Summerkin (16 page)

Twenty-three

Rook watched as Grand-Jane got to work in her stillroom making protective spells, herbs in little bags for him and Fer to wear around their necks. Not for herself, though. She wouldn't go through the Way to his world, she said. Fer had to deal with Arenthiel on her own.

Rook inspected his spell-bag doubtfully.

“It's real magic,” Grand-Jane said as she pounded herbs in a mortar.

While she worked, Rook paced from one end of the stillroom to the other. If he stopped moving, the fading would get him. “You can't be sure Fer didn't swear that oath to Arenthiel,” he growled.

“She didn't,” Grand-Jane growled back at him. “I trust my granddaughter. And so should you.”

He thought he did, but he couldn't be absolutely certain Fer was free of the oath, or of the glamorie she'd been wearing when he'd last seen her, or that she would come for him even if she was free. He rubbed his aching head, trying to think clearly. Fer probably still believed that he'd stolen the stupid Summerlands crown. She might have even joined the hunt for his brother-pucks. If she had bound herself to Arenthiel and he ordered it, she wouldn't have any choice but to hunt them.

Thinking about his brothers hurt too much. He growled and paced some more. Fer's bee buzzed fretfully around his head. Then another bee buzzed past his face. He blinked. Two bees? Was he seeing double? A third bee zinged past.

Bees meant Fer. “She's here!”

At the workbench, Grand-Jane dropped a pestle with a crash and stuffed a few last herbs and some other things into a leather pouch. “Quickly!” She hurried to the kitchen door, flung it open, and looked out. “Jennifer!” she called. The afternoon was heavy with gray clouds, and snow was falling too. A cold gust blew in the open door.

There was no answer to her call.

Grand-Jane grabbed his arm. “She must have sent the bees ahead. She'll be coming through the Way. You must get to her as fast as you can.” She shoved him out the door and down the steps. “Change into a horse.”

“Oh, sure,” he grumbled, shivering as his bare feet landed on the snow-dusted grass. “Any more shifts in this place and you'll have to send home my bones in a sack.”

“Stop fussing,” Grand-Jane ordered. “Are you going to shift or not?”

As an answer his hand went to his pocket; he snatched out his shifter-bone and popped it into his mouth. He stumbled and braced himself against the rush of dizziness as the shift took him, then threw back his head and snorted, knowing she saw standing before her a black horse with a tangled mane and flame-bright eyes. As a horse he could travel swiftly along the straight roads; he'd have to shift again, to his dog form, when he got to the stream that led to the Way.

And after two shifts like that, the fading would get him for sure.

“Take this,” Grand-Jane said, knotting a hank of his mane through a strap on the pouch of herbs. “Jennifer will know what to do with it.” She raised that terrifying finger of hers again. “And you listen to me, Puck. There will be no betrayals and no trickery. You must trust my granddaughter.”

He'd decide that when he saw her.

“Now, run!” Grand-Jane shouted.

And with a snort and a stamp, he was off.

 

Fer had sent her bees ahead to scout. As she fell through the Way, feeling the tumbling blackness that meant she was entering the human world, the bees returned, whirling around her like sparks flying up from a bonfire. On the other side, she fell sprawling on the frozen bank of the pond. Not very Ladylike, she found herself thinking. Of course, she wasn't a Lady in the human world. The oak-leaf crown had slipped over one eye, and she straightened it, then scrambled to her feet, brushing snow off her jeans.

Time moved so fast here—it was winter already. She shook her head, getting her bearings, then realized that she wasn't alone in the clearing. Just stepping off the snowy path that led along the stream was a black dog who had one ear sticking up and one flopped over, flame-bright eyes, and a muzzle full of sharp teeth. He held what looked like a leather pouch in his mouth. Seeing her, he dropped it and stood with his hackles raised, panting as if he'd been running hard.

She felt a huge wave of relief—he wasn't dead yet, anyway. “Rook!” She stepped closer.

The dog lunged toward her, his teeth bared in a snarl.

She backed up, teetering at the edge of the pond. “Rook, it's me!”

The growling deepened.

With a jolt, she remembered. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been wearing the glamorie and her fine Lady clothes, and standing next to Arenthiel as he pronounced a sentence of death on him. No wonder he was suspicious. More suspicious than usual, anyway. “Rook, look at me,” she said, holding her arms out. “I'm not wearing the glamorie.”

The air around the dog blurred and Rook caught the shifter-tooth in his hand. In his person shape, he staggered back as if dizzy, and crouched on the snowy ground with his head lowered. She stepped closer, and he flinched away, growling fiercely. “Did you swear an oath to Arenthiel?” he asked, his voice rough.

“No, I didn't. He was lying if he told you I did.” She shivered, realizing how close she'd come to being bound to him. “I didn't swear the oath. Fray knocked him on the head and she told me that he sent you here to die.”

He shook his head, still wary.

What would convince him? Oh. “Rook, your brother-pucks are all right. They're in my land.”

He stared at her. “What?”

She nodded. “Your puck-brothers are in the Summerlands,” she told him again. And a third time, so he'd know it was true. “Your brothers are alive.”

She saw him close his eyes and let out a breath, as if he'd been bracing himself against a terrible weight and it had suddenly been lifted. “You
helped
them, didn't you.” He gave a ghost of his sharp grin.

She didn't know why that was funny. “I sent my bees to find them.” She went down on her knees in the snow next to Rook. “Once I explained what was going on, they agreed to come with me.” It hadn't been quite that easy, but she didn't have time to tell Rook all about it now. She reached out and laid a gentle hand against his shoulder. For once, he didn't flinch away. Probably too tired. “We need to get you back to the Summerlands.”

