Though it hadn’t always been that way. Long ago, as she and Martin had discovered, the magical folk of Kernow had all lived in peace together. The knockers worked the mines alongside the humans, while the piskeys dwelt in cunningly hidden villages on the surface. But first Ivy’s people had fallen out with the spriggans, and then they’d gone to war against the faeries as well. There’d been so much pillaging and slaughter on all sides that it was no longer safe aboveground, so the piskeys had joined the remaining knockers in the Delve—and now they’d lived underground so long they couldn’t imagine living any other way.
“What about one of those old mine buildings you’ve got cluttering up the landscape?” asked Thorn. “You can hardly throw an acorn without hitting one. If we fixed the roof and stopped up the gaps—”
“We’d have to constantly guard it from humans,” Ivy said. “And it still wouldn’t be big enough for all of us. The Engine House is good enough for a Lighting, but we need more space to live.”
“Trees are no use either, I suppose. Not that I’ve seen any good ones about here.” Thorn grimaced. “This is a knot in the grain.”
Ivy nodded glumly. Right now, the only way she could think of to protect her people was to teach them the magic she’d learned from Martin and the faeries. They’d never agree to change shape, and most of them probably couldn’t do it anyway, but they’d all heard droll-tales of how their ancestors could leap from one place to another at will. It wouldn’t be easy to convince them, but if the only alternative was surrender . . .
“There’s one thing we haven’t considered,” said Broch. He sounded reluctant—but he’d also said we, and Ivy felt a surge of hope.
“What?” she asked, sitting up.
“Fighting back.”
Thorn groaned. “I should have known that was coming.”
“You disagree?”
“No, I just wish I could. Go on.”
Broch put his hand over hers and turned to Ivy. “If moving isn’t an option, you need better defenses. Don’t let Gossan and his soldiers catch you unprepared. Stand up to them instead of running, and they may decide to leave you alone.”
If it were only Gossan in charge, Ivy might have agreed. But she knew her aunt too well to think that Betony would give up that easily. Every piskey who’d left the Delve was a threat to her, and Ivy most of all.
Still, Broch had a point. Ivy and her people might not be soldiers, but they’d be foolish not to try to protect themselves. Patrolling the nearby countryside—and making more weapons—would be a good start.
“I’ll talk to the others,” Ivy said, pushing her chair back decisively. “We’ll see what we can do.”
“All clear on the west side,” said Mattock, wrestling out of his sopping overcoat. “Not even Betony’s mad enough to go out in this weather.”
The rain had started early that morning—not the light showers common in wintertime or the drenching mist known as “mizzle,” but a heavy, gust-driven downpour that rattled the roof slates and dripped from the rafters. A rivulet snaked down the barn corridor, and the bucket under the biggest leak was already half full.
“Ayes,” said Hew, inspecting the bin lid he’d been hammering into a shield. “It’s henting down.”
“What about Mica?” Ivy asked, as Mattock gratefully accepted a mug of hot chicory from Teasel. “I thought you went out together.”
“We split up at the edge of the wood.” He glanced around. “You mean he’s not back yet?”
Gem put down the whetstone he’d been using to sharpen the hayfork and sat back, rolling his stiff shoulder. “No sign of him.”
That was odd. Mica didn’t usually wander so far, and since he still refused to travel by magic, he’d have a long walk home—what her people called a “fair stank.”
Still, her brother was as healthy as anyone, and a soaking wouldn’t hurt him. “I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Ivy said. “If he’d run into trouble, we’d have heard him bellowing by now.”
The older men chuckled at that, and even Mattock cracked a grin. He sat down by the fire and began to unlace his boots.
“Mam, I’m wet!” Thrift jumped up, flapping her skirt. A new leak had started above the box stall. Hastily the piskey-women shuffled to make room for her, while Quartz ran to fetch another bucket.
The creaking above was getting louder, and it worried Ivy. The barn’s stone walls seemed solid enough, but the wooden beams and roof trusses were old, as were the slates that covered them. “I think we should move everyone into the house,” she said. “At least until it passes and the barn has a chance to dry.”
