Autumn’s stomach was in knots. Normally, she counted the days to Hallowtide—all the Malogs did, apart from Gran, of course, who had no patience for dressing up, dancing, or any of the rest of it. Kyffin was already there, somewhere, while Jack was back at the cottage nursing a pretend stomachache. He would have the unhappy responsibility of feigning shock if Gran happened to discover that the gwyllions were missing. They’d left the stall door open and off its hinge to suggest a crafty prison break.
Autumn was shocked by how quickly her brothers had jumped to her aid. It was unprecedented. They’d never helped her with anything important… . But then, she couldn’t remember ever asking them to. Autumn had always had the boggart, and Winter, of course—what use did she have for older brothers? But now the boggart was gone, and the brothers who had always lurked in the background—mildly unpleasant but harmless, like lumpy couches—had revealed unexpected uses.
It was confusing. Fortunately, she and Emys had been arguing all day, which took some of the strangeness off.
“All right, we’re in,” she said, craning her neck to look for Cai. She hadn’t seen him since that night in the Gentlewood. “You can clear off.”
Emys snorted. “Don’t think I don’t want to—I’m never doing you a favor again. But I’m not leaving you with that thing. Things.”
“I’ve got Cai. And I’m a better Speaker than you are. Get lost.”
“Why do you have to be such a brat, Autumn?”
“Why are you such a wuss? If you ever stumbled into a real adventure, you’d wet yourself.”
“Fine. Go take your pet monster to the party. And if it bites your head off and eats your brains, see if I care.”
“At least if a monster ate my brains, people could tell the difference.”
“I don’t want to have anything to do with you for the rest of the night.”
“I thought you weren’t doing me any more favors.”
“Autumn!” There was Cai, waving to her by the croaking ravens. He had been talking to Winifred and Bryony, both of whom actually smiled at Autumn—though Winifred’s smile was the indulgent sort you might give to a favorite pet.
Cai made his way over, and Autumn met him halfway, the gwyllions trailing in her wake. Emys folded his arms and fumed. Still, she could sense his voice in the gwyllions’ heads. He was keeping an eye on them anyway, the big whiner. She felt a little prickle of gratitude and told herself it was just her nervousness.
“You look pretty,” Cai said, politely ignoring her huge, threadbare cloak and gazing instead at her dress. It was an all right dress, Autumn supposed—light blue with a darker blue pattern of tiny flowers, unfortunately faded and much darned, for Gran couldn’t exactly afford to buy her a new dress every Hallowtide. She didn’t look half as nice as Cai, in his gold-trimmed cloak and mask edged with pearls.
“Thanks for the mask,” she said, pushing it up. She could see Cai better without it, and she faltered. “Cai?”
“I know.” He kept smiling, but it didn’t touch his eyes. He lowered his voice. “Pretend everything’s fine. My sister’s coming.”
“Your sister?” Autumn had a moment of blankness before her memory kicked in. She’d forgotten Cai had a sister.
She gripped Cai’s arm. It wasn’t that he looked ill—it was that he didn’t look like Cai. The sharpness was still there, and he moved like a shadow. And his eyes—
Autumn swallowed. She could see the forest in Cai’s eyes. The waving boughs; the meadows of bluebells. It was as if the Gentlewood was looking out from his face.
A girl of eight or nine came bounding through the crowd. Autumn couldn’t tell whether she was a magician or not; the air seemed to brighten when she neared, but that could have been the ferocity of her smile. She was pretty and plump with long hair the same glossy dark as Cai’s. When she saw Autumn, the smile slid from her face.
“Are you dancing with her?” she demanded. “You promised to dance with me.”
“Blue, this is Autumn,” Cai said. “We have something important to do tonight. But I’ll be back to dance with you later, promise.”
The little girl’s expression darkened into a sulk that reminded Autumn of the boggart.
“Dance with me now,” she said. Autumn stared at her, but Cai only smiled at his sister’s rudeness, as you would at a growling kitten.
“I can’t,” he said seriously. “You see, I’m on a quest.”
