Swift

by R. J. Anderson

  He spoke lightly, but there was a wildness about his eyes that reminded Ivy of how he had looked when she’d first seen him, clutching his injured arm and babbling Shakespeare. Battered, starving, and desperate for light, he might not keep his sanity much longer — and then what would Ivy do?

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ she said as she reached for her rope. ‘I have to be careful, or my family will get suspicious. But I’ll do the best I can.’

  When Ivy returned home the first sound that greeted her was Mica’s rattling snore, and for once she was grateful for it. Keeping her glow as dim as she could, she tiptoed across to her bed-alcove, pulled off her shirt and grabbed her discarded nightgown from beneath the pillow. If she could stop fretting about swifts and Richard and her mother for a few minutes, maybe she’d be able to ‘Ivy?’

  It was only a sleepy mumble, but Ivy’s heart dropped into her stomach. It took her several seconds to collect her wits and whisper, ‘It’s all right, Cicely. I’m here.’

  She waited, but there was no answer, and finally Ivy relaxed and lay down. Most likely Cicely was just talking in her sleep again, and would remember nothing of the conversation in the morning.

  ‘Sleep well, little sister,’ she murmured, and closed her eyes. six

  Tired though she was, Ivy managed to wake up at her normal time the next day — early enough to rouse Mica for his morning run, though he looked even more sour than usual about it.

  ‘You were up late last night,’ she said, as she packed up a cold pasty and a bottle of small beer for Flint’s lunch. His thunder-axe was still propped outside the bedroom door, so maybe she’d be able to get some breakfast into him before he vanished again. ‘What happened?’

  Mica poured himself a mug of hot chicory and gulped about half of it, making a face as he set it down. ‘I brought coffee back from Redruth,’ he said. ‘Why are you still making this muck?’

  ‘If you don’t like it, make the coffee yourself,’ said Ivy. ‘Why are you changing the subject?’

  Mica shot her a baleful glare. Then, with a glance at Cicely’s curtained alcove, he leaned closer and muttered, ‘Gem and Feldspar spotted someone — or some thing — sneaking about the Engine House last night.’

  Ivy’s lips formed a silent oh.

  ‘But it disappeared before they could get a proper look at it. So Gossan sent a few of us out to see if we could track it down, but…’ He shrugged, and took another swig of chicory. ‘No luck. Whatever it was, it came and went like the wind.’

  ‘You think it’s another spriggan?’ asked Ivy. She’d been so caught up in watching the swifts, she’d forgotten that Keeve’s murderer could still be out there.

  ‘Maybe.’ Mica dropped the empty mug onto the worktop and picked up his hunter’s knife. ‘But we’re not supposed to say anything about it yet, so keep that to yourself.’

  ‘Ready, Mica?’ The question came so quietly through the crack in the door that only piskey ears could have heard it. It always amazed Ivy that a boy as big and broad-shouldered as Mattock should be so soft-spoken.

  ‘I’m coming.’ Mica swung his pack over his shoulder, gave Ivy a last warning glance and disappeared.

  Ivy returned to the hearth and stirred the porridge, her brows creased in a frown. Who was the shadowy figure that Gem and Feldspar had seen creeping about the hillside? Could Richard have had a companion, who was now looking for him? It seemed unlikely that two strangers would turn up around the same time, if they weren’t somehow connected…

  ‘Is there any porridge left?’ asked Cicely, climbing out of her alcove. But her gaze was downcast, and she spoke without her usual spirit. Had she overheard Mica talking? Or had she merely sensed Ivy’s troubled mood?

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Ivy said, doing her best to sound cheerful. ‘With berries and cream too, if you like.’

  The two of them were sitting down to eat when Flint emerged from his bedchamber, dressed in the same dusty clothes he’d worn the day before. Once he had been handsome, and so like Betony that the two of them might have been twins. But now his features sagged as though his skin were too big for him, and his eyes were dull as pebbles.

  ‘Come and have some porridge, Dad,’ Ivy said, offering him her bowl. But he shook his head, and reached for his thunder-axe.