“It’s too late for that,” Mattock told her. “The little ones are scared enough of the storm without dragging them out in it, and the aunties couldn’t go two steps without being blown off their feet. We’ll just have to wait.”
Surely the weather couldn’t be that bad. Ivy hurried to the barn door, cracked it ajar—and the wind nearly ripped it from her hands. She caught the edge and clung on, heart hammering. Outside, rain swept the cobbles in sheets, and an army of black clouds was marching up the horizon.
Where could Mica have got to? Even he wasn’t fool enough to keep patrolling in this weather. He’d taken to his new guard duties with surprising relish, but he hated being wet even more than Matt did . . .
“Ivy!”
Martin dropped out of owl-shape and sprinted across the yard toward her. “The worst storm in a century, they’re calling it,” he panted. “It’s tearing up the coast. Is everyone safe?”
Dread clutched at Ivy. “Mica’s still out there. How much time do we have?”
“Not much. I raced it all the way from Land’s End.”
No wonder he looked exhausted. “I have to find him,” Ivy said. She slammed the door shut behind her and threw herself into the wind.
In peregrine-shape she was a powerful flier, but she’d never fought a gale like this one. No matter how hard she beat her wings, it kept trying to blow her away. Martin flapped after her, barely keeping pace—his barn owl wasn’t as streamlined as Ivy’s falcon. Soon he dropped to the ground and changed to his ermine form instead.
Thunder rumbled as Ivy zigzagged across the pasture, skimming over the back fence into the strip of woodland beyond. There was a path here, though muddy and half-submerged already, and by its edge she spotted the print of an old-fashioned and inhumanly small mining boot.
Ivy landed in her own shape, and the rain soaked her in an instant. She clung to an overhanging branch as the wind threatened to rip her off her feet. “Mica!” she yelled hoarsely. “Mica, where are you?”
No answer. Ivy changed to swift-shape and darted onward, zooming among the trees. If she went much further, she’d be halfway to the Delve. Surely Mica knew better than to go that way alone?
“Ivy!” Martin shouted behind her, faint with distance. “I’ve found them!”
Shaky with relief, Ivy veered back to him. She’d missed the spot in her panic, but there sat her brother at the foot of a tree trunk, clutching something—no, someone—in his arms. A young piskey-woman, clad in a tattered jacket and mud-soaked skirts. Her face was hidden by the wild tangle of her hair, but it almost looked like . . .
“Here,” Martin said, reaching out. “I’ll take her back to the barn.”
“You’re not touching her, spriggan,” Mica growled, then yelped as Ivy cuffed him.
“Don’t be a dross-wit!” she snapped. “If we stay here we’re all going to die!”
“I’ll die a thousand times before I—” Mica began hotly, but then his eyes rolled and he slumped over. With one smart tap on the forehead, Martin had put him to sleep.
He was going to be furious when he woke, but right now Ivy couldn’t have cared less. As Martin lifted the unconscious girl, she threw her arms about Mica’s shoulders and willed them both to the barn.
“Yarrow!” Teasel gasped when the four of them materialized, rushing to help Martin lay the young woman down. “Great diggings, she looks half
-dead. Where did you find her?”
“Mica found her,” Ivy said, staggering with the effort not to drop her brother into a puddle. “And we just found him. Matt . . .”
“I’ve got him.” Mattock stepped in quickly to lift Mica’s weight from her shoulders. “Ugh! He’s soaked.”
So was Ivy. Her black curls dripped down her forehead, and her wet jeans chafed and chilled her. Only the warmth of her wool coat kept her teeth from chattering. “Will she be all right?” she asked the women bustling around Yarrow.
Teasel, who had covered the girl with blankets and was briskly peeling off her wet clothes under them, spoke without looking up. “Right enough, once we get her warm. Her heart’s strong, that’s the main thing.”
No need to ask Broch to heal her, then. That was a mercy. But to leave the Delve, especially in such weather, Yarrow must have been desperate. What had happened?
Mica might know, but the longer he slept, the better. Martin stood with her, and this time Ivy wouldn’t let anyone chase him away. She seized his arm and tugged him into the light.