He looked up at her, his eyes shadowed, as if the flame in them was dying. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out.

“Come on,” she said. She picked up the heavy leather pouch he'd been carrying and stuffed it into her patch-jacket pocket, then grabbed his arm, dragging him up. He wavered to his feet and stood leaning against her; she put her arm around his waist. Half dragging him, she struggled to the edge of the pond. She couldn't put him down to open the Way—hopefully this would work. She reached out her toe and touched the surface of the water.

A dark ripple spread out and Fer stepped into the pond and took them through.

 

As they tumbled through the Way, leaving the human world, she lost her grip on Rook, and as they entered the Summerlands he went sprawling onto the mossy ground. She went to crouch beside him. Her bees buzzed worriedly around them. Rook lay with his mouth open and his eyes closed, as if he was sleeping. She checked for fever, resting her fingers on his forehead, but his skin was cool. He probably
was
sleeping, after three or four days awake in the human world.

“She's here!” she heard someone shout, and then more shouts. “The Lady! The Lady has come back!”

Fer looked up. It was night; time flowed so slowly here in the Summerlands that only a few moments had passed since she had left. A fire had been lit near the pond, and her people were gathering. All of her people, shadows in the firelight, crowded around the clearing and the pool to see her, murmuring about the fallen puck.

Then Fray and Twig were at her side. Phouka pushed his nose in and snuffled at his puck-brother.

“It's okay, Phouka,” she said, patting his neck. “He's just sleeping.” She raised her head and called to the pucks who waited in a surly crowd beyond the firelight. “Rook's all right.” He was better than all right, really. He looked quite peaceful and content, lying there on his soft bed of moss. She gave her head a wry shake. He was awfully good at getting himself into trouble.

“Lady,” Fray interrupted urgently. “Arenthiel and his hunt are trying to break through the other Way, even though it should be closed until morning. You must come at once.”

She looked around the clearing, at the Way to the human world, which glimmered with reflected firelight, at her people, who had gathered—Fray and the other wolf-guards, and Twig and her twin sister, Burr, and the deer-women and badger-men, and all the rest of them. The deep-forest kin had come too, the oldest and wisest of the land's people, the ones whose roots grew deepest. And the pucks, lurking in the shadows.

“Let them come,” she decided, getting to her feet. “We'll fight them here.”

Her people murmured at that, and through the spiderweb threads that connected her to them, she felt their fright but also their determination. They did not want the Summerlands to be ruled by a Lord like Arenthiel. But without their oaths to tie them to her, they were adrift, unsure of their connection to her.

“Lady,” Fray pleaded. “You must let us swear our oaths to you, so we can defend you.”

Her heart sank. She had resisted taking their oaths for so long. Was it time to give up, and just become the kind of Lady this place, and its rules, demanded? She wouldn't be able to defeat Arenthiel if she didn't.

“Quickly, Lady,” Fray urged. “They are coming.”

She opened her mouth to say no—and she knew that they would never ask again, that this was the last chance she would have to prove herself the true Lady of this land.

And then she felt it, the answer clicking into place inside her. The other Way was besieged and the hunt would be upon them soon, but she would do this right. Slowly she stepped away from the human-world Way, leaving it behind her, leaving Rook sound asleep beside it. Then, feeling solemn and shaky, she bowed to her people.

She felt their confusion as they all, except for the pucks, bowed back.

“The High Ones called me to the nathe to make me prove myself the true Lady of the Summerlands,” she said slowly, thinking it through. “Their kind of Lady takes her people's oaths and rules over them and the land. She wears the glamorie and a silver crown and feels cold inside.” Fer nodded, feeling the rightness of what she was about to do. “I won't be that kind of Lady. I will not
rule
. I will never ask for your oaths.”

“But Lady Gwynnefar,” Fray said, frowning. “We need to swear oaths so we'll be bound to you, so we can fight for you. It is our way and we need to do it
now
.”

“We're supposed to serve you,” Twig added. “All of the people of the land want this, Lady.”

“That's not how it should be,” Fer said firmly. “If I am truly your Lady, then I should swear to serve
you
.”

As she said the words, the rightness of them swept through her. Yes, that's what she would do. Fer stepped farther into the clearing so her people were all around her. Twig was shorter than she was, and thin as a sapling; Fray towered over them both, even though she wasn't much older than they were. “Give me your hands,” Fer said. Wide-eyed, they did. The rest of her people moved closer, crowding into the clearing, around the glimmering Way.

Her bees settled on her head like a crown over the leafy crown she already wore, their wings flickering. She spoke clearly so they could all hear. “I am your Lady and your kin, and I swear to you, Fray, and to you, Twig, and to the deep-forest kin and to all of the people of this land that I will serve you and protect you and help you. If you are injured, I will heal you, and”—she thought quickly—“and when we are attacked I will fight for you. I, Fer, swear this oath.” Then, to make it really binding, she added, “I swear it once, twice, three times.”

She'd been connected to them all before, a thread as delicate as a spiderweb, but as she spoke the oath the thread became a magical cord of kinship like silvery steel, unbreakable, binding until death. She felt a new awareness of her land, too, from the tiniest bug burrowing into the ground, to the greenest leaf at the top of the tallest tree, from the Ways to the farthest reaches of the forests. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the connection washed through her, and she would have staggered, except that she felt as if she was strongly, deeply rooted there, and could never be moved.

Twig's face shone with happiness. “Lady,” she whispered.

Fer put her arms around Twig; she felt Fray's strong arms come around them both. Her crown of bees gave a contented buzz. At the edge of the clearing, the deep-forest kin hummed their approval, a sound like wind in high branches.