Wayfarer

by R. J. Anderson

  “All right,” he said grimly. “We’ll just have to sleep light-and hope for the best.”

  The room was simply furnished, with walls of gray stone and a bare wooden floor-but it was private, and the bed looked comfortable. As soon as the attendant left, Linden climbed out of the backpack and jumped to the mattress, while Timothy grabbed an armful of clothing and vanished in search of the shower.

  He was gone a long time. Linden stayed small as she nibbled the last half of her sandwich, so that there would be plenty left for Timothy when he came back. Then she curled up on the pillow, hiding herself with a corner of the blanket while she waited for his return. But she must have been more tired than she realized, because when she opened her eyes again the room was dark, and Timothy was gingerly easing his head onto the pillow in an effort not to wake her.

  “It’s all right,” she said sleepily, rolling over and curling up against his shoulder. He smelled of soap and seawater, mingled with the earthier scent of his humanity; it was a good smell, oddly comforting. It occurred to her that perhaps one of them ought to stay up and keep watch for the Blackwings, especially now that the iron key was gone and they had no way to shield themselves against another attack. But the pillow felt soft and Timothy was warm and she was so very tired…

  Linden dreamt that she was back at the Oak, with all the faeries gathered around her as she cast the spell that would restore their magic. Rob’s dark eyes gleamed with admiration as he held up the Stone of Naming and said to her, “The Empress is defeated. You have saved us all.” Knife, Paul, and Timothy watched from the veranda of the House, smiling, and then Valerian came up and embraced her, and said, “Queen Amaryllis would be so proud of you, Linden. You have truly fulfilled all our hopes.”

  It was everything she longed for, and yet it rang false somehow: It was too perfect even for a dream. But she still could not bring herself to wake, even though somewhere at the back of it all lay a feathery blackness, and the sounds of harsh laughter.

  Timothy sat in the spotlight, guitar thrumming in his hands as he played before an audience of thousands all clapping and cheering for more. The song was the catchiest tune he’d ever heard, all palm-slapping rhythm and fast-plucked melody, and Miriam stood beside him with a microphone, singing the words in her husky, resonant voice-but her eyes were on him as she sang, and everyone in the audience was watching him, too, and he knew that it was his concert, his song. There was no more uncertainty in him now, no shadow of doubt. He was Timothy Sinclair, world-famous musician, and the knowledge filled him with a fierce and inextinguishable pride.

  But when he woke, he found himself a prisoner.

  The bed, the hostel, the rocky Welsh hillside-all were gone. Instead of cozy darkness the room swam with sallow morning light, filtering in through a barred window high above. He was lying on a cement floor without a mattress or even a blanket to cover him, wearing nothing but the T-shirt and boxers he’d gone to bed in. Timothy got up, shivering, and tried to open the door. It was locked.

  And yet the room didn’t look like a jail cell. There were screw holes on the wall where a chalkboard had once hung, and bits of old posters taped to the wall. He felt a muzzy sense of recognition, but it wasn’t until he found a blue crayon wedged into the baseboard and a scrap of faded paper reading PPIANS 2:12 that he realized he was trapped in an old Sunday school classroom.

  The irony startled a laugh out of him, but he quickly sobered at the thought of what it meant. The Blackwing brothers must have found a way into the hostel during the night-whining pathetically at the door in their dog forms maybe, or just posing as human travelers and waiting for the attendant to invite them in. They’d put a spell on Timothy while he slept, and brought him here to Sanctuary-or at least he assumed it was Sanctuary; how many abandoned churches could the Empress’s people own?

  Not that it mattered. He had to get out of here and find Linden. Timothy paced around the room, inspecting every corner for an escape route, or a key, or a weapon. But he found nothing but a few crumbs of plaster, and when he rapped on the wall, no one answered.

  He sidled over and crouched in front of the door, shifting uncomfortably as the cement chilled his bare feet, and examined the lock. If only he had something to pick it with-

  All at once the door swung inward, smacking him in the face. He was clutching his nose and swearing fervently in Luganda when an amused voice said from the doorway, “Welcome back to Sanctuary, Timothy Sinclair. I trust you slept well? You should feel honored: I wove that dream for you myself.”

