Faery Rebels

by R. J. Anderson

  “And now you’re trying to find out how this Sundering thing happened?” said Paul. “So then you’ll know how to get your magic back—and maybe your art, too?”

  “That’s part of it,” she said. “I have a lot more questions, but I have a feeling they’re all connected somehow.”

  Paul drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, his gaze abstracted. “What about your Queen?” he asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Well, she must know about your people’s past—she lived through it, after all. Why isn’t she telling you what you need to know?”

  “I’ve wondered about that myself.”

  “Stop me if I’m going too far,” said Paul, “but it’s pretty strange that she was the only one who wasn’t in the Oak when the Sundering happened. Do you think she might be the one who did it?”

  “I…don’t know what to think,” said Knife. “In some ways it makes sense, but in others, it doesn’t. She might have become Queen that way, but what did she really gain? There are so few of us now, and we have so little.”

  “Hmm,” said Paul.

  Knife jumped up from the bed and brushed at her skin waistcoat and breeches, dusting off the last remnants of biscuit. “I should go. It’s late. No, keep it,” she said as Paul offered her back her picture. “I’ve got no use for it, anyway. But I am grateful—”

  “I’ve noticed,” Paul interrupted, “you never say ‘thank you.’”

  She tensed. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it means something to us that it doesn’t to you. We don’t say it lightly.” Or ever.

  He gave her a quizzical look. “So…what does it mean to you, then?”

  Knife tilted her head back, searching for words. “It means,” she said, “that the one you…thank…has done something so enormous for you that you could never begin to repay them. And that no matter how long you live, you’ll always be in their debt.”

  “Can you give me an example? Do you know anyone who—”

  “Not in my lifetime. It’s that rare.”

  Paul’s brows rose. “No wonder you don’t like to hear me say it,” he said. “All right, then: I’m grateful you stopped by tonight. Is that better?”

  “Much,” said Knife.

  With Heather’s diary finished and nothing more to read, Knife found herself increasingly restless. She could not resist the urge to draw, and night by night the pile of sketches hidden beneath her mattress grew. But what was the use of making art that no one but herself would ever see?

  The faery in her warned that she must not take advantage of Paul’s generosity, or she would end up indebted to him again. Besides, he had begun speaking to his parents now, so he might not even need to talk to her anymore. But when for the next three nights Paul’s room remained lit long after the rest of the House had gone dark, it was too clear an invitation for Knife to refuse. Soon she was tapping on his window again.

  On her first few visits she was all business, showing him her latest drawings and asking his advice. But eventually she dropped even that pretense and came by simply to see him. By the time the Oak’s leaves turned to autumn gold, she was visiting the House every night.

  Now at last she understood why humans liked to talk to each other so much, for even if Paul could not solve her difficulties, it eased her spirit just to tell him about them. He seemed fascinated by her accounts of daily life in the Oak, even finding humor in people and situations that Knife found merely exasperating. Before long it was all she could do not to smile at Mallow’s blustering or Bluebell’s fussy ways, just imagining how funny Paul would think them.

  Meanwhile Paul himself seemed to be growing healthier, and taking more interest in the world around him. He had even pulled out his box of art supplies and begun painting. His days were mostly spent on schoolwork, and mealtimes with his parents; but the evenings he kept for art—and Knife.

  She had never felt so content, and yet deep down she knew that this happiness could never last. More than once when leaving the Oak at night she had the crawling sensation of being watched, and she knew that if she kept on seeing Paul this way, it would only be a matter of time before she was caught.

  The wisest thing would be to stop visiting the House, at least for a while. She had managed by herself before; surely she could do so again. But staying away from Paul proved harder than she had expected. Her research into the Oakenfolk’s past had come to a standstill; there was no sign of Old Wormwood and little else worth hunting; and Mallow’s latest amusement was to ruin Knife’s meals whenever she could, giving her the stalest knobs of bread and lacing her stew with bits of bone and gristle. Knife tried to take all these frustrations calmly, but it was not long before she felt she would burst if she didn’t talk to someone—so she went winging off to Paul again.

