Spell Hunter fr-1

by R. J. Anderson

  Crossing the tiled floor, she studied the glossy face of the oven, the smoothly varnished wood of the cupboard doors. If she could find a way to climb up onto the counter, she might be able to reach the window above the sink. It looked to be slightly open; if she could reach it, it would be easy to slip out.

  Knife had not tested her wings since the crow wounded her, but she had to try them now. She would not be able to fly in a straight line, or for any great distance, but Holding her breath, Knife moved her wings slowly backward, then forward again. Her injured forewing felt stiff, and the air sliding across its ragged surface made her stomach lurch. She crouched and tried again, harder this time, repeating the motion until her nausea began to settle. Her wings beat faster and faster, lifting her from the ground.

  Little by little she rose toward the counter high above, weaving drunkenly through the air, but flying nonetheless. It was working! Just a few more wingbeats, and she’d be there Intent on her goal, Knife neither saw nor smelled the cat until it leaped out from the shadows and its heavy paw smashed her to the ground.

  Eight

  Knife writhed away from the cat before it could pin her, but her head reeled from the force of the blow. Instinctively she grabbed for her dagger, only to find it missing. No weapon to fight with, no wings to fly away-what was she going to do?

  Shadows rippled along the cat’s body as it paced around her. Knife dropped into a crouch, feinting to one side, then the other. But the cat was not fooled, and its paw lashed out again, flicking her off her feet. Grit seared Knife’s arms and legs as she skidded across the tile.

  This was impossible, she thought wildly. How could she not have noticed that the humans had a cat? Unless it was a new arrival, and belonged to “Paul!”

  She screamed his name as the cat pounced, batting her between velvet paws. Again she cried out while the cat tossed her up in the air and caught her again, this time in its mouth. Hot breath steamed over her, and the stench of fish made her gag. Near fainting, she gasped Paul’s name a final time and went limp.

  “Vermeer!” hissed a voice from behind them, and the cat froze. Cringing, it dropped Knife and slunk away.

  Knife lay winded on the tile, watching the ceiling swim in and out of focus. Her wounded wing felt as though it had been dipped in lye, and she could not move for trembling. But her rescuer made no move to touch her, nor did he speak again.

  At last Knife’s fluttering heart slowed, and she felt her strength return. The room clouded, lurched sideways, sharpened into focus, and she looked up-so very far up-into Paul’s face.

  “I owe you my life,” she said weakly.

  “Yes,” said Paul, sounding tired, “you do.” He leaned over in the chair, reaching out to her; Knife pulled herself upright, staggered two steps, and collapsed into the hollow of his hand.

  Knife was barely aware of Paul lifting her onto the counter, and the trickle of running water sounded muffled and far away. Only when he began to dab at her bleeding hands did she blink back to awareness, startled.

  “Sorry,” said Paul, mistaking her reaction. “Is the water too hot?”

  “No,” said Knife, “it’s just…warm.” She touched the washcloth wonderingly. “How did you do that?”

  “Magic,” he said. “Or a hot-water heater, whichever you prefer. Here.” He handed her the cloth, and Knife rubbed it cautiously across her face, wincing as soap worked its way into the scratches.

  When she had patted and rinsed herself clean, Paul held out his hand to her. The smell of sweat hung heavy around him, and she wrinkled her nose as she stepped onto his palm. Pushing himself about in that throne must be hard work-but why had he bothered taking the time to get into it, when she had needed his help so urgently? Surely he couldn’t be that proud?

  “Do you want to go up or down?” said Paul.

  “What?” asked Knife.

  “I need that hand to steer the chair, so you’d better decide where I should put you. Unless you want to spend the rest of the night here in the kitchen, going in circles.”

  “Oh.” Knife looked from his face to his knee and back again. “Then I suppose…down.”

  Paul lowered her to the edge of the seat and waited until she settled herself beside him. Then with practiced movements of his hands he pushed the wheeled throne forward, gliding noiselessly around the corner and down the corridor to his room. He half-turned the chair as they entered, easing the door shut; then he rolled up beside the bed, and Knife jumped onto it.

