Faery Rebels (7 page)

It all made perfect, maddening sense. The lot of them must have thought Knife so gullible and perhaps even had a good laugh when her back was turned. She slammed a fist into her palm. Well, they wouldn’t laugh again. She’d—

A scream sliced the air, and Knife jumped, her anger forgotten. Out upon the open field, a huge black shape wheeled and dove into the grass. There was a frantic rustling, and the next shriek was abruptly cut off.

“Don’t run!” shouted Knife. “Drop your baskets and fly!”

There was no answer. Knife plunged through the hedge and leaped into the air, wings whirring. She drew her knife, wishing fervently that she had brought her bow and quiver instead.

The crow raised its head, and she recognized the limp form dangling from its beak: Linden. A soft-spoken faery, whose shyness and drab coloring made her easy to overlook—but she could carry twice her own weight in chestnuts, and the Gatherers could ill afford to lose her.

At first Knife feared she might already be too late to save her, but as she flew closer Linden roused and began to struggle. The crow’s grip on her was cruel, but he had not killed her yet. Gathering her strength, Knife put on a final burst of speed, flashed up to him, and hacked wildly at his tail.

A ludicrous attack, but it did as Knife had intended: Old
Wormwood squawked in alarm, and Linden tumbled free. Knife hastily stuck her dagger between her teeth, then dove and caught the other faery before she could hit the ground.

Laying Linden down on the grass, Knife glanced about and saw Tansy, one of the other Gatherers, cowering a few crow-lengths away. Impatiently Knife beckoned her to come and help, then leaped out of the grass and took to the air again to face her enemy.

She had all his attention now, just as she had hoped. With a cry of defiance, Knife fled back across the field as Old Wormwood took up the chase. She wanted to lure him as far away from Linden and Tansy as she could, but right now she could barely keep out of his reach. Relentlessly the crow pursued her, up the rise and over the hedge into the Oakenwyld.

Knife’s wing muscles burned with the effort of flying at full speed, but she dared not slacken her pace. She rounded the House in a turn so tight, her foot scraped the brick, then looped wildly across the garden, but try as she might she could not shake her enemy. She launched herself straight up toward the sun, hoping that Old Wormwood would lose her in its dazzling light, but he was too quick. He soared above her, a looming shadow three times her size. The beating of black wings roared in Knife’s ears, and in desperation she lashed out with her dagger. The blade snagged in her enemy’s feathers, tearing skin and flesh, and he screamed.

Knife darted away, but the crow thrashed after her, a
scant wingspan behind. His eyes glowed with fury, and his hooked talons raked the air. She had wounded him, but he was still faster, still stronger. Her only hope of escape was to dive low over the garden, then snap out her wings and shoot straight for the Oak. If she timed it just right—

Then she glanced down, and her muscles turned to water. Paul was rolling down the stone path toward the Oak, completely blocking her planned approach. He could not know, she thought wildly, that her own death turned upon his wheels. Unless—

A searing pain shot across her wing as the crow raked it open. Out of control, Knife tumbled through the air, her mind shrieking:
Fool! Fool! Never hesitate!

Old Wormwood was upon her now, beak wide as if to swallow her whole. Knife’s wing was useless; she could barely keep aloft. Soon she would fall, and where the ground leaped up to meet her she would die. But better that than surrender to those cruel claws.

With the last of her strength, Knife slapped her wings flat against her back. Agony drowned her consciousness as she spiraled from the sky and dropped, senseless, straight into Paul McCormick’s lap.

K
nife woke in a cold sweat, the torn edge of her wing sizzling with pain. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, and her throat burned with thirst. But the moment she tried to sit up her head spun like a weaver’s bobbin, and it was all she could do not to vomit.

How long had she lain unconscious? In the darkness it was impossible to guess. The last thing she remembered was Old Wormwood’s talons ripping through her wing, and the ground rushing up to meet her as she fell….

