t a lie. All in all, Autumn was pleased with her quick thinking. Gran puffed on her pipe and leaned back in her rickety rocking chair. “It’s all one to me. Nice of him to come and ask, I suppose. He only had to tell the headmaster what he wanted, and we’d be ordered to give it to him.”

  Autumn hadn’t thought of that. But Cai was probably embarrassed about needing help from a servant.

  “He’s not what I expected,” Gran said.

  “No,” Autumn agreed.

  “Ah well, most of them aren’t,” Gran said in a musing tone. “Them great ones that folks write prophecies about.” She gave Autumn a sharp look. “Do you know the prophecy?”

  Autumn frowned. Everyone knew the prophecy. “Cai’s going to kill the Hollow Dragon.”

  Gran took another puff on her pipe. “The same dragon that ate three of the king’s best knights for lunch just last week.”

  “You mean you don’t believe it?”

  “Oh, I believe in prophecies all right,” Gran said. “Been around long enough to watch a fair few come true. But I also know that whe
n it comes to prophecies—when it comes to a lot of things in life—we often hear what we want to hear. Why, most folks don’t even know how that prophecy goes, yet they’re all perfectly happy to believe that beast will be done and dusted by some slip of a boy.”

  Autumn mulled this over. It would make sense if the prophecy was wrong in some way—if it was actually about a different boy, for instance. True, the seer who had made the prophecy had been none other than Taliesin, renowned as much for his wisdom as for his eccentric habit of sleeping on mountaintops with no clothes on in order to become one with nature. And it was also true that Taliesin had delivered the prophecy at Cai’s bedside when Cai was barely a month old, a marvel witnessed not only by the family but by several servants. But perhaps the old seer had gotten the address wrong.

  “Do you know how the prophecy goes, Gran?”

  Gran released a great cloud of smoke. For a moment, Autumn didn’t think she was going to speak. When she did, her gaze didn’t stray from the forest.

  The lightest winds wander far,

  The quietest hunters draw blood.

  The lowest may walk among stars,

  In some hearts a forest will bud.

  No blade or enchantment will slow

  The empty song in the wilds.

  Ere his thirteenth winter’s snow,

  The beast will fall to the stars’ child.

  Gran’s voice faded into the night. Autumn felt the words wash over her, tingly and cool—there was magic in them, she was certain.

  “What does it mean?” she asked.

  “Well, the first bit’s about Cai. The second’s about the Hollow Dragon.”

  “The empty song?” Autumn thought it over. There were a number of singing monsters, though none of them were dragons, which added to the Hollow Dragon’s strangeness. Monsters used music to lull, but also to frighten. And there was nothing more frightening than the tales of the Hollow Dragon’s song, which was said to be an omen of death. Knights who fought the dragon reported that their fallen comrades had spoken of the beauty of his song before they died—a song heard by none who lived.