  “Why do you-” she started to ask, but Paul interrupted:

  “How do you know my name?”

  Knife toed the blankets. “Oh. Well. I’ve…heard your parents speak about you. And to you, sometimes.”

  “So you live nearby. In the garden? The wood? Or…” He stopped, his eyes narrowing. “I know-you live in the old oak tree.”

  Her heart plummeted, but she managed to stay calm. “We live in many places,” she said. “Sometimes we use the Oak as a lookout, but-”

  “For a faery, you’re a terrible liar,” said Paul. “What are you afraid of? I’m not planning to chop it down.” His eyes became distant. “I thought I’d just imagined you, that day I climbed the oak tree all those years ago. But when I saw you again in the garden, with that white hair and those black eyes-I knew I hadn’t been dreaming after all.”

  Knife sank down onto the mattress and put her head in her hands. So that was it: After centuries of secrecy, the Oakenfolk were no longer safe from humans, and it was her fault. If she had only listened to Wink at the beginning, or at least resisted the temptation to spy on the humans later on, none of this would have happened.

  “So what’s your name, then?” asked Paul. “Or am I not supposed to know that either?”

  I wish I knew myself, thought Knife unhappily. Without her weapon or her wings, the only name that truly belonged to her was the one she could never speak. Unless, of course, she went back to being Bryony-but no. Not as long as she still had a choice. “My name is Knife,” she said.

  Paul looked incredulous. “Knife? As in, a thing to cut with?”

  She nodded, and he made a noise halfway between a snort and a chuckle. “Your mother had quite the sense of humor.”

  “My egg-mother had nothing to do with it!” said Knife indignantly. “I chose the name my-” Then she realized she had said too much, but it was too late.

  “Really?” said Paul. “Why ‘Knife’?”

  For a faery, you’re a terrible liar, he had said. But she couldn’t tell him the truth, because that would mean confessing that she had stolen her weapon from his House, and who knew what he might do to her then? Her only chance was to change the subject, and quickly.

  “Where did you get that throne?” she blurted.

  Silence crashed down between them, and the color ebbed out of Paul’s face. “Throne.” His voice rasped on the word. “Is that what you think this is?”

  Knife shifted in her seat, embarrassed without knowing why. Then her gaze fell to Paul’s uncovered legs, so still and awkwardly bent, and her eyes widened as she realized her mistake “That’s right,” said Paul grimly. “I’m a cripple. You thought my parents were fussing over me and pushing me around in this thing because I liked it?” He spat out a laugh. “I wish!”

  Knife swallowed. She had thought herself the injured one, but he had suffered a far greater loss. “I’m…” she began, but Paul cut her off.

  “Don’t say it.” He shoved the chair back from the bed with a savage thrust of both hands. “I’m sick of apologies, and I don’t want your pity. The only thing I want to know is, can we make a bargain?”

  “A…bargain?”

  “You’re a faery. Isn’t it obvious?”

  She shook her head.

  Paul gave an exasperated sigh and pushed a hand through his hair. “Magic. You have it, I need it. One wish, that’s all I want-and then you can go home.”

  Knife looked at him helplessly. “I…can’t,” she said. “I don’t have any magi
c.”

  “Look,” said Paul. “I know faeries are supposed to be full of tricks and all that, but I’m not that stupid.”

  “Neither am I!” snapped Knife in frustration. “If I could cast spells, don’t you think I’d have vanished in a puff of smoke by now, or at least healed my own wing so I could fly again? Not to mention that horrible cat of yours-believe me, I’d have been delighted to turn him into a toad and save you the trouble of rescuing me.”

  “If you’d stayed where I put you, you wouldn’t have needed rescuing.” His mouth twisted. “What a stupid thing to-”

  “I didn’t know you had a cat. And why shouldn’t I try to escape? You put me in a box!” She folded her arms and added resentfully, “I don’t understand why you won’t just let me go.”