  It was Veronica.

  The floor of Linden’s cage glowed with fiery heat, and when she tried to cling to the bars they burned her fingers. She fluttered helplessly in midair, wing muscles aching with the effort, knowing that she could not hover much longer before her strength gave out-and that the moment it did, she would die.

  “Tell me, little one,” said the Empress softly. Linden had imagined the Empress would be tall, dark, and arrogant-looking like Jasmine, but she could not have been more wrong: This woman was almost childlike, with delicate features and hair the color of dandelion wine curling about her shoulders. In fact she looked so sweet that it was hard to believe she could be evil-or so Linden had thought, until her torture began. “Why did you and the human boy go to Wales?”

  “We were-trying-to get away-from you!” gasped Linden. Her wings were failing now, and with every breath she sank a little closer to the floor. She could feel the heat beating up at her, searing her skin and crisping the ends of her hair; even the tears that streaked her face were hot.

  “You know what will happen if you fall,” the Empress told her. “This is your last chance to confess before you burn to ashes, and I am forced to interrogate the human in your stead. For I will have the truth,” and with a flick of her fingers she set the cage swinging on its chain. Linden shrieked as the hot bars brushed her arm, scorching through the sleeve of her tunic in an instant; panicked, she wove back and forth in midair, trying to avoid another collision.

  “We went-to find more faeries!” she cried as the cage spun dizzily around her. “Ones who would help my people, give us back our magic-but I couldn’t.” A sob ripped at her lungs. “I couldn’t!”

  The Empress put out a languid hand and stopped the cage; the heat radiating from its metal bars seemed to bother her not at all. “You see?” she said. “So much easier. Do you wish me to put out the fire?”

  “P-please,” whimpered Linden. The hem of her skirt was smoking, and blisters had broken out on the soles of her feet.

  “Then it is done,” said the Empress, and instantly the cage was cool again. Linden collapsed to the floor, faint with relief.

  When she had caught her breath, she sat up slowly and looked at the room around her. It was eerily similar to the Gospel Hall she and Timothy had visited in Aberystwyth: The high, peaked ceiling and narrow windows, the platform over which her cage hung suspended, were the same. Yet this hall was webbed in sinister shadows, with only a few candles to light it, and the only furniture was a single throne in the center of the platform, facing the empty floor.

  The Empress walked to the throne and sat upon it, smoothing her silken skirts. “No wonder my servants caught you so easily,” she mused. “For your quest had failed, and in your hearts you had already given up.” She ran one finger across her lips. “Tell me more about your people. No magic, you say? How did that come about?”

  Linden wiped her tear-smudged face on her sleeve-and only then did she realize that there were no scorch marks on the cloth anywhere, just as there were no burns on her skin. The cage had never been hot at all: The whole ordeal had been a glamour, a cunning illusion.

  “We were betrayed,” she said shakily. “By a faery named Jasmine. She stole our magic and used it to change our bodies against our will-all because she wanted to keep us from having anything to do with humans.”

  “And rightly so,” said the Empress with approval. “Or at least the intent was noble, even if the exec
ution was shortsighted. What happened to her then, this Jasmine?”

  “She became our Queen, for a while,” said Linden. “But then a faery she’d forgotten about came back to the Oak-Amaryllis. She’d been away when Jasmine cast her spell, so she still had all her wits and magic about her, and when she learned what Jasmine had done to the other Oakenfolk, she challenged her to a duel.”

  The Empress’s eyes widened, like a wondering child’s. “How exciting! Go on.”

  “Jasmine lost,” Linden said. “And Amaryllis wanted to punish her properly for what she’d done. So she took away all her magic, turned her into a human, and banished her from the Oak forever. That’s all I know about her.”

  The Empress let out a sorrowful breath. “So cruel a fate for such a heroine! It is a pity. Had I only known, I would have sought out this Jasmine and taken her into my court. How long ago was this?”

