Fer shook her head. The bee bumped up against her ear, buzzing sharply. Zmmmmmrmnm, it said, as if it was trying to tell her something. She brushed it away. “You saved Rook, just like you promised, so I will swear the oath.”
“Ah!” Arenthiel clapped his hands. “Lovely. You are a Lady, a true and noble Lady, and I know you will serve me well.”
Taking a deep breath, Fer started. “I, Gwynnefar of the—”
“On your knees, I think,” Arenthiel interrupted.
Oh. She knelt on the hard floor and gazed up at him. When she spoke, the words tasted like ashes in her mouth. “I, Gwynnefar—” she started again.
Suddenly Fray loomed up behind Arenthiel. Snarling, the wolf-guard raised her huge fist and brought it crashing down on the top of his head. Arenthiel’s golden eyes rolled up, and as he toppled, Fray whirled and leaped at the nathe-warden. The two guards struggled; Fray’s big hands wrapped around the warden’s throat. Twig was blocking the door, tiny and fierce.
Fer scrambled to her feet. What were they doing?
Fray drew back her fist and smashed it into the warden’s face; the warden crumpled to the floor, greenish blood spraying from her nose. The wolf-guard stood over her, fist raised, but the warden stayed down with her eyes closed.
“Fray!” Fer gasped.
Fray turned. “He was lying, Lady,” she snarled, pointing at Arenthiel, who lay unconscious at Fer’s feet.
“Lying!” Twig added from the door.
All Fer could do was stare at them. The bee buzzed back to her collar and settled there, vibrating with alarm.
“What did he say about saving the puck?” Fray asked grimly.
The same thing Fray had wanted to know before. Fer’s thoughts scrambled for an answer. “He said, um . . .” It had been in the nathewyr, and Arenthiel had said . . . “He said if I swore him an oath, he wouldn’t let the High Ones . . .” She slowed as she realized what Aren had actually promised. “He wouldn’t let the High Ones pronounce a sentence of death. And they didn’t. The High Ones didn’t pronounce anything at all, Lord Artos did. And then he said that I would not have to watch Rook die.” She gazed in horror at Fray. “What does that mean?”
“They put the puck through a Way to your world, Lady,” Fray answered. “He can’t live there for very long. Arenthiel sent the puck into the human world to die.”
Seventeen
Fer’s heart jolted. Rook dead?
She couldn’t even imagine such a thing. Rook was too annoyingly, growlingly, stubbornly alive to be dead.
“How long?” she asked, her voice shaking. “How long until he dies?”
Fray shrugged. “Dunno, Lady. Not very long. My mother told me stories about it, said our kind, we can live in the human land for a little while, but then what I hear is anyone stuck over there for too long fades away until he’s gone.”
Fer took a deep, steadying breath. She was done crying. Now it was time to do something, before it was too late. She stepped over Arenthiel’s unconscious form and met Fray and Twig in the middle of the room. “Fray, we have to go.”
“Lady, he still could have done it,” the wolf-guard said.
Rook could have stolen the crown, she meant. “No,” Fer shook her head. She felt a sudden fierce loyalty to Rook. He’d been trying to tell her, all along, what it meant to be a puck, and now she thought she knew. He and all the other pucks—they were outcast, but it wasn’t because they were bad. It was because they would never let anyone rule them.
Maybe Arenthiel had been right. Maybe Fer was dangerous; maybe she was a bit of a puck herself. She knew Rook must have come to the nathe with her to steal the crown, but when he said he hadn’t betrayed her, she believed him.
“I think Arenthiel did it,” Fer said, pointing to him. “He cheated before, starting the contest early. I think he’s cheating again, stealing the crown to win.” She thought back. “He must have been planning from the start to make it look like Rook was the thief.” That explained why he’d been so interested in Rook when they’d first met. A puck was the perfect person to accuse—everyone would believe the worst of him.
She’d believed the worst too. It made her heart hurt. And it made her determined to save him.
“Fray, we have to go now,” she ordered. “Go to the stables and get Phouka ready, and Twig’s mount and the bees. Twig and I will get our stuff together here. We’ll meet you at the path that leads to the vine-wall.”