  “Are you serious? Do you have any idea what it means for a human being to find a real, live faery?”

  “About the same as it means for a faery to find a real, live human being, I suppose,” said Knife tartly. “Except I don’t have a box big enough to put you-”

  The last word froze on her tongue as the door creaked open, and Paul’s cat squeezed himself through the gap. He sat down, showed his pointed teeth in a yawn, and began to wash himself with great thoroughness, while Knife ducked into Paul’s shadow and tried to make herself as small as she could.

  “It’s all right,” Paul said, and offered her his hand again. She climbed onto it, and he lifted her to the safety of his shoulder. Then he whistled between his teeth, making the cat look up.

  Knife clutched at his shirt. “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Paul. “I won’t let him harm you.” He rubbed a finger along the edge of the blankets, and the cat hurried to the side of the bed, watching with rapt golden eyes. Paul bent and scooped up the animal, dragging it onto his lap and holding it there.

  “He’s a silly cat, really,” Paul remarked. “No brain whatsoever.” He scratched the back of the cat’s head, kneading his way down the spine to the tail, and it collapsed, purring. “He found a mouse once and had no idea what to do. So he sat on it until we came and took it away.”

  “He seemed to think he knew what to do with me,” said Knife doubtfully.

  “He probably thought you were some kind of wonderful new toy. He might have killed you by accident, but not on purpose.”

  This struck Knife as less than comforting, but there seemed little use in saying so. “What did you say his name was? Vermeer?”

  “That’s what I call him. Because of the way his fur shines in the light.”

  Not a true name, then, she thought, disappointed. She had hoped that knowing the cat’s name would give her power to command it as Paul did. “I don’t understand,” she said aloud.

  “Vermeer was a painter, back in the seventeenth century. Here, I’ll show you.” He seized the half-slumbering cat around the belly and tossed him onto the bed, then rolled over to the bookshelf. There he took down the biggest book Knife had ever seen and opened it to a full-color portrait of a young woman. Her eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted, and a teardrop-shaped ornament dangled from her ear.

  Paul’s finger traced the metallic sheen along the earring. “He was a genius with light,” he said. “And he used a lot of rich, warm tones in his paintings.”

  Knife was silent, gazing at the girl’s luminous face. The picture was beautiful, and yet somehow it was more than that. It was as though the artist were not merely showing her a girl, but telling her something about the girl as well.

  Then in a flash Knife understood: That was what made the other paintings in the room special, too. They weren’t just images, they were ideas. Excited, she slid off Paul’s shoulder and leaped onto the desk, scanning each of the hanging canvases in turn. If she could just figure out what they were saying…

  “You like them,” said Paul, and when she glanced back she saw a new respect in his eyes. “You really get it, don’t you-art, I mean. You’re not just being polite.”

  Knife nodded.

  “Do you…would you like to see some more?”

  She hesitated. He was offering her knowledge, but without magic, what could she give him in return? “I can’t pay you,” she said.

  Paul made a face, as though she was being ridiculous. “Pay me? What for? I’m not an expert. I just like art.”

  “But you have knowledge,” she persisted. “That’s worth something. You can’t just give it away.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because-” She struggled for an explanation, and finally threw up her hands. “Because that isn’t how it’s done!”

  “Maybe that’s how things work in that oak tree of yours,” said Paul mildly. “But you’re not there now, are you?”

  Knife looked down at the painting of the girl, torn between doubt and yearning. For saving her from Old Wormwood, she already owed Paul a great debt. If she accepted any more favors, she might as well sign herself up as his slave, because it would take her years to pay him back.

  And yet…

  “Yes,” she said. “I’d like to see some more. Please.”

  The tension lifted from Paul’s face, and for a moment he looked almost like the boy who had climbed the Oak again. “Let me show you The Lacemaker,” he said, and began turning pages.