  “It’s been nearly two hundred years,” Linden told her, adding with a flash of private satisfaction, “She’s long dead by now.”

  “And all that time your people have been without magic. Living like prisoners, I am told, inside that Oak of yours, struggling for every mouthful, and hardly daring to set outside lest some predator swoop down upon you. You replace yourselves with eggs when you die, but bear no children, and now fewer than fifty of you are left. Is that not so?”

  Linden was taken aback. Where was the Empress getting all this information? Surely the Blackwings hadn’t observed all that from one brief flight over the Oakenwyld…but there was only one other possibility, and her mind balked from the thought.

  “What a wretched existence,” remarked the Empress, flicking dust off the arm of her carved throne. “If it were not for your willful attachment to humans in spite of all Jasmine’s attempts to enlighten you, I should feel quite sorry for you all. But as it is…”

  “Why?” Linden burst out. “Why do you hate humans? When you depend on them for so much-”

  “I do not hate them,” said the Empress coolly. “Any more than you hate the sparrows and rabbits you eat for your dinner. But I do not befriend my dinner, either. And it does not please me to see my subjects degrading themselves by keeping company with humans, telling them our secrets, and encouraging them to waste their creativity on their own kind, when those talents would be so much better used by us. And speaking of which…”

  She murmured a word Linden could not hear and made a beckoning gesture. Immediately Rob stepped out of the shadows, his guitar slung across his back. He bowed to the Empress, then sat down at her feet and began to play, paying no attention to Linden at all.

  “My court musician,” said the Empress fondly, looking down at him. “And my most loyal subject-are you not, my Robin?”

  “Your Imperial Majesty,” said Rob. “To serve you is my only pleasure.” There was no trace of irony in his tone, and Linden felt a shiver of unease.

  “My Robin is also an accomplished spy,” the Empress continued. “The night you first came to Sanctuary, he saw you rescue the human boy from Veronica, and set out to discover why you had done it. Imagine his surprise when he learned that you were one of the Forsaken! I could scarcely believe it myself when he brought his report to me.” She smiled indulgently. “Of course Veronica was furious with him for stealing her prey, but she soon calmed down when I told her he had acted on my behalf. She appreciates cunning, though she has yet to master it.”

  Brought his report to me…Had Rob betrayed them after all? Linden’s stomach convulsed, and her hand clenched on the Stone she still carried in her pocket.

  “Indeed, if not for dear Robin’s vigilance, I might never have guessed that there was treachery breeding among my subjects,” the Empress went on, her fingers twining idly in Rob’s hair. “But he has insinuated himself into their very midst, gained their confidence, so that when the time is ripe I can gather them and destroy them in one blow. And, of course, he has also met with your new Queen and tested her powers, that I might know precisely how many soldiers I will need to send out to add the Oakenwyld to my empire. The answer being, of course, hardly any,” and she let out a merry little laugh.

  No, thought Linden numbly. It can’t be. Not after all he’s done to help us…

  Then Rob gave the Empress one of his slow smiles, and Linden’s last flicker of hope died. Surely, no one could look so adoringly at a woman he hated.

  “You never know, my lady,” drawled Rob. “I may be a rebel myself.”

  The Empress smiled back tolerantly, as though this were an old joke. “He will have his fun,” she said to Linden. “But what he and I both know is that I own his very soul. Do you know what sets him apart from faeries like Veronica? Poor child, she strives to be like him without knowing his secret: She has enticed one human after another, and yet the talent she steals from them always fades away. But Robin received his gift by tasting the blood of a human musician, murdered for his sake. He took that cup willingly from my hand, knowing full well what was in it; so to deny me, he would have to deny himself.”

  Linden’s head reeled, and she clutched at the bars of her cage. She had trusted Rob, believed in him-and he had done this? Had he sent them to look for the Stone of Naming on the Empress’s behalf, so that she could extinguish all hope of resistance to her power? If so, it was a good thing that Linden had not admitted to finding the Children, let alone getting the Stone from them. As far as the Empress and even Rob knew, their mission had failed….