“This is Martin,” she told her fellow piskeys. “He saved my life when I first left the Delve. He led me to my mother, and. . . and now he’s helped save Yarrow and Mica.”
It was tempting to mention how he’d scared off Gossan and his troops only two nights ago, but whistling up a wind strong enough to blow a wakefire to pieces was spriggan magic. If she let them think Martin was just another faery, though, they might give him a chance. “So I hope you’ll make him welcome,” Ivy continued, “because I’m not sending him out in this—”
Her voice was lost in a deafening clap of thunder, and the electric lights fizzled out. Dodger whinnied, and the piskey children squealed in terror. They’d never heard storms like this in the Delve.
“It’s all right,” Ivy soothed. At least she and the other piskeys had their skin-glow, so they weren’t totally in the dark. “I know it sounds terrible, but—”
Cold gusted through the barn as the door to the yard banged open. Ivy dashed to close it, Martin racing after her. But they’d no sooner yanked it shut and shoved the latch into place than the roof gave way. A whole line of slates slid off, and the rain came pouring in.
Ivy was already wet, but this was like being drenched in an ice bath. She staggered against Martin, as the slates fell with a tinkling crash to the cobbles outside. The wind caught the roof’s corner, and laths popped and splintered as the beam above them began to lift—
Martin flung up his hands. “Quick,” he gasped. His arms were stiff, fingers splayed wide; he was holding the roof in place with the sheer power of his magic. “Cover the hole.”
“Move!” Ivy yelled to her fellow piskeys, who stood frozen with shock. “Patch the roof! Hurry!”
Feldspar was the first to recover, scrambling up the ladder to the half loft. He grabbed the edge of a floorboard and yanked it up, rusty nails popping in all directions. Mattock and Gem rushed to help him, while Hew rummaged through David Menadue’s toolbox for a hammer.
Meanwhile Martin stood in the drenching rain, arms upraised and teeth bared in concentration. The howling wind died, and an eerie hush fell over the barn; the only sounds were the crack of wood and the grunts of the laboring piskey-men as they hauled the planks down to ground level.
Martin wasn’t just holding the beam in place, Ivy realized with shivering wonder. He was pushing the wind away from the barn at the same time—literally holding back the storm. But the blood had drained from his face, and his legs swayed like a drunken miner’s. If he collapsed, the gale would come rushing back and they’d lose the whole roof at once.
Instinct told Ivy what to do, and she obeyed it without hesitation. She flung her arms around Martin, willing her own power into him.
A tremor rippled through him, followed by a wave of sparkling heat. The shadows around them fled as Ivy’s skin-glow leaped up to envelop them both. She barely noticed the piskey-men rushing past her, swarming up the wall of Dodger’s box stall and onto the splintered beam.
Ivy’s magic had never been especially strong for a piskey’s. Changing shape was her one extraordinary skill, and even that hadn’t come easily. But she’d spent her whole life making up for her weakness with sheer determination, and though Ivy felt her strength flagging she refused to hold back. Her people were counting on her—Martin was counting on her. Nothing else mattered.
How long she clung to Martin, Ivy couldn’t tell. She felt frozen to the marrows of her bones, and the roof patching seemed to take forever—her people were used to working with stone, not wood, and scarcely knew what they were doing. If only Thorn were here to help! But Ivy didn’t dare let go of Martin to look for her, so all she could do was wait and hope.
“Done it!” Mattock shouted, boots clumping as he leaped down. Martin stood for one last moment, rigid with the effort of holding back the storm. Then he sagged against Ivy, and the two of them tumbled to the floor.
She wanted to cover him with grateful kisses, but she didn’t dare. Hastily she untangled herself, and turned to her fellow piskeys. “We’re safe,” she panted. The storm sounded less fierce now, the wind softening and the rain slowing to a patter. “Good work, all of you. All of us.”
She’d expected smiles from the men who’d patched the roof and relieved sighs from the women. But they all stood silent, glaring at her.
No, not at her. At Martin. He lay on the floor by Ivy’s feet, his pale hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes were dull with exhaustion, and in his wet clothes he looked thinner than ever. Nothing like the coldly beautiful faeries of piskey legend, and everything like the enemy her people feared most of all—a ragged, hungry spriggan.