“Where are we going to, Lady?” Fray asked. “Will you go to the human world to bring back the puck?”
That’s what she wanted to do. But she had something else she had to do first, the thing Rook would want her to do, if he were here.
“He’s going to wake up,” she said, poking at Arenthiel with her toe, “and he’s going to go after the pucks. He wants to hunt them and kill them, every last one. He must have suggested it to Lord Artos when they sent Rook away.” The bee hummed approvingly at her ear. “I do have to save Rook, but first we have to go to his brother-pucks and warn them that the hunt is coming.”
“But Lady, we don’t know where the pucks are,” Fray protested.
“Don’t worry,” Fer said, heading to the bedroom with Twig. “I know how to find them. Now hurry! Go!”
Leaving Arenthiel and the warden, who were lying on the floor, groaning themselves awake, Fer raced down the stairs carrying her stuffed saddlebags; Twig followed with two bags of her own. It was the middle of the morning and the hallways of the nathe were crowded. Better to go slowly, to not attract attention. Fer edged past clots of Lords and Ladies and ducked by wardens until she reached the outer doors.
It was raining, a light drizzle that made the gnarled stairs slippery. Fer was glad for her sneakers as she leaped down the steps and then splashed across the puddled courtyard.
“Come on!” she shouted to Twig, who was panting behind her. Together they ran across the sopping-wet grass, leaving the rain-damp nathe looming behind them, until they reached the path that led into the forest.
Fray was there with Twig’s curly-horned white goat, a stamping, nervous-looking Phouka, and a swarm of very excited bees.
“Hurry,” she urged, tossing the saddlebags to Fray and swinging herself onto Phouka’s back. He danced sideways, and she patted his neck to calm him. Fray climbed awkwardly on behind her, and Fer glanced over to see Twig clinging to her mount’s back. “To the wall, Phouka,” she said.
They dashed through the forest, the bees streaming behind them. The dripping trees leaned over them and crowded the path, and Fer urged Phouka to run—faster, faster. Arenthiel might be awake by now, and if he was he’d gather the hunt and come after them quickly. At last they reached the vine-wall, where Fer slid from Phouka’s back, hurried to the wall, and put her hand on it. As before, the vines unwove themselves and parted like a curtain. Fer climbed onto Phouka and they went through, the vines knitting closed behind them. “To the Lake of All Ways,” Fer ordered. With a whinny, Phouka galloped over the grass to the pebbly shore of the lake.
Catching her breath, Fer called the bees to her. They buzzed loudly, swirling in frantic circles around her, glistening in the misty rain. Phouka twitched and flicked his tail. “You’ve been sharing a stall with them for days, Phouka,” Fer chided. “Just calm down.” She climbed off his back and ran closer to the water, her feet crunching on the pebbled shore. Fer turned her attention to the bees, drawing them closer with a wave of her hand. They wove together like a golden net, and their buzzing quieted as she spoke. “I need you to find the pucks,” she said. At that, Phouka gave a sharp whinny. He didn’t know that Arenthiel was planning to hunt his brother-pucks, or what had happened to Rook. “I know, Phouka,” Fer said more loudly. “I’ll explain in a minute.”
The lake lay before her like a wide, silver mirror clouded by smudges of mist. Tiny wavelets lapped against the shore, making a rush-rush sound against the pebbles. She crouched and rested her fingertips against the pearly smooth surface of the water. Stillness s
pread from her hands, and the waves stopped rippling.
This lake was the meeting of all Ways—all the Ways that led from one part of the lands to another, and the Way that led to the human world. She wanted to go through and fetch Rook, but there wasn’t enough time. First she had to find out what land the pucks were hiding in. Closing her eyes, feeling the power in her hands, she opened all the Ways at the same time. “Go,” she whispered to the bees. “As fast as you can, find the pucks and come back. I’ll open the Ways for you when you return.”
Like golden arrows, the bees shot high into the air, turned in a graceful arc, and zoomed down toward the surface of the lake. Each bee plunged through the curtain of the water and disappeared into a different Way.