Blue looked suspicious. “What sort of quest?”
“I have to find ten shooting stars before dawn, to use in an important enchantment. Maybe you can help me.”
He murmured to his staff, and a cloud of starlight formed above Blue’s head. She gave a squeal of delight. The cloud rippled, and the tiny stars trapped there began to fall. Blue darted this way and that, trying to catch them. One streaked across the room, and she ran after it, giggling, without a backward glance.
“Is she a magician?” Autumn said.
“Yes—a moon magician. She’s going to start school soon.”
“Isn’t that unusual?” Autumn said. “Your parents aren’t magic, but both of you are?”
“Actually, it often happens that way. There are a lot of theories. Some magicians think that there are people who have magic but aren’t able to use it—it’s dormant, in other words. They’ll never be magicians themselves, but if they marry someone like them, they can pass it on to their kids. If non-magicians have a magician child, their next child is usually magic, too.” Cai looked around. “My parents are here. But if I introduce you to my dad, he’ll talk your ear off for an hour.” His voice was exasperated but affectionate. “Come on.”
Autumn let Cai lead her through the hall, feeling as if she were lit by her own cloud of starlight. Everybody stared at them, servants and students and masters alike. Even the ravens murmured and croaked as they passed. Many of the students called out to Cai, and quite a few of them blushed when he greeted them back in his calm, polite voice.
Gawain, standing with a knot of junior apprentices, clapped Cai on the shoulder in a proud, possessive sort of way. “Who’s this?” he asked, giving Autumn a puzzled look.
Autumn fixed Gawain with a glower that made him take a step back. Cai said quickly, “I have to talk to Autumn about something, Gawain. Excuse us—”
“Is your friend all right?” The girl at Gawain’s side gazed past Autumn with rounded eyes.
Autumn turned. She stifled a yelp. The cloak of gwyllions was writhing, and one of the boots was turned nearly backward.
The Lords and Ladies do not enjoy this confinement, one of the gwyllions said. It is too hot.
The Lords and Ladies are fortunate not to be on the bottom, said the lowest gwyllion. The Lords and Ladies must pay more attention to their weight.
What rudeness! Perhaps the Lords and Ladies should build up their strength. Their muscles have grown enfeebled.
The upper third of the gwyllion lurched forward, while the boots rattled and made hissing noises. Several students were frozen in place, staring.
Autumn forced a laugh, and carefully patted the gwyllion’s back. “Ah, my brother isn’t much of a dancer.” Stop that stop that stop that, she hissed.
The gwyllions stilled a little. There was still far too much movement, though, in the stomach region—not an area that was supposed to move, as a general rule.
“What’s he supposed to be?” the girl said, spilling punch on her dress as she leaned her entire body away from the gwyllions. To Autumn’s horror, the tip of the topmost gwyllion’s beak was protruding from the hood.
“Well, a gwyllion, of course,” Autumn said, giving Cai a meaningful look. His eyes widened. “What do you think?” She forced a laugh.
The girl laughed too, equally forced. “Gawain, let’s get some punch.”
Gawain frowned. He wasn’t looking at the gwyllions, having discounted the figure in the servant’s cloak at first glance. “But you already have—”
“So nice to meet you,” the girl
said to Autumn, dragging Gawain away.
Cai’s mouth had fallen open. “Autumn, how—why—”
“Just keep smiling,” she muttered. She plastered a large grin on her own face as she gripped the edge of the gwyllions’ cloak. “Come on, Jack.”
If anything, the onlookers seemed more horrified when the gwyllions started walking. The left boot was turned completely around now, but the figure in the cloak seemed not to notice this terrible deformity and kept walking with that mincing, ominous stride. Two students actually leaped out of its way.
Finally, they were standing in a sufficiently shadowy alcove. By that time, Cai seemed to have figured things out a little. “They’re going to lead us to the cloud tower?” he said. “Why?”
“We made a deal,” Autumn said. Into Cai’s mind, she added, Which I’m not going to keep. After they lead us to the cloud tower, you have to get rid of them.
