Summerkin (18 page)

Fer nodded. “I think so. You might find him some food for when he wakes up.” He'd be ravenous when he did. Maybe they could find some rabbits to eat—that's what he liked. Now, she needed help with this. “You—” She pointed at the puck named Tatter.

“Me?” he asked, with a quick grin.

“I need you to grind up these herbs. Like this.” She showed him the grinding motion, the one she'd learned by working for hours in Grand-Jane's stillroom. She handed him the mortar and pestle.

With a shrug, Tatter sat beside her and started to grind the herbs.

“You—” Fer pointed at Lich. “Run and tell Fray that we'll need plenty of blankets, too.”

Lich bobbed his head and hurried away.

She took the top off the bottle of tincture and mixed some of it with the honey. “Is that all ground up?” she asked Tatter.

“It is, yes,” he said.

She took the mortar from him and set it on the ground. Fray came up with a clay pot full of boiling water. “Good,” Fer said, taking it from her. She put the ground herbs into the hot water, then added the honey and tincture.

She lifted Arenthiel's head and held the cup to his dry lips. The healing tea dribbled down his chin. “Tatter,” she said. “I need you to hold him up.”

As the Lords and Ladies stared, Tatter knelt beside Arenthiel and gently eased him up so Fer could feed him the medicine. But his eyes stayed closed and more tea was wasted. Fer let out a frustrated sigh. She wanted to help him, but this wasn't working.

“You're not doing it right,” Tatter said.

“Oh, really,” Fer muttered, trying again. “Who's the healer here, me or you?”

The puck laughed. “I'll be needing a bit of cloth,” he said.

Okay, fine. Setting down the tea, Fer ripped a patch from her jacket and handed it to him.

“This'll do very well,” Tatter said. He dipped a corner of the patch into the tea. Then he gently pried open Arenthiel's mouth and put in a fold of the wet cloth. He did this over and over again, patiently feeding Arenthiel the medicine, while the Lords and Ladies watched.

Finally Arenthiel gave a weak cough, and his eyes opened. With steady hands, Tatter took the cup of medicine and fed it to him, sip after sip. When the cup was empty, he handed it to Fer with a sharp grin. “It's all right, Fer-Lady. He'll do.”

Twenty-five

After tending to everyone who'd been injured in the fight—both her own people and the Lords and Ladies—and setting the badger-men to looking after all the mounts, and thanking the deep-forest kin before they left to return to the thickly wooded valley they lived in, Fer got ready to take Arenthiel back to the nathe. The High Ones would have to decide what to do with him.

As they stood under the Lady Tree, Fray and Twig tried to convince her to stay. “Your place is here, Lady, not in that nasty nathe,” Fray said. Beside her, Twig nodded.

“Don't worry,” Fer reassured them. “I'll go quickly and come right back home. I need you to stay here and keep an eye on things.” She nodded toward the edge of the forest where the pucks lurked in a shadowy group, Rook still asleep in their midst, then at the one Lord and two Ladies who were too injured to travel with the rest of them. She didn't think there'd be trouble, but she needed Fray and Twig here, just in case.

Tatter came up, leading Arenthiel's horse. Arenthiel himself sat slumped on its back, wrapped in a blanket. “He's all ready to go,” the puck said. “Tell the High Ones that we pucks have given him a new name.” He leaned over and whispered in her ear.

“Tatter!” Fer said, half laughing. “That's an awful name!”

“You tell them,” Tatter said, still grinning. “If they don't call him by his proper puck name, we'll be hearing about it, and then there'll be terrible trouble for them.”

She bet there would. “Okay, I'll tell them,” she promised.

“And there's this,” Tatter said. He handed her a bag. “It was tied to the back of his horse's saddle.” Arenthiel's, he meant.

Fer opened the bag. Inside, wrapped in midnight-blue velvet, was the silver crown. Good. The High Ones had said in front of everyone that the one who returned the crown would win the competition. They wouldn't have any choice but to confirm that she was the Lady of the Summerlands.

Tatter handed her the reins of Arenthiel's horse, and she said good-bye and walked along the path through the forest. Her bees buzzed lazily over her head, contented in the golden light of the setting sun. The late afternoon was full of rustling leaves and the humming of her bees. In the distance, she could hear a stream rushing over rocks. She followed the path until she reached the Way that would take her to the Lake of All Ways and the nathe. The Lords and Ladies and Gnar and Lich were waiting. Phouka was waiting too.

Fer handed the reins of Arenthiel's horse to Lich and went over to Phouka. “Are you coming?” she asked.

He leaned his head forward and whuffled into her neck. It tickled.

She grabbed his mane and swung up onto his back, careful not to drop the bag with the crown in it, then waited with the Lords and Ladies for the sun to go down. As the day turned to night, she led them into the Way they'd battered through—something she'd have to fix later, she reminded herself. Arenthiel came last, silent and huddled in his blanket.

They came out on the bank of the Lake of All Ways and the High Ones were waiting for them with the rest of the nathe, standing before the vine-wall with the half-moon rising behind them.

Fer climbed down from Phouka's back, feeling suddenly very small and grubby. And tired, too. She took a deep, steadying breath. She hadn't lost her leafy crown; that was something. It was still as fresh and green as ever on top of her head. And she had the bag with the silver crown in it.

As always, Lord Artos, the bear-man, stepped up to speak for the High Ones. “Explain yourself, Gwynnefar,” he said sternly.

“
Lady
Gwynnefar,” Fer corrected.

She opened the bag and pulled out the velvet-wrapped package inside. Unwrapping it, she laid the silver crown at the High Ones' feet. In the moonlight, it shone with gentle radiance. But