Fer stood and wiped her fingers on her damp jacket. Rain sifted down from the gray sky. She glanced back at the vine-wall, not far away. Beyond the wall, all seemed quiet. Arenthiel wasn’t after them yet, but it wouldn’t be long. “Hurry, bees,” she whispered, and went to explain to Phouka what had happened to Rook and why she had to get to his brother-pucks as soon as she possibly could.
Eighteen
The rain got heavier, until Fer was soaked and water was dripping from the end of her braid. Twig sat hunched on the back of her sodden mount, and Phouka stood with his head down, staring fixedly at the lake, Fray beside him.
Worry about Rook rattled around inside Fer and made her pace along the edge of the lake, kicking at pebbles. What was he doing right now? The kind of trouble he could get into in the human world was very scary and serious. Even in the countryside where Grand-Jane lived, there were dangerous weapons, and cars that ran people over, and people who wouldn’t understand what a puck was. And time passed far more quickly in the human world than here. Rook had been gone for only a little while, but that would be at least several days in that world, which meant she had to get to him fast, before he started to fade.
She felt a buzzing in her bones—the bees were back. She bent over the water and opened the Ways, and the bees smashed through the gleaming surface of the lake and swarmed around her. Blinking droplets of rain from her eyelashes, Fer watched as they hovered, waiting to lead her through the right Way. A buzzing from her collar, and she looked down. “Okay,” she whispered to the fat bee perched there. “Will you wait here?” she whispered, and held out her finger for the bee to crawl onto. “Come and warn me when Arenthiel and the hunt are coming, all right?”
The bee buzzed and lifted off her finger, then flew back toward the nathe.
“Come on!” she called over her shoulder, and Phouka trotted up to her with Fray already on her back. Fer mounted up before the wolf-guard. The bees gathered in a tight swarm, then zoomed off over the lake. Phouka and Twig’s mount leaped to follow, and as they hung for just a moment over the water, Fer opened the Way, and they went through.
Going through this Way was like pushing through a lacy curtain of spiderwebs, all gray and sticky. Fer put her head down and clung to the horse’s back, and at last they were through and Phouka’s hooves landed in crunchy, brown leaves. No summerland, this. The air was chilly, and the sun was setting behind bare-branched trees. “Follow the bees,” Fer said to Phouka, and he trotted on, the bees a bright spark in the dark forest they’d landed in.
The bees led them to a cliff wall.
“Here?” she asked, slipping off Phouka’s back.
Zmmmmrmmmmmzm, the bees answered, and somehow Fer knew they were saying yes.
Shivering in her wet jacket, Fer crunched through fallen leaves to the wall. The long shadows of sunset showed her a path, dark against the paler gray of the cliff. No, not a path, just the barest ledge. Following it with her eyes, she saw that it led up the cliff to what looked like a darker patch, maybe an opening.
“Wait for me here,” she ordered, and edged onto the path.
“Lady—” Fray protested.
“I know,” Fer said, glancing at them over her shoulder. Her bees hovered overhead. Fray was standing with her arms folded, looking stern; Twig stood beside her in the same position, with the same expression on her sharp little face. Thanks to the thread that connected them, she could feel their worry about what the pucks would do when she barged into their home.
“Don’t worry. I’m just going to warn them. I’ll be careful, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She gave them a quick, reassuring smile and turned back to the cliff. She felt their eyes on her as she made her way up the path, keeping herself pressed against the wall, feeling for good footing with her sneakers, clinging to little knobs of stone to keep herself from toppling off. At last she reached the patch of darkness and saw that it was an opening. Carefully she crouched and crawled through a short tunnel, and then she peered into a cave full of pucks and shadows.
The cave had sand-colored walls, and it was lit by a few torches and a dying campfire. Smudges of woodsmoke hung below the cave’s high ceiling; the air smelled of the smoke and of wet fur and old sweat.
It was strange how all the pucks really did look like brothers. From where she crouched in the dark entrance, Fer counted about twenty of them. Some were taller or shorter or broader or thinner; some had browner or paler or green-tinged skin; there was one toddler puck and two old-man pucks, but they all had black hair and eyes the color of flame. They were busy packing up their things—stuffing bits of ragged clothing into bags and tying blankets into bundles.