  Ivy wanted to grab her father and shake him, but she knew it would do no good. She heard him coughing in the night sometimes, but he’d never let her give him any of Yarrow’s herbal remedies to make it better. His hands shook whenever he gripped anything lighter than a pick or shovel, and his teeth had turned yellow with neglect — yet he didn’t seem to care about those things, either. So why should he bother eating a proper breakfast?

  ‘Take this, then,’ she said, pushing the packed lunch against his chest. He curled his arm around it, swung the magical pickaxe onto his shoulder and walked out without another glance.

  Oh, Mother, Ivy thought, leaning wearily on the edge of the table. Even if you stopped loving him, surely you never wanted him to end up like this?

  Going up to the surface today could be the biggest risk Ivy had taken yet, especially with the hunters already on the alert. But she couldn’t let that stop her, especially now. Because if Marigold was alive, she needed to know how much her family missed her, and how desperately they needed her to come back.

  Ivy waited until Cicely went off for her lessons, then crept out of the Delve with all her usual caution. All seemed well at first, though as she turned into the Earthenbore she had an uncomfortable suspicion that she was being watched. But no one stepped out to challenge her, so after a brief hesitation she ignored the feeling and kept on.

  Once outside she found a good spot on the hillside from which to launch herself, and went through the steps Richard had taught her. Picture the swift. Focus on the swift. Become the swift. Yet after several minutes of jaw-clenching effort, Ivy knew it was no use. No matter how hard she concentrated or how much magic she put into the effort, she was still the same wingless piskey-girl as before.

  Ivy hugged her knees to her chest, doubt snaking into her mind. When she’d seen her first swift and felt that powerful sense of connection, she’d felt certain that she was meant to fly. But what if Richard had been right all along, and she couldn’t change shape? What if her piskey blood, or some quirk of her female nature, made it impossible?

  Well, she’d know tonight, one way or the other. Maybe Richard was right, and moonlight was the key. But after so many failed attempts, it was hard to believe that such a small thing would make any difference.

  Ivy was back in the cavern, making a fish pie for supper, when Cicely came in. ‘Did you have a good lesson?’ she asked, but Cicely didn’t reply. She kicked off her shoes and climbed into her bed-alcove, pulling the curtain shut.

  That wasn’t like Cicely at all. Ivy wiped her hands on her apron and followed. ‘What’s the matter? Are you all right?’ She opened the curtain and found her little sister lying on her side, her eyes squeezed shut. Her cheeks were flushed, her forehead warm to the touch.

  No wonder she’d been so quiet earlier. ‘Does your stomach hurt?’ Ivy asked. ‘Or is it your chest? Shall I get Yarrow to make you a potion?’

  ‘No,’ mumbled Cicely. ‘I just want to rest. Please go away.’

  With some reluctance Ivy stepped back and let the curtain drop. Perhaps her sister had become overheated running around with the other children, and would be better in an hour or two.

  ‘I’ll get you some water,’ she said. ‘Drink as much as you can. If you’re not well by suppertime, I’ll call for Yarrow.’

  To Ivy’s relief, Cicely seemed to have recovered by the time supper was on the table. She still wasn’t her usual talkative self, but she ate a generous helping of fish pie, and helped Ivy clean up afterwards. She spent the rest of the evening working on the jumper she was knitting for Mica, then climbed into her bed-alcove without complaint.

  By the time Mica returned, Ivy had snuffed out the day-lamps and was pretend
ing to be asleep. She waited until his breathing deepened into the usual full-throated rumble, then dropped lightly to the rug and tiptoed out.

  All seemed quiet as she made her way through the tunnels, but halfway up the Hunter’s Stair she froze, her skin prickling. Had that been a footstep? She turned, ready to confront her pursuer and brazen it out. But she saw nothing in the darkness behind her, not even the tiniest flicker.

  Ivy set her jaw and climbed faster, silently rebuking herself for letting her nerves get the better of her. Yes, it would be disastrous if she were caught sneaking out of the Delve, but she’d already taken that risk three times by daylight and survived.

  When she emerged onto the hillside, she had to turn nearly a full circle before she spotted the moon. Only half-full, and dimmed a little by the ragged clouds, but it would have to do. Now, where to begin? She couldn’t return to the launching place she’d used earlier, with its too-gentle slope that reeked of fear and failure. If this were her last chance to change shape, she had to be bolder than that. Ivy set off at an angle across the hill, crunching through the heather and bracken.