  Soon the last ragged leaves of autumn fell, and the Oakenwyld lay dank and lifeless beneath the shrouded sky. Knife was coming back from a successful hunt, her pack heavy with meat, when a cry rang out from the roots of the Oak: “Knife! Come inside! Hurry!”

  “What is it?” asked Knife. She dropped her pack in front of the root-sheltered door and peered into the darkness, but could not see who had spoken. Knife knocked the mud off her boots and ducked in, only to be swept up in an unexpected tide of Oakenfolk rushing through the corridor.

  “What’s going on?” she shouted to the faery beside her, who turned out to be a rather red-faced Dandelion.

  “Linden’s egg is hatching,” came the breathless reply.

  “Oh,” said Knife.

  The heat in the Hatching Room was oppressive, and Knife slipped off her cloak, careful not to let it brush the lighted brazier behind her. Of course, if everyone didn’t stop pushing her back in their eagerness to see the egg, she’d end up burning herself anyway. She turned out her elbows and shoved until she had bought herself some more space. Now if only the lot of them would stop squeaking and chattering like so many squirrels—

  Amaryllis, draped in crimson and crowned with holly, stepped to the head of the room and lifted one hand for silence. Immediately the clamor ceased, and the only sound was the shuffling of restless feet.

  “We have gathered here,” the Queen’s clear voice rang out, “to witness a miracle, the beginning of a new life. Now let us watch and wonder, for behold”—she flung out one arm toward the table, light scattering from her fingertips and splashing against the egg—“the moment has come!”

  The egg quivered, and scarlet streaks swam and writhed across its surface. All the Oakenfolk held their breath as the shell began to dissolve in a hissing shower of sparks. A shout went up from the crowd as a curly head appeared. White, dimpled arms emerged, hands clasped beneath the lowered chin; two plump legs shone through the swirling light, and the child fell wailing onto the cushions as the last of the eggshell sparkled into dust.

  “Her name is Linden,” announced Amaryllis, “in honor of the one who went before her.”

  “Her name is Linden,” echoed the Oakenfolk.

  “Every child must be Mothered,” the Queen continued, her gaze sweeping the crowd. “This is a task that requires courage, determination, and tireless vigilance. It is a work of paramount importance to our survival, and cannot be taken lightly….”

  She went on for some time in this manner, indifferent to the child’s piercing cries, while Knife shifted her weight from one foot to the other and tried not to yawn. Why did the Queen have to choose this time to make a speech? Especially when it was so hot. Great Gardener, you could roast nuts in here….

  “Knife.”

  “What?” she said automatically, before she realized who had spoken.

  “Step forward,” said Queen Amaryllis, a dangerous edge in her voice. “Now.”

  All the Oakenfolk were staring at her. Wondering what she had missed, Knife began to walk slowly toward the Queen as the crowd parted with disapproving murmurs to let her pass.

  Amaryllis strode to the table and swept up the
naked, squirming Linden. Then she turned and thrust her into Knife’s arms.

  “By the Oak and by the Great Gardener, I charge you,” she said. “Take this child, for you are now her Mother.”

  Thirteen

  Knife stared down at the wriggling, red-faced baby. “What?” she said. Then the full meaning of the Queen’s words sank in, and panic swarmed through her. “I can’t!”

  The Oakenfolk’s whispers turned into gasps. “Refuse the Queen?”

  “Treason,” said Mallow in a satisfied voice, and Knife rounded on her. “You! If you had something to do with this, I swear I’ll—”

  “Silence!” snapped the Queen. She stalked back to the head of the chamber, then turned to glare at Knife. “You will accept this task,” she said, “for it is sacred, and cannot be refused. But do not think that I am relieving you of your position as Queen’s Hunter. That duty will also remain yours—unless you prove unable to fulfill it.”