As Fer crawled out of the tunnel and got to her feet, one of the pucks saw her and shouted a warning that echoed around the cave, and then all the pucks leaped to their feet, crowding toward her. One fierce puck, dressed only in swirls of black and red paint, lunged forward, grabbed Fer by the front of her patch-jacket, and slammed her against the wall.
“Wait—” Fer gasped.
“Who are you,” snarled the puck. “What are you doing here?”
And then her bees were boiling out of the tunnel behind her, their buzzing loud and angry. Three of them swooped in and stung the painted puck on the arms, and he let her go and stumbled back, snapping and swatting at the bees. The pucks, some shifting into their black dog forms, surged forward again, and her bees swarmed into a glittering, golden net in front of her. One of the dog-pucks edged closer, and a bee darted forward and stung him on the nose. He yelped and scrambled back.
Fer caught her breath and pushed away from the cave wall. The bees were giving her time to escape, but she wouldn’t give up that easily. She raised a hand, and the bees quieted, pulling back to hover over her head like a buzzing golden crown. “My name is Fer,” she said to the crowd of growling, shifting pucks. “I’m a friend of Rook’s and—”
“That’s a lie,” said a tall puck with beads and bits of shiny glass woven into his long braids. He strode forward and gave her an ironic bow. “You’re a Lady. You’re no friend of any puck.”
“Yes, I am.” She spoke louder, so they could all hear. “Rook is in trouble.”
“He’s a puck,” the tall one sneered. “Of course he is.”
“Not puck trouble,” Fer shot back. “Something else.”
The pucks were like a wall. They stood mute and firm. “Go away,” said the tall puck.
She didn’t have time for this. Rook was in the human world, fading away with every minute that passed, and she had to go find him. What would convince them?
Carefully, watching the pucks to see what they would do, she stepped forward. The pucks faded back, leaving the smallest puck standing at the edge of the crowd, gazing up at her with his thumb in his mouth. Coming a little closer, she crouched and held her hand out to him. “Hi,” she said softly.
The little puck took his thumb out of his mouth and growled fiercely.
She couldn’t help but smile at that; he was so cute. With a flick of her fingers, she called a bee out of the swarm hovering over her head. The bee floated toward the baby puck and brushed softly against his cheek. The baby puck’s eyes went wide. “I just want to help you,” Fer said.
At that, the pucks muttered and
frowned.
She tried something that Grand-Jane did when she really wanted Fer to listen—she lowered her voice, and she felt the crowd of pucks leaning closer to hear. “Arenthiel stole the silver crown that’s supposed to be awarded to the winner of a contest to name the new Lord or Lady of the Summerlands. Then he accused Rook and you pucks of doing it, and as punishment he had Rook sent through to the human world. I have to hurry. Rook will die if I don’t go get him soon.” More stirring and growling at that.
She looked up at the frowning puck, the one with the braids and an ashy-gray tinge to his skin—he seemed like their leader. “Arenthiel is gathering a hunt.”
To her surprise, the pucks didn’t react at this. The leader-puck just shrugged.
Fer got to her feet and looked around the cave again. The pucks had been packing up when she’d come in. “Did you already know all this?” she asked.
One of the other pucks stepped forward. He had long, tangled hair like a mane down his back, and he wore a tattered yellow cloth wrapped around his waist. “There’s always one of your kind after us. It’s sport for you Lords and Ladies to burn out a nest of pucks.”
“Don’t talk to her, Tatter,” growled the leader-puck.
The puck named Tatter gave her a quick, mocking grin.
“I don’t think you understand,” Fer said. “Arenthiel has convinced the whole nathe that you stole the crown. They’re not just going to chase you out, they’re going to hunt you until they find this crown—which I know you don’t have, but they think you do—and when they’ve caught you, they’re going to kill every one of you.” She looked around at them, and now their faces showed alarm and fear.
The leader lowered his head and glared in a way that reminded her sharply of Rook. “What happens to us is none of your business,” he growled.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “Rook is my best friend. I have to save him, and I have to help you. Don’t you see?”
Winterling 02: Summerkin Page 12