  You mean it hasn’t? said a cynical voice in her head that sounded painfully like Timothy, and Linden buried her face in her hands. It was true: All her efforts to save the Oakenfolk had been futile. Rob had proved a traitor, and Garan a coward. Even the Stone in her pocket was useless, for the secret rebellion against the Empress was no secret at all, and soon it would be stamped out.

  Oh, Great Gardener, she wept brokenly. Help me, please-I’m so afraid, and I don’t know what to do.

  But even as she prayed, Rob strummed his guitar, while the Empress tapped her fingers and smiled. And in all the whispering echoes of that once holy place, Linden could hear no answer.

  Seventeen

  Veronica crouched in front of Timothy, one slim hand bringing up his chin. She inspected his nose where the door had struck it and said, “How fragile you humans are. Is that blood?”

  “Linden,” said Timothy thickly, pulling away. “Where is she?”

  “With the Empress, of course,” Veronica told him. “And Rob is with them, too-you remember Rob, I am sure?”

  He shrugged, not wanting her to guess how much he knew, or cared. But his spirit leaped at the news. The Empress had only to turn her back for an instant, and Linden could slip Rob the Stone….

  “It is a shame you didn’t let me take your music at the beginning,” Veronica went on, stroking his hair back from his face. “It would have made everything so much easier.”

  Timothy clenched his hands. He could feel the calluses on his fingertips, earned from countless hours of practice; he wanted suddenly, and very badly, to play again.

  “I could bring you a guitar,” she murmured, as though she had read his mind. “Remember the way you played for me, the first night we met?”

  He remembered it vividly, for all that he’d spent the last couple of days trying not to. In spite of everything he knew about Veronica, he couldn’t forget how it had felt to play with her by his side. Before she’d pushed him, he’d been a pretty good guitarist for his age, but that night he’d been a prodigy, a genius.

  “The Empress doesn’t want your music,” she went on in the same soft, enticing tone. “Why should she, with the finest musician in all Faery as her favorite? But I-”

  Timothy frowned. “You mean Rob?”

  Veronica’s lips pursed irritably. “Of course I do. Who else? But he can play as well as he likes, whenever he pleases; somehow the Empress gave him that power. Whereas you and I…” Her fingers traced the shape of his ear. “We need to work together.”

  Rob, the Empress’
s favorite? With a permanent gift of music no other faery possessed? Dread curdled in Timothy’s stomach, but Veronica was still speaking:

  “What if we were to make a bargain, you and I? You see, I can’t take your music just now: It’s buried inside you, too deep for me to reach. I need to see the way your fingers move upon the strings, hear you play the melodies that belong to you alone, before I can touch your gift and make it shine. So…”

  Her fingers drifted down the bridge of Timothy’s bruised nose. “I will bring you a guitar,” she continued, “and you will play it for me. It will be a performance such as you dreamt of last night, one that could not be surpassed if you lived a thousand years. And then, when I take your music, you will be grateful.”

  “Sounds terrific,” said Timothy sardonically. “And once you’ve taken it, how long will it last you? A few days? A week?”

  She shrugged, unfazed. “Better than never being able to play at all.”

  “That’s a good way to put it,” Timothy told her. “Because you know what? That’s what I think, too. Almost anything would be better than not being able to play. So if that’s your idea of a bargain-”

  “Oh, no.” Her eyes widened in an unconvincing attempt at innocence. “That was only your part of it. I haven’t even told you mine. First, I take your music…”

  She stopped and glanced back at the door, her expression furtive. “And then?” Timothy prompted.

  Veronica leaned toward him until her lips almost brushed his ear. She whispered: “And then I’ll let you go.”

  “I have been thinking, Linden of the Oak,” said the Empress, rising from her throne and walking back toward the cage. “Misguided though your attitude to humans may be, you have shown such loyalty toward your fellow faeries as I have seldom seen. You have endured much hardship on your people’s account, with little prospect of reward, and I find that admirable. So…I will make you an offer.”

  “Offer?” Linden scrubbed at her burning eyes. “What kind of offer?”