Summerkin (10 page)

“Next round!” Lord Artos bellowed, clapping his heavy hands. “At speed, collect your arrows. Run to the other targets. Take five shots. Leave the arrows in the target. Run back.” He clapped again. “Be off!”

Right! Fer dashed to the target and jerked out her arrows. Jamming them into the quiver and clutching her bow, she set out across the lawn to the other targets. Gnar passed her, laughing, and Fer put on a burst of speed to keep up. They raced together to the targets near the forest.

Panting and wiping sweat out of her eyes, Fer stepped up to the line marking her distance from the target. As quickly as she could, she fired off five arrows. Gnar had already finished, she noted, and was speeding across the lawn, but her arrows had barely hit their target. As Fer spun to head back, she saw that Arenthiel was frantically cranking back the string of his crossbow, still only on his third arrow. Hah! Gnar had been right about the slower crossbow.

Lich had finished shooting too—perfect again, Fer noted with dismay—and had headed back across the lawn. He ran slowly, though, and his path wavered, as if he'd lost sight of where he was going. Fer raced past him.

At the other end, Gnar was already shooting. One of her arrows thunked into the bullseye and burst into flame.

“Five more shots,” Lord Artos told Fer. “Then collect the arrows and take them to the other targets to shoot, as before.”

This was more like a foot race than an archery contest, Fer realized. Blinking sweat out of her eyes, she fired off her five shots and collected her arrows.

Lich, she noticed, was just starting his round. He'd taken an awfully long time getting across from the other targets. Under his hat, his face was bright red, and he was panting out gusts of steam.

“Are you okay?” Fer asked as she hurried past him.

He didn't answer.

She raced across the wide stretch of grass to the targets near the forest. The sun blazed down; she panted and wished for some cool water. This time when she lined up to shoot, her legs were shaking, and her fingers were slippery with sweat. She wiped them on her jeans and closed her eyes for a second. Calm. Cool.

Okay, ready. She opened her eyes again. As she pulled out an arrow, Lich staggered up. With a clatter, his quiver dropped to the ground and the arrows scattered. He dropped to his knees to pick them up.

Fer started to sight on her target, then stopped. “Lich,” she asked again. “Are you all right?” If she had to, she'd ask it a third time to get him to answer.

He kept his head lowered. The arrows fell from his limp hand.

He was
not
okay. Fer set down her bow and arrows and went to him. As she reached out to steady his shoulder, he tipped over onto the grass. Fer knelt by his side. Lich's face was even redder now, but blotched with pale spots. His lips were pale too, and cracked. “Oh no,” Fer whispered. He was used to chilly, wet weather. This archery race might kill him if he didn't get cooled off.

Fer looked up. Gnar had just finished shooting, and was busy pulling her smoking arrows out of the target. “Gnar!” Fer shouted.

The fire-girl stuffed her last arrow into her quiver and strode over. She glanced curiously down at Lich. “What is it, Strange One?”

Fer took Lich's hat off and held it over his face to shade him from the blazing sun. It was pretty obvious what was happening. “He's heat sick,” Fer said impatiently. She hadn't brought her knapsack with her this time, so she couldn't use herbs to heal him. The forest. It was shady there. But Lich was too heavy to move by herself. “We need to get him under the trees, where it's cooler. Will you help?”

Gnar tossed one of her smoldering braids over her shoulder. “It's another odd thing to ask, Strange One, but I'll do it.”

As she spoke, Arenthiel trotted up, panting. Ignoring Fer and Gnar, and Lich sprawled on the ground, he started cranking back the string of his crossbow.

He could help too, Fer realized. He probably wouldn't, but she had to ask. “Arenthiel,” she called. “Lich needs water, as soon as possible. Will you run back and fetch some from the nathe?”

“Fetch?” Arenthiel asked, turning his back on them and taking up a shooting stance. “I do not
fetch
.” He glanced over his shoulder at them and gave a smug smile. Then he turned and fired off an arrow at the target.

Fer gripped Lich's shoulder. “Come on,” she said to Gnar. “You take that side.”