I will never fly again.
The realization came to her with cruel clarity, tempting her to weep. To live without the thrill of the hunt, or the joy of soaring through the air…short of death itself, Knife could imagine nothing worse.

Yet there was nothing she could do about it. No poultice could heal a torn wing; a hundred stitches would never close
the wound. She had been the youngest and the best Hunter ever to serve the Queen—but without the ability to fly, she would be useless. Thorn would take over her duties, and she would go back to being Bryony, a nobody. She would spend the rest of her life trapped in the Oak—

No. She would not,
could
not. If Queen Amaryllis refused to let her go out with the Gatherers, then she would simply run away, and live as best as she could, as long as she could, alone.

Breathing deep to quell her nausea, Knife tried to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. The room was so dark, her wits so blurred with pain, that it took her several attempts to realize that there was no edge—that the soft thing on which she lay was in fact the floor.

Knife’s stomach knotted. No wonder it was dark; no wonder the room smelled strange. Instead of lying on her own bed in the Oak, waiting for Valerian to come and tend her, she was in some unfamiliar place, all alone.

But where?

Cautiously, trying not to jar her injured wing, Knife crawled forward into the blackness. She had shuffled only a few beetle-lengths when her hand struck something cold. She felt her way up its smooth surface to find a huge glass bowl, filled with—

Water. Oh
,
Great Gardener.
Clambering to her feet, Knife leaned over the bowl and drank thirstily, then plunged her hands into it and splashed her face and neck. By the time she
had finished washing, she felt almost alive again.

Beside the bowl sat a plate heaped with chunks of some spongy, cakelike substance. It smelled peculiar, but it seemed to be food. Tentatively, Knife took a bite and began to chew.

After a few more mouthfuls she no longer felt light-headed, and her queasiness began to subside. Her wing still hurt, but she could bear it. Feet braced wide for balance on the too-soft carpet, Knife set off into the darkness again.

Three or four steps in any direction brought her up against the wall: not wood, not stone, but a tough papery substance. It gave a little when she pushed against it, but as soon as she let go it sprang back. There had to be an exit somewhere….

Knife squinted upward. A faint stripe of radiance crossed the ceiling from one end of the room to the other. Could the door be up there?

Without warning, her prison tipped to one side. Knife tumbled to the floor, scrabbling for a hold as the carpet slid sideways and the water in the bowl slopped over. Then with a bump the room righted itself again.

Knife lay still, afraid to move in case she set off another tremor. But the floor remained steady, and when she lifted her head she found the room lighter.

Automatically she looked up—and choked back a cry. The ceiling had cracked wide open, and an enormous human face stared down at her. Knife scrambled back into
the corner, pulling her knees up to her chest and hiding her face against them.

“It’s all right.” His voice sounded husky, as though it had not been used in a long time. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Knife drew a ragged breath. Her worst fears had come to pass: She was trapped, flightless, a prisoner. The humans had put her in a box, and now they had come to torment her.

“You’re still here,” the voice went on, hushed with wonder. “I half thought, when I opened the box…but you’re real.” A finger touched her hair, and Knife shuddered. She would not cry out, must not—

“You’re frightened.” He sounded surprised. “You weren’t yesterday.” A pause. “All right, I’ll leave you alone for a bit.”

There was a rustling noise, then silence. Thinking that he had gone, Knife lifted her head—and found Paul still sitting there.

“So you do understand me,” he said.

Knife slumped back into the corner, defeated. Hollowly she said, “Let me go.”

“But you’re hurt.”

“I can take care of myself.”

His mouth quirked. “Oh, right,” he said. “I should have guessed. So what are you, some kind of crow-fighting warrior faery?”

He made her sound like a joke, and Knife’s pride flared. “Yes, I am! What gives you the right—” Then common sense caught up with her, and she stopped. Fighting crows
was one thing, but arguing with a creature ten times her size? That wasn’t courage, it was suicide. “Never mind,” she muttered.