Cai gave an infinitesimal nod. “I see. Well, it’s a good thing, I suppose—that map has been a headache. It puts the third cloud tower next to the vegetable patch, but I can’t find any trace of it. I was going to say we should look there anyway, but if they know where it is …”
It’s the boy from the tower, one of the gwyllions murmured.
Pretty starlight boy, another crooned. The Lords and Ladies are pleased to see him again.
Yes, yes, ever so pleased.
Autumn shushed them. She turned to Cai. “What happened to you?”
“I knew you would notice,” Cai said. “Nobody else seems to.”
Autumn stepped back, eyeing him critically. “You look the same. But you also look different. I can’t explain it. It’s like there’s two of you.”
“I don’t look entirely the same.” Cai glanced over his shoulder, then pulled off his gloves.
Autumn gasped. Little black shadows flickered beneath Cai’s skin. They crept all the way up to his elbows, where they faded.
“When did this happen?” Autumn demanded, grabbing his hands.
“It started after we got back from the Gentlewood,” Cai said. “It’s gotten worse. I don’t know what’s going on. Why is it happening now?” He was trembling.
“Oh, Cai,” Autumn said. She hugged him, surprising herself. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll figure this out together.”
Cai hugged her back. “Autumn, I’m so glad you’re my friend.”
Autumn’s eyes prickled. She drew back, feeling suddenly awkward. “What are sidekicks for, anyway?” She blushed to the roots of her hair. “Course, I don’t mean that. I could never be your sidekick. I’m just a beastkeeper.”
“Just?” Cai shook his head, smiling a little, which Autumn was glad to see. “I don’t think that word has anything to do with you, Autumn.”
She looked away, worried that the force of her blush would set her hair on fire. “You magicians and your nonsense,” she muttered.
“There’s something else,” Cai said. “I’m hungry.”
“Oh,” Autumn said blankly. Then, when she realized from the look on Cai’s face that he didn’t mean hunger of the common kind, “Oh. What for?”
“That’s the problem.” He looked as if he might be ill. “I don’t know.”
This was unwelcome news, but Autumn hid her worry as best as she could. “We’ll figure that out, too. Monsters eat all kinds of things.” Mostly children, she thought but did not say. “Look at the boggart. He eats anything. Meat. Sap from the Gentlewood. And you know people make all sorts of strange offerings to boggarts—the stories say they have a particular liking for maidens’ tears.”
“Really?” Cai looked relieved. He paused. “Actually, that’s gross.”
“Cai, are you sure you’re well enough to look for Winter tonight?” Saying it made Autumn ache. She felt torn in two between her worry for Cai and her longing for Winter.
He lifted his strange eyes to hers. “I made you a promise,” he said, his voice hard with determination. “We’re going to find your brother. Tonight.”
“Autumn!” Ceredwen dashed up to them, nearly skipping. She wore the pretty pink dress she’d worn to last year’s Hallowtide and had woven herself a pair of wings from branches and raven feathers, which also adorned her mask. When she saw Cai, she gasped and dropped into a curtsy.
“You’re not supposed to do that on Hallowtide,” Autumn reminded her. On Hallowtide, everyone was equal. At least on the surface—all that food didn’t cook itself, and so only a few of the cooks had the day off. The rest crept between the kitchens and the banquet hall like ghosts, keeping the tables well stocked.
Ceredwen blushed, but she was bubbling with excitement, and it was stronger than her fear of Cai. “Autumn, one of the bards heard me singing, and she offered to take me on as her apprentice!”
Autumn was sure she’d misheard. “The bard what?”
“Can you imagine?” Ceri hopped up and down. “Bards travel all over Eryree—I’ll get to see the whole kingdom! Sometimes they even visit the Southern Realms. Think of all the songs I’ll learn!”
“Congratulations,” Cai said kindly. He had stealthily replaced his gloves.
Autumn shook her head. “But Ceri, you’re not a bard. You don’t know any instruments. And servants aren’t taught to read.”