Together, they dragged Lich across the grass, out of the blazing sun and under the shadowed eaves of the forest. Kneeling by his side, Fer fanned his face with his hat.

His eyes, which already looked sunken, flicked open. “I believe I may dry,” he whispered.

“You'd better not,” Gnar threatened. She nodded at Fer. “I'm faster than you are. I'll do the fetching.”

Gnar left, and Fer kept fanning. If only she had her box of herbs! For cooling she could use mint or mallow. Even better would be . . . She looked up. Here among the weeds at the edge of the forest—she might find borage growing. It was a common enough herb. “I'll be right back,” she said to Lich, and scrambled to her feet.

Grand-Jane had taught her that borage was also called bees-bread and that a good way to find it was to watch where bees were gathering. A scrubby patch of weeds lay not too far off, and it was humming with bees, busy in the hot sunlight. Fer ran over, looking among the grasses and weeds for borage's distinctive star-shaped blue flowers. There! She wasn't wearing gloves, so the prickly hairs on the leaves and stems stung her fingers. “Ow, ow, ow,” she muttered, pulling up two of the borage plants and hurrying back to Lich. Trying to ignore the stings, she broke open the stems. “Here you go,” she murmured to Lich, and smeared the sap from inside the borage plant on his face.

“Ohhhh,” he sighed. “Better.”

Good. His skin was already less red and blotchy. Fer rubbed more cooling borage sap on his neck, and on the inside of his wrists. Then she picked up his hat and started fanning again. She gazed back toward the nathe, at the other targets and the white tents. The High Ones and Lords and Ladies were leaving, she saw. The bear-man was taking down the targets.

The archery contest was over, and Arenthiel had won. Again.

Fourteen

A note arrived in Fer's rooms. The contestants would have the rest of the afternoon to recover, Lord Artos informed her, and in the evening, they would meet in the nathewyr for the final part of the competition. There, they would each demonstrate their mastery of the glamorie.

Something else was written at the bottom of the note from the bear-man, an extra note for her, written in different handwriting.

Remember, Gwynnefar
, the note said.
The contest is a test.

“Oh, I bet I know who wrote that,” Fer muttered to herself. It sounded like one of the High Ones' completely confusing statements. Winning was losing, contests were tests. What were they up to, exactly?

Fer shook her head, setting aside her confusion. She had other things to worry about now.

The next part of the contest was going to be a problem.

Fer didn't like the glamorie. Having it on made her feel cold and calculating. It made her feel not very much like her own self. It was hard to believe that her own mother had worn it, but she must have—she'd been a Lady, after all. So Fer would wear it too, just for today.

After having a rest in her room, she washed her face, pulled off her jeans, T-shirt, and patch-jacket, and put on the clothes she'd found in the chest back in her little house in the Lady Tree. Her mother's clothes—the slithery-smooth silk shirt, the trousers and boots, the vest embroidered with oak leaves. Then she laid out her mother's soft, knee-length green coat on the bed next to her patch-jacket. Which one should she wear? The fine coat matched the glamorie, but Grand-Jane had stitched protective spells and herbs into the jacket. She gnawed on her thumbnail, considering.

Then she nodded. Just for this evening, she would be a Lady, through and through. She picked up her mother's coat and put it on over the vest. Then Twig combed her hair and braided it.

“Now this,” Twig said, setting on Fer's head the crown of undying oak leaves. “And this.” She handed Fer the wooden box with the glamorie in it.

Taking a deep breath, Fer reached inside and pulled out the shimmering web of the glamorie. A flick of the wrist and she tossed it over herself, shivering as it clung to her hair, her face, her arms. As it set its chilly hooks into her skin, Fer shuddered, and then, as the glamorie took effect, she felt the nervousness about the next part of the competition fall away.

“There,” breathed Twig, crouching and gazing up at Fer. “You're a Lady. Head to toe, you are.”

Yes. She was. Fer felt the high collar of the shirt brush her chin, so she gave a proud tilt to her head and went out to the main room.

Rook, his usual barefoot, grubby self, was still asleep on the pillows. Her bee rested on his elbow.

“Wake up the puck,” she found herself saying to Fray.