“I see you’ve eaten the bread. What else would you like? Fruit? Vegetables?” He paused, then added, “You don’t eat meat, do you?”

“Yes,” said Knife.

“Really?”

She nodded.

“All right, then, I’ll see what I can find. Later.”

“Why not now?” she asked. If she could convince him to leave her unguarded, just for a moment—

“Because my mother’s in the kitchen,” said Paul. “And she’ll want to know what I’m looking for—or worse, offer to get it for me.” The words were laced with bitterness.

“You mean,” said Knife, surprise momentarily overriding fear, “she doesn’t know about me?”

“No. And I’d like to keep it that way, so…” He held a finger to his lips. “Don’t talk so loud.”

Knife sat back a little, digesting this. If Paul was the only one who knew about her, then…

“Look,” said Paul. “What if I let you out for a bit? You’re not going to run away, are you?”

The tone sounded casual, but Knife was wary. Why did he want her to come out? “No,” she said, then realized too late that her answer had been unclear as Paul’s hand
swooped down and snatched her into the air.

She was not used to being touched, let alone swept up completely. Panicking, Knife struggled, but could not get free. As soon as he set her down again she tried to bolt, but her legs would not obey; she staggered a few steps and sat down with a thump.

“There,” said Paul.

He sounded so satisfied, as though he had done her a favor. Knife gritted her teeth. If he touched her like that again, she would stab him in the thumb, and blight the consequences—

But the sheath at her belt was empty.

Knife’s heart constricted. Where had her dagger gone? She leaped up and turned around, searching the desk where she stood. It had fallen out when he put her down, it must have. It had to be here.

“Lost something?” asked Paul.

Knife ran to the edge of the desk, frantically scanning the floor below. But even there she could see nothing but a few stray hairs and webs of dust. Her box prison sat open at the end of the bed, but it too was empty.

She turned away, feeling sick. Her precious metal blade, the only possession she had ever valued—and she had lost it. How could she possibly escape from the House now?

“What’s wrong?” her captor demanded.

Knife shook her head, unable to reply. She sat down and
hugged her knees again, feeling smaller and more frightened than ever.

Paul reached past her to pull a spiral-bound notebook from the shelf. Wrapped in misery, Knife paid little attention until he laid the book on his lap and began flipping through it. Then her unfocused gaze sharpened, and she scrambled to her feet. The Oak!

There it stood, traced in silvery lines upon the page: There could be no mistaking the shape of those wide-flung branches, or that gnarled breadth of trunk. A real drawing, such as none of her people had made in well over a century—and a good enough likeness to make her feel homesick. How had he done it?

“I’d like to sketch you,” said Paul. “Is that all right?”

“Me?” Knife was so startled, she forgot to be unhappy. “You mean—draw my picture? Now?”

He nodded.

Her eyes returned to the drawing of the Oak. “Did you do that?”

“Yes.”

Knife hesitated a moment longer, then said, “All right.”

“Excellent.” His face lit. “Just stay as you are, then, and try not to move.” He plucked a pencil from the drawer and bent over the page.

Knife tried to watch, but his lowered head blocked her view, so she began to look around the room instead. At first
glance it appeared plain compared to the others she had seen in the House, with its bare floor and simple furnishings. But then she looked up, and a shiver of excitement ran through her.

The walls were full of pictures.

The biggest hung over the bureau: a swirling storm of gold, ocher, and blue with a dark shape moving through it. Another frame showed pine trees amid a snowy landscape, overshadowed by distant spires. On the other side of the room a host of tiny figures swarmed against a backdrop of lakes and mountains. And in the far corner, a man looked straight into a mirror at the back of his own head.

Knife studied each of the paintings in turn, fascinated. They were nothing like the tapestries in the Queen’s Hall, or the simple pictures of flowers and fruit she had seen elsewhere in the House: These were startling, bewildering, in some cases almost ugly. Yet they seemed somehow
more
than the other pictures—more meaningful, more alive; it was as though they were shouting at her in a language she did not understand.