  When Knife woke the next morning her body ached, but her mind had never felt more alive. If only she could write down everything she had learned, before she had the chance to forget it!

  She and Paul had talked for hours. Once he realized that she was genuinely interested in the art he loved, all the pent-up words of the past few weeks came rushing out of his mouth. He took book after book off his shelves, explaining different painting techniques and styles, pointing out his favorite artists and telling her why their work was important. Now and then he paused to give Knife a sidelong glance, as though he could scarcely believe that she was still listening; but all she ever said was, “Go on,” and in the end he did.

  When they had finished looking at the pictures, Paul took out his sketchbook again and began showing her how to draw, making quick sketches of her from various angles as he talked about things like shading, perspective, and point of view. For Knife it was a feast of knowledge, and she felt as though she could listen forever; but eventually Paul’s voice thinned to huskiness, and when she caught him rubbing his eyes she realized that she had kept him up long enough. Still, when she said good night and climbed back into her damp-smelling box she could not help feeling disappointed that the conversation had not lasted longer. There was so much she could do with this knowledge once she returned to the Oak…

  Except that she couldn’t, because then everyone would want to know where she had learned it. The Oakenfolk didn’t have new ideas anymore; they had a hard enough time not forgetting the things they knew already. Besides, without Paul’s books to show them, what good would it be? She had learned a great deal about art last night, but that didn’t make her an artist.

  Knife sighed as she rolled over and climbed to her feet. She crawled out of her box and sat down on the edge of the shelf, kicking the wardrobe door wide for a view of the room beyond.

  Judging by the color of the light fingering its way past the curtains, it was almost noon, but Paul was still asleep. She cleared her throat loudly and rapped on the wooden shelf until he stirred in his nest of blankets, muttered something unintelligible, and opened his eyes.

  “Good morning,” said Knife.

  He pushed himself up on one elbow, his gaze focusing blearily upon her. “You’re still here,” he said. “You weren’t a dream.”

  “No. Should I have been?”

  He ignored the question, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I feel terrible.”

  “Well, I feel hungry,” said Knife. “And you promised me meat, remember?”

  Paul snorted, but the sound was good-natured. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “You managed to get all this from your mother without saying a word?” said Knife
when Paul returned, bearing a heavily laden tray across his lap.

  Paul stopped and shook his head warningly. “Not so loud,” he mouthed, and Knife cringed. He was right, of course: They would both need to speak quietly if they wanted to keep her presence in the House a secret.

  Gingerly Knife hopped onto the tray, sidestepping a glass of orange liquid and sitting down next to a plate steaming with two enormous eggs, a pile of beans in brown sauce, and several strips of fat-marbled meat. It was more food than she could have eaten in a week.

  “Here,” said Paul, breaking off a piece of toasted bread and handing it to her. Knife bit into it with relish, and was still chewing when he pulled out a book from the pocket on the side of his armrest and laid it open on the desk nearby.

  “I found this in the other room,” he said. “I thought you might like to see it.”

  “What is it?” asked Knife.

  “It’s about Alfred Wrenfield, a famous painter who used to live right around here-oh, must be over a hundred and fifty years ago now.” Paul began turning pages. “At first he just painted landscapes and the occasional portrait. But later on he suddenly became obsessed with faeries and refused to paint anything else.”

  “Faeries?” said Knife, taken aback. “You mean…he saw them?”

  “I didn’t used to think so,” said Paul. “But now that I look at you, I’m not so sure anymore. Alfred Wrenfield wasn’t the only artist who painted faeries, but he’s the only one I know of who painted ones that look like you-not all plump and babyish or skinny and wrinkled like gnomes, but sort of wild and strange and…”

  “And what?” prompted Knife.

  But Paul only coughed, and turned the page. “Anyway, here’s one of his early pieces, called The Faeries’ Dance. What do you think?”

  Knife stood up, took one look at the picture-and burst into laughter.

  “What?” asked Paul, frowning. “You don’t think they look like you?”