Wide-eyed, Fray bowed. “Yes, Lady Gwynnefar,” she whispered.

Fer shook her head. Her voice had sounded so cold, and Fray seemed so awed, and Twig had crouched on the floor, so worshipful. She rubbed her arms, chilled. The glamorie affected them so strongly. Maybe it was affecting her too.

It was only for tonight, she promised herself. Despite what the High Ones had said, she knew she'd lost the first two parts of the competition. Tonight she had to wear the glamorie—she had to win.

 

Somebody kicked the bottom of his foot, and Rook bolted upright, suddenly awake. The wolf-girl glared down at him. “Get up, Puck,” she growled.

“Go bite somebody else, you stupid wolf,” Rook growled back.

She reached down to grab him, and he skittered away. Then he realized that one of Fer's bees had attached itself to the sleeve of his shirt. “Get off,” he said, brushing at it.

Wolves, bees, bad dreams. Not the best way to wake up.

Fer stood by the open door, watching. She looked stern, and not very friendly. She was wearing the glamorie; he could see that clearly enough. “What's going on?” he asked.

“We are going to the nathewyr for the last part of the competition,” Fer said.

“Go ahead,” Rook said with a shrug.

The wolf-guard's hand came down on his shoulder. “You're coming with us, Puck.”

“I'm not, no,” he said, pulling away. He had his own plan—to steal the silver crown—and it'd be better for Fer if he wasn't with her when he carried it out.

“You are,
yes
,” Fer said icily. “I don't like the glamorie, but it helps me think more clearly, at least. It's obvious that you're up to something, Rook. I'm not leaving you here unguarded.” She nodded at the wolf-guard. “Bring him.”

The wolf kept a grip on his arm, dragging him out the door and down the stairs after Fer, who stalked away, her braid ticking back and forth.

Oh, the glamorie had its hooks in her. “Wearing that thing is like wearing a lie,” he called to her as they came out into the polished hallway.

She stopped and whirled to face him. “Oh,
lies
. You know all about lies, don't you, Rook? Where did you go last night? Hmm? Are you going to tell me the truth about that?”

No. He couldn't.

She stepped closer. “I really, really wanted to trust you,” she whispered, and it was Fer talking, not the glamorie. “I needed you to be my friend.”

He stared down at her, feeling that strange tugging at his heart again. He closed his eyes, concentrating. Even though they were on the outs, the thread had started to spin itself out again, connecting him to her. A
binding spell
, his puck-brothers had called it, but that wasn't what it was. Grimly he snapped it, and opened his eyes again. “Fer,” he warned, “don't forget that I'm a puck.”

She turned away again. “How could I forget that?” she called over her shoulder. “You won't ever let me forget.” She paced ahead of him down a hallway crowded with other Lords and Ladies and their retinues, who all turned to stare as they passed.

Still gripping his arm, the wolf-guard dragged him after her. “You don't have to hold on to me so tightly,” Rook complained.

She ignored him.

 

Fer felt the eyes of all the other Lords and Ladies fix on her as she entered the nathewyr, followed by Rook and Fray. The argument with Rook had made her feel achy and sad, and entering the hall made all her worry about the competition boil up inside her, but then the glamorie sparkled over her skin and made her feel taller, more noble, and not nervous or sad at all.

Keeping her chin high, she paced to a spot before the platform, joining Lich and Gnar. The other two competitors had been given glamories to wear for this part of the contest. Their glamories were so fine, they practically glowed, Lich with the pearly light of the moon reflected on water, and Gnar with sparks of keenest flame. They both looked as if wearing the glamorie was the most natural thing in the world. Gnar gave Fer a preening smile, as if to say,
Yes, I know I am beautiful
.

On the platform, the High Ones' thrones were empty. The prize Fer had come to win—the Summerlands crown—was covered with a midnight-blue velvet cloth and rested on its pedestal beside the thrones. The Lords and Ladies in the nathewyr waited, whispering to one another, filling the room with a sound like rustling leaves.

As Fer joined them, Gnar grinned and Lich gave her a solemn bow. “I thank you, Gwynnefar,” he said in his calm voice, “for helping me this morning.”