  After a few breathless minutes she reached a spot where the rocks broke through the soil and the ground dropped steeply away. It would have been a long jump to the bottom even for a human, and at piskey size it was high enough to make her nervous. But it was the perfect place to launch herself from, if she became a swift.

  Ivy tilted her head back, closing her eyes as the moonlight tingled on her skin. Summoning the familiar image in her mind, she spread her arms wide, stepped forward…

  And a scream rang out from behind her.

  Startled, Ivy twisted around — and her foot slipped. Arms flailing, legs tangled together, she let out a cry of her own as she toppled over the edge. But the shout became a shriek, keening high in her ears, and her skin changed into feathers even as she fell. She skimmed a hand’s span over the rocks and zoomed upward, into the open sky.

  She was flying! Joy filled Ivy from her crown to her forked tail-feathers. Even though she’d never flown before, she felt no fear or awkwardness; her new body was the perfect shape to bend the air currents to her bidding, and she could change speed or direction with the merest flick of a feather. How could she ever have thought of wind as an insubstantial thing? The updraught beneath her wings felt as solid as the earth itself.

  Daring, she rose higher, the landscape dropping away beneath her. Her swift’s eyes were as sharp as her piskey ones had ever been, and she could pick out every feature of the countryside below — hills and valleys, cottages and barns, and here and there the silhouettes of old whim-engine and pumping-engine houses, remnants of the hundreds of mines that now lay abandoned and overgrown. Lights dotted the ground and sprinkled the horizon like bits of shattered crystal — not merely the small clusters of human dwellings she’d grown accustomed to seeing from the hillside, but entire towns and cities glittering in the dark. And in the distance lay more cottages, more towns, more stretches of open country both wild and tame…and beyond them, the grey rolling line of the ocean.

  Excitement surged in Ivy’s breast. She could go anywhere she wanted now. In fact, if she’d known where Truro was, she could have flown to her mother this very minute…

  Then she remembered the cry that had startled her off the ledge, and the warmth inside her turned chill. It might have been an animal or the shriek of a passing bird, but what if it wasn’t? Ivy doubled back towards the familiar hillside, searching for signs of life. But she saw no frenzied movements or splashes of unexpected colour; all that met her gaze were the dull hues of wild greens and shrubberies, earth and clay and stone. And though she listened closely with her bird-keen ears, the only sound was the wind whispering through the leaves.

  Perhaps Ivy had only imagined the scream — it would be a relief to think so. She’d hardly begun to stretch her wings, and there was still a glorious infinity of open sky to explore. But the night wouldn’t last forever, and now that Richard had proved himself a man of his word, Ivy owed it to him to set him free. Maybe, if she moved quickly enough, there’d still be time for him to take her to her mother.

  Ivy hurried towards her home cavern, still giddy with the thrill of flight. Before heading underground she’d transformed into a swift and back again several times over, until she could leap into flight as easily as blinking and land with barely a stumble. Changing shape was so easy now, she felt certain that even without moonlight she’d be able to do it again.

  I can fly! Ivy’s heart sang out. She wanted to burst into the cavern and shout her triumph, wake up Mica and Cicely so they could see the miracle. But she couldn’t do that yet — it was too risky. She had to at least free Richard first. Dimming her glow to the barest hint of luminescence, she eased the door open and tiptoed in.

  Flint’s thunder-axe was propped against the wall in its usual place, with his well-worn boots beside it. Ivy glanced at the bed-alcoves, reassuring herself that all the curtains were drawn. Then with painstaking care she lifted the magical pickaxe, and carried it out the door.

  Lowering herself and the thunder-axe down the Great Shaft at the same time was an agonising business. Every time the pick’s weight shifted Ivy held her breath, fearing the precious tool would slip free of her makeshift harness and drop into the flooded depths below. But at last she made it safely to Richard’s cell.

  ‘I did it,’ she panted as she loosened the ropes around her chest and lifted the thunder-axe free. ‘Now let’s get that iron off your ankle.’

  Richard looked blank, and Ivy wondered if he’d understood. ‘I said,’ she began more loudly, but he cut her off.