“There,” said Paul with satisfaction. He raised the sketchbook from his lap, and Knife was captivated all over again. In a few spare strokes he had described the angles of her limbs, then traced the outlines of her hair, wings, and clothing; it was almost carelessly done. Yet that very roughness made it seem alive, as though at any moment her figure
might leap off the page.

The face, though—that was even more amazing. There were her narrow, slanting eyes, her broad mouth, and pointed chin; he had even captured her wary expression. Not even Wink’s mirror had ever caught her likeness so perfectly; somehow he had not merely drawn her appearance, but her essence.

“It’s…very good,” said Knife, when she could speak.

“Is it?” Paul said, and turned the page to look at his drawing again. “Do you know,” he said in a slow, wondering tone, “I think you might be right.”

Suddenly it was too much for Knife—the fight with Old Wormwood, the loss of her dagger, waking up to find herself a prisoner in the House, and now this. “I’m tired,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “I need to rest.”

“Oh.” Paul sounded disappointed. “I’d wanted to draw you again, but all right.” He reached for her.

Knife leaped back, fists raised. “Don’t touch me!”

“What?” said Paul. “I didn’t hurt you last time, did I?”

“It’s not that,” said Knife flatly. “I just don’t like being grabbed and carried about without so much as a by-your-leave. Would you?”

His face darkened. “Not all of us get a choice,” he said. “But if it makes you feel better, here.” He held his hand out to her, palm upward.

Knife licked her lips, mustering her courage. The hand was a dry, bleached leaf, she told herself, or the upturned
cup of a mushroom. Nothing more. Gingerly she stepped forward, and Paul lowered her into the box upon his lap. She jumped off his hand and lay down, shivering.

“I’ll put you back in the wardrobe,” said her captor’s voice as the lid of the box rasped back into place. “You’ll be safe there.” Wheels squeaked, and she felt a bump as he set her prison back upon the shelf. The wardrobe door swung shut, muffling her in darkness.

Rest now
, she told herself.
You’ll need all your strength to escape—
and with that, she fell asleep.

When Knife woke, the room was so black, so silent, that she knew it must be night. She got up stiffly and helped herself to another drink and a few bites of bread. Then she sat down cross-legged, put her chin in her hand, and started thinking.

The pain in her wing had eased while she slept, but that didn’t help much. Her metal knife was gone. She was trapped in a box with walls too smooth and high for her to climb. How to escape?

Then an idea came to her, clear and irresistible as a voice calling her true name: The walls of her prison were made of paper.

Knife jumped up, grabbed the drinking bowl by the rim, and tipped it over. Water gushed out, soaking deep into the carpet at her feet. For a few moments she waited, giving it time to seep in. Then she squelched over to the corner of the
box, crouched, and began to scratch her way out. The sodden pulp came away easily in her hands, and soon she had clawed a hole large enough to crawl through.

As she clambered out onto the shelf, she could just make out a bar of dim light: the edge of the wardrobe door. Cautiously Knife sidled up to it and gave it a shove. Nothing happened, so she leaned harder. The door flew open, and Knife tumbled out.

It was not a long drop, but the floor was hard. Clutching her bruised elbow, Knife rocked and hissed between her teeth until the pain subsided. When she looked up, the first thing she saw was Paul’s wheeled throne, sitting empty beside the bed. Its steely frame glowed in the moonlight, and she wondered again why Paul, of all his family, should be so honored.

Still, even if he was a king by day, he seemed ordinary enough in sleep: eyes closed, mouth slack. Knife watched him warily, but he did not stir, and at last she tiptoed away.

Hurrying down the corridor to the familiar sitting room, Knife inspected every crack and corner in search of an exit. It was no use. The doors were latched, the lone window closed, and the metal grille in the floor too heavy for her to lift. Heart drumming, she fled through the archway into the kitchen.

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.