“I was,” Ceredwen said. “The head housekeeper did it as a favor to Mum. She knew I always wanted to be a bard. And the bard said all you really need to know at first is the triple-stringed willow harp, and that’s dead easy. She’s going to teach me.”
Autumn still didn’t understand. “But what if she finds out you’re a servant?”
Ceredwen’s smile faltered. “She already knows that. She doesn’t mind. She only cares that I can sing and read music. Some of the bards used to be servants. Others are minor nobles. They’re all sorts.”
“You’ll be great,” Cai said. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow. Oh, there’s the bard now—I’m going to see if she needs more honey wine. I have to look after her, now that I’m her apprentice and all.” And Ceredwen skipped away.
Autumn watched her go. “You shouldn’t do that,” she said to Cai.
“What?”
“Give her false hope. It’s not very nice.”
“Hope?” Cai said, blinking. “What does hope have to do with anything? She has what she wants.”
Autumn shook her head. “It won’t last. She doesn’t know anything about music.”
“She’ll learn.” Cai seemed so puzzled that Autumn fell silent. It would be strange not to have Ceredwen at Inglenook. But even stranger was the thought of Ceredwen wandering across Eryree with a troupe of bards. Bards weren’t as beloved as magicians, but they were respected. They weren’t just entertainers, but the keepers of Eryree’s history.
Was it true that some bards had once been servants? Autumn couldn’t believe it. All the servants she knew had always been servants, and so had their parents. She felt as if she’d been told that the sky could turn green if it felt like it.
Cai blinked. “Where are the gwyllions?”
Autumn whirled. There were the gwyllions—they had shuffled to the tables of food. The students gathered there watched the cloaked figure with confusion that deepened to horror as the topmost gwyllion began to tear at a mincemeat pie with its face.
Rude not to share, the lowest gwyllion said.
The Lords and Ladies can wait their turn, the topmost gwyllion said. Bits of pastry flew through the air. The watching students backed slowly away.
What impertinence! the lowest gwyllion said. The Lords and Ladies wait for nothing. It stamped its boots, and then, with an awful jerking motion, the figure leaped onto the table like an ungainly seal taking to land. Pie crust and oyster shells went everywhere. Somebody screamed. An entire pudding sailed into the air and landed on Gawain’s head.
Fortunately, Autumn and Cai arrived before anything worse could transpire. “Oh, Jack,” Autumn said with a breathless laugh, dragging the cloak of gwyllions off the table. “Yo
ur appetite has gotten the better of you!”
“I’ll help you get him cleaned up,” Cai said.
They dragged the gwyllions away, grins plastered to their faces, leaving a small crowd of magicians staring after them.
In the corridor beyond the banquet hall, Autumn sagged against the wall, consumed by helpless laughter. Even Cai smiled, lighting his too-pale cheeks.
“Did you see Gawain’s face?” Autumn snorted.
“Yes,” Cai said. “I have to say, blancmange suits him.”
Autumn turned to the gwyllions. It’s time. Will you take us to the other tower?
The Lords and Ladies will have what is theirs, the gwyllion crooned, a reply Autumn did not care for. But she knew monsters, and she knew that sometimes they used riddles simply to frighten.
The cloaked figure tore itself in three, leaving behind a pile of boots and fabric covered in custard. The gwyllions soared up the stairs.
Cai and Autumn ran after them. Then they went down some other stairs, then through a door that Autumn had never seen before, hidden behind a dragon tapestry.
“What is this place?” Autumn said. They were in a long corridor full of nonsensical staircases going up, then down, then up again. Some were plushly carpeted, while others were bare wood.
“Nothing,” Cai called back. “Just where the masters store the stairs they don’t want anymore. Doors, too.”
Autumn noticed how Cai’s feet did not entirely touch the ground anymore. He moved like the boggart now, like the wisps, and he didn’t seem aware of the change. She felt her worry deepen.
The gwyllions scratched and shoved their way through a door carved with vines and snakes. To Autumn’s astonishment, they were in the corridor leading to the Silver Tower.
The School between Winter and Fairyland Page 20