  ‘I heard you,’ he replied. ‘I’m just a bit unused to pleasant surprises, that’s all. Are you really planning to strike off my manacle with that thing? From the way you’re staggering about, it seems more likely that you’re going to smash my foot to bits with it.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ said Ivy tartly. She crouched beside him, examining the iron band. ‘How did they put this on you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was unconscious when-’ But then Ivy slipped her fingers between the manacle and his skin, and his words ended in a gasp.

  ‘Did I hurt you?’ Ivy pulled her hand away. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘No, not that.’ Richard sounded shaken. ‘It’s — you. You touched iron on purpose.’

  Oh, of course. She’d forgotten what a shock that would be to him. ‘My people have been working with rock and metal for centuries,’ Ivy said, feeling her way around the band. ‘If we lost our magic every time we touched iron, how would we get anything done?’ She sat back. ‘I can’t find a hinge or a keyhole anywhere. They must have spelled it right onto your ankle.’

  He stared at her. ‘You mean piskeys can use magic on iron, too?’

  ‘Some of us can. Unfortunately for you, I’m not one of them. That’s why I borrowed this.’ She nodded at the thunder-axe. ‘But we’ll need to put some padding around your ankle first.’

  Without hesitation Richard pulled off what was left of his shirt and handed it to her. His skin was sickly-pale beneath the bruises, his collarbones jutting and his ribs clearly visible. ‘Try not to swoon,’ he said dryly.

  ‘I’ve never swooned in my life,’ said Ivy. She tore the shirt into strips, and pushed as much of the worn fabric as she could between the manacle and the faery’s ankle. ‘Ready?’ she asked.

  Richard looked apprehensive, but he nodded.

  ‘Just one thing,’ Ivy said as she hefted the pickaxe. ‘And I want you to tell me the truth. When you came here looking for me, on Lighting night — did you bring someone else with you? Or did you tell anyone where you’d gone?’

  She watched his face, searching for even the tiniest hint of guilt or fear. But he only looked puzzled. ‘Your Joan asked me the same thing, this morning,’ he said. ‘But no, I came alone. And the only one who knew I was coming here was Marigold.’

  If he was a liar, he was a very good one. ‘All right,’ said Ivy,
and swung the thunder-axe down.

  The blade struck with a ringing clank and a spark of brilliant blue light. Richard made a strangled noise, and she knew the blow had hurt him — but when Ivy’s dazzled vision cleared, the band was still intact.

  Obviously she hadn’t figured out how to use the magical pickaxe quite right. Maybe if she pushed a bit of her own magic into it first… With barely a pause, Ivy raised the thunder-axe and brought it down again.

  This time the spark was so bright, Ivy stumbled and nearly dropped the pick. The iron manacle cracked in two, and clattered onto the stone at Richard’s feet.

  ‘Finally,’ the faery breathed. He slid away from her and rubbed his ankle, which was cruelly blistered where the iron had pressed against it. She waited for him to do something magical — heal himself perhaps, or spell himself clean, or mend his tattered clothes. But all he did was sit there.

  ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Are we going to fly? There might still be time, if we hurry.’

  Richard raised his eyebrows. ‘After wearing iron for over a week? It’ll be hours — maybe even days — before I can do magic again. I’m not flying anywhere tonight.’

  Ivy recoiled as though he had slapped her. ‘You…you can’t be serious. You said-’

  ‘I said I’d take you to your mother if you let me go. I never said I could do it right away.’ But there was no triumph in his tone, only resignation. ‘I’m not going to try and escape, if that’s why you’re still gripping that pickaxe. I can’t even get out of this tunnel, unless you lead me out yourself.’

  Ivy’s hands tightened on the thunder-axe. ‘I can’t do that,’ she said. She’d been prepared for everything from passionate gratitude to cold-blooded betrayal, but she’d never anticipated this. ‘If we were caught…’

  ‘Then go, and leave me here.’ He spoke wearily, as though he’d expected nothing better. ‘Maybe your Joan will think I freed myself, when she comes to execute me tomorrow.’

  Alarm stabbed into Ivy. ‘Execute you? She told you that?’

  ‘Oh yes. Quite matter-of-factly. I’m to be hanged in the Market Cavern, with someone called Hew knotting the rope, and my body left in the Engine House as a warning to my accomplice. Whoever that is.’