  Knife knew she ought to be relieved: Even a little freedom was better than none. But it would be impossible to hunt and carry Linden at the same time—how was she to manage? Trying to keep her voice steady, she said, “Your Majesty, may I speak with you in private?”

  “You may,” said Amaryllis. She turned to the crowd. “You are dismissed.”

  Muttering, the Oakenfolk filed out, while Knife whipped one of the moleskins off the table and bundled the shrilling baby up in it. “I don’t understand,” she said to Amaryllis when the room was empty. “Why this? Why me?”

  “Because,” said the Queen coolly, “it has become clear to me that your present responsibilities are not enough to occupy you. And since you appear to have an interest in helpless things…” She turned to leave.

  “But I can’t,” protested Knife. “How can I hunt and look after a child at the same time? And you need me to hunt even more than you need…this.” She looked down at Linden, who had stopped crying and begun sucking noisily on her shoulder.

  “You have always proven yourself resourceful at getting what you want, Knife,” said Amaryllis. “If you wish to continue as my Hunter, I am sure that you will find a way. And if you find yourself with no time for any of your…other interests, then you have only your own folly to blame.” And with that, she swept out.

  Knife closed her eyes, feeling sick. So that was the answer: She had been found out, and the Queen was punishing her for it. What was she going to do?

  Numbly she pulled another moleskin off the table and wrapped it around her new foster daughter. Then with dragging feet she left the Hatching Room, and began the long climb up the Spiral Stair.

  Knife groaned and pulled the pillow over her head as Linden woke for the third time that night, her sleepy whimpers rising rapidly into a full-throated scream. The first time Linden had been wet, and after Knife had changed her it took a small eternity of bouncing and rocking to get her back to sleep. The next she had been thirsty, and spent a long time sucking at her bottle while Knife stared bleary-eyed into the darkness. Knife had only just got her settled, and here she was up again—what now?

  Knife stumbled out of bed and over to the cushions where Linden lay, screeching as though she’d fallen into a nest of hornets. “Shush,” she mumbled, picking up the child and rocking her back and forth. “None of that.” A brief check confirmed that the diaper was still dry, and an offer of the bottle met with head-turning refusal. Knife began to walk about the room in circles, bouncing the baby as she went, but Linden’s screams never abated.

  Minute after minute crept by, while Knife rocked and swayed and made shushing noises until her throat was sore, but to no avail. She wiped her brow with her forearm. This was torture. She wasn’t meant for this. She’d never get it right, never, and she felt hopeless and angry and frustrated nearly to the point of tears, and still the baby wouldn’t stop—

  Knife snatched up a blanket and threw it over her shoulder, muffling Linden’s cries. Then, still clutching the baby, she flung herself out the door and down two flights of the Spiral Stair. Racing around the landing, she hammered at one of the doors until it creaked open and a tousled red head poked out.

  “What?” said Wink, in a voice thick with sleep.

  “Please,” Knife panted. “I’ve got plenty of furs and skins, you can have your pick, or I’ll give you anything else you want. But you have to help me. She won’t stop, she just keeps crying, I don’t know what’s wrong, I don’t know how to make her—”

  Without another word Wink held out her arms, and Knife thrust the struggling, howling Linden into them. The instant the baby was out of her grasp she felt as though a colossal weight had been lifted, and she sagged against the door frame in relief.

  “Oh, the poor little thing, she’s in pain,” said Wink, unwrapping the child. “Did you check her diaper? There could be a pin sticking into her.”

  “I looked,” said Knife wearily. “I couldn’t see anything.”

  Wink lifted the baby to her shoulder. “Then it’s probably just gas in her stomach. You had it when you first hatched, too. Never mind, I’ll look after her. You go and sleep.”

  Knife stared. “You—are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” said Wink with unusual firmness. “You’re in no shape to deal with this: You look like you’ve spent the night with a badger. Off to bed, and don’t come back until morning. Late morning. We’ll talk more then. Good night.” She gave Knife a light push back into the corridor.