Hew raised his hammer, and the younger men reached for their knives. “Step away, me bird. We’ll handle this.”
“Are you mad?” Ivy burst out. “He just saved our lives!”
“He’d like us to think so,” Pick retorted, adding a terse, “Hold, boy,” as his son Elvar started to edge away. “But we know his sort, even if you don’t. He won’t cast his tricksy spells on us.”
“What are you saying?” Somehow she had to stall for time and let Martin get his strength back. Right now he was too drained to sit up, let alone leap away. “You can’t think he’s a—”
“Spriggan.” The voice was Mica’s, thick with sleep and rage. He stalked up with their father’s thunder-axe over his shoulder, and Mattock stepped back to let him pass. “I knew it. Get away from him, Ivy.”
“No!” She moved to block him, arms spread wide. “This is wrong. Even if he is . . . what you say, he’s done nothing but help us. There’s no justice in treating him like this.”
“Ivy-bird,” began Hew, pained, but she cut him off.
“If you kill him, you’ll be murderers. Is that how you want them to think of you?” She jerked her chin at the women and children huddled at the back of the barn. “Do you think they’ll be proud of you for smashing a boy’s head in? Especially when he’s unarmed and exhausted, and you outnumber him ten to one?”
“He’s bewitched you, Ivy.” Mattock spoke heavily, his blue eyes dark with anguish. “That’s what spriggans do. I know he told you he was a faery, but we all saw what he did.”
“Ayes,” said Gem. “Only spriggans can charm the wind and weather—everyone knows that. And what’s to prove he saved us? For all we know, he brought the storm on us himself!”
At the back of the barn, Thrift began to cry. Her mother stooped to comfort her, but no one else moved.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves.” Ivy was so furious she was shaking. “You’re so afraid, you can’t even see the truth when it’s right in front of you. How can Martin be a spriggan, when even Betony agrees the spriggans died out thirty years ago? You should know that, Hew—you killed the last of them yourself!”
The older men shuffled uneasily. They couldn’t explain that, and there was no way they’d ever guess the truth. “If there’s any doubt that Martin’s our enem
y, we’ve no right to treat him like one,” Ivy insisted. “It’s only fair to give him a chance.”
Behind her Martin sat up, pushing the wet hair from his eyes, and the cold fear in Ivy’s chest thawed a little. If she could keep her men distracted a few minutes longer . . .
“If there’s any chance he is a spriggan,” Pick argued, “we can’t take the risk. Not now he’s seen our women and little ones, and knows where we live.” He glanced around at his fellow hunters. “All right, boys?”
The men started forward, but Ivy held up her hands. “Stop!”
She had only one hope left to save Martin, and if it failed she’d be ruined with him. But Mica had handed her this coin when he put petrol on the wakefire, and Ivy wouldn’t give up without spending it. She drew herself up defiantly. “You called me Joan at the Lighting. Am I your Joan, or not?”
Mica glowered: he knew what she was doing, and he hated it. But he kept his mouth shut. The other men traded uncertain looks, and finally Hew said, “Ayes, you’re our Joan now.”
“Then it’s my right to judge what’s good for our people. And letting you kill a stranger just because you think he might do something bad is not.” She dropped her arms, standing as tall and dignified as she could. “Put down your weapons. Now.”
For a few tense seconds no one moved. Then Mica grimaced, lowered the thunder-axe, and set it down. Mattock sheathed his knife, and one by one the other hunters did likewise.
Ivy let her breath out. It was the biggest gamble she’d ever taken, and she’d come dangerously close to losing both Martin and her people’s trust. Which was why she had to be careful, very careful, what she did now.
“Martin,” she said, keeping her back to him, “I command you to tell the truth. Are you a spriggan?”
His answer came softly, hollow with defeat. “I am.”
The piskey-women gasped, tugging their children behind them, and the men gave grim nods as Ivy went on. “Are there any more spriggans in Kernow? Or anywhere else you know of?”
“None. I am the last.”
Torch Page 5