“I helped too,” Gnar interrupted.

Lich turned his cool gaze on her. “By the time you brought the water, it had all but boiled away. If not for Gwynnefar, I would have dried.”

The quick grin flickered over Gnar's face. “True enough!” She looked Fer up and down. “You're wearing a crown.” She leaned forward to see better, and Fer felt the heat of the other girl's skin, like being close to a hot stove. “Are those real leaves?” Gnar asked.

Fer nodded. “It was given to me when I helped free the Summerlands from the Mór.”

“But that one is the real Summerlands crown,” Gnar said, and pointed at the pedestal where the covered crown rested.

Maybe. Her plain leafy crown felt more right for her land than a heavy silver one. To change the subject, Fer said, “Your glamorie is very beautiful.” Gnar liked compliments, she knew.

Gnar gave her preening smile again and flicked sparks from the tips of her fingers. “Beautiful, yes. But I suppose, Strange One, that even you know what the glamorie is really for.”

She thought she did. But she wasn't sure.

“Yes,” Arenthiel put in from behind her. Fer, Lich, and Gnar didn't acknowledge him, but he stepped up beside them anyway, bestowing upon them his superior smile. “A Lord or Lady wears the glamorie in order to rule.”

And there it was.
Rule
. It meant the Lady, alone, had all the power in her land, and it meant that her people had no choice in what they did—if she ordered something, they had to obey. The glamorie gave its wearer beauty, and it gave her power. And, Fer was starting to suspect, the glamorie changed its wearer too—it made her cold and calculating and uncaring. As an answer, Fer's glamorie gave a chilling sparkle. To rule was right, the glamorie meant.

No. It was
not
right. Fer felt a core of stubbornness forming inside her. A core that the glamorie chilling her skin couldn't touch. Her land was wild and free and wonderful. It could not be tamed or cut into neat rectangles—it would not be ruled, and neither would its people. “Even though I'm wearing the glamorie now,” Fer said steadily, “I won't be that kind of Lady.”

“What do you mean?” Gnar asked, no longer smiling.

Fer spoke more loudly, into a growing silence. “To use the glamorie to rule is wrong.” Her voice rang out in the hall; all the Lords and Ladies had heard. They stared, as if stunned by her words.

Lich and Gnar stared at her too. “See?” Gnar whispered. “Strange.”

“Strange indeed,” Arenthiel put in. He nodded at Rook, where he stood with the wolf-guard's hand on his shoulder. “She brings a puck into our midst, and she is a bit of a puck herself, isn't she, Lich? Isn't she, Gnar?”

“She is,” Gnar said, taking a step back, as if Fer had suddenly contracted some horrible disease. Lich wrinkled his nose with disgust.

“Well, Gwynnefar?” Aren persisted. “You do claim friendship among the pucks, do you not?”

Did she? She was mad at Rook, but it didn't mean she wasn't friends with him anymore. Fer glanced over her shoulder at Rook. He met her gaze and looked away, as if he was feeling guilty about something.

Aren smiled his false, glittery smile. “You do know about pucks, don't you, Gwynnefar? Pucks are a force of chaos. They are wild. Ungoverned by any rule. Dangerous. They upset everything. Like all those who live in these lands, the people of the Summerlands have a bit of wildness in them. Wolf-people. Fox-people. Deer-people. Badger-people. Am I right?”

Fer nodded.

Aren went on. “Without a glamorie, worn by a proper Lady, without sworn oaths, the people of the Summerlands have no
rule
. They will become like the pucks; they will become wild. And you seem to desire this. I expect you would call it
freedom
, or some such foolish thing. Truly, I think you are dangerous as well.”

Wait. She didn't like the idea of rule, but it didn't mean . . . She shook her head. “I'm not dangerous,” Fer protested. She looked to Gnar and Lich for help, but they backed farther away. Maybe their glamories were making them think cold, unfriendly thoughts. No help there.

Aren stepped closer and whispered, so only she could hear. “I am beginning to think, my dear girl, that perhaps you are more dangerous than you realize.”