  “Wait,” said Knife, “don’t you want to barg—”

  The door slammed in her face.

  Back in her own room, Knife shut the door and leaned back against it. She slid downward and landed on the mat with a thump, dropping her forehead against her knees. She had feared it, but now she was certain: Her friendship with Paul McCormick was over. It would be years before Linden no longer needed her constant attention, and by then Paul would have forgotten all about her. The Queen had done her work well.

  An icy dampness crawled around the edges of the shutters and crept across the floor. Stiffly Knife rose and walked to her cot, dragging the smoldering brazier a little closer to the bed. The straw mattress crunched when she sat down, and Knife’s eyes stung as she thought of the sketches tucked away so carefully beneath it—worthless now, because Paul would never see them. And all her notes on Heather’s diary, too—what use were they, except to remind her that her quest to learn the truth about the Oakenfolk’s past had failed?

  In a burst of angry misery Knife flipped the mattress aside, snatched up the papers, and threw them on the brazier. The coals smoked, then shot out crackling tongues of flame, licking the pages to red-gold tatters before swallowing them whole. When nothing was left but a drift of blackened ash, Knife dragged the mattress back into place and lay down, hugging the furs about her and shivering until she finally fell asleep.

  But even without the baby’s cries to wake her, Knife could find no rest. In her dreams Paul McCormick sank deeper and deeper into the black water, hands outstretched in mute desperation, while she stood on the bank holding Linden and pretending not to see him. After he drowned, she walked back to the Oak and found nothing but a blackened stump and a sky full of circling crows.

  “I told you to sleep in,” Wink chided when she found Knife at her door early the next morning. “Don’t you listen to anyone?”

  Knife ignored the rebuke, slipping past her and looking around the room. The hanging lamp was lit, washing the room in yellow light, but she could not see the baby anywhere.

  “Here,” said Wink, pointing beneath her sewing table. There in a cradle of branches and woven grass lay Linden, eyes closed and small mouth blissfully slack. “She’s been asleep for…oh, about five hours.”

  Knife stared. “How did you…”

  “I wrapped her up tight, then I rocked her and hummed in her ear, and off she went. Poor little thing, I think she was just overwhelmed.”

  “I’ve been a fool,” said Knife weakly. “I should have come to you right away.”


  “Yes,” said Wink, “you should have. Couldn’t you see me trying to catch your eye at the Hatching, and then later in the Dining Hall? I did everything short of dancing to get your attention, but you looked right past me. I know I’m not very big, but really.”

  Knife flushed. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think…”

  “Well, never mind that,” said Wink. She stooped and slid the cradle out onto the floor. “You can take this with you, if you like; I can always ask Thorn to make me another one.”

  “Another? Why?”

  “For when Linden stays here, silly. You do want me to look after her while you hunt, don’t you?” She must have seen the flare of hope in Knife’s eyes, for she went on briskly: “Of course you do. Well, then, just bring her to me whenever you need to go out, and I’ll keep her until you come back.”

  “What…would you have me give you in return?” asked Knife, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat.

  “Oh, I’ll think of something,” replied the little redhead. “But don’t worry, it won’t be too much.” She looked down at the slumbering Linden and smiled. “I’ve rather missed having a baby to look after.”

  Over the next few days, Knife’s confidence as a Mother rose. Linden slept longer between feedings, and fussed less afterward. With Wink’s help Knife was able to make a couple of hunting trips, and by the end of the week had supplied the kitchens with enough meat to silence even Mallow’s complaints.

  Still, Knife dreaded what Amaryllis would say when she found out. Would she accuse Knife of shirking her duty, and force her to keep Linden with her all the time? Wink dismissed her worries, insisting that the Queen would never be so unfair; but after the things Amaryllis had said to her in the Hatching Room, Knife was far less certain.

  Then one night her worst fears were realized when she answered a soft but persistent tapping at her door to find Queen Amaryllis standing there, demanding to see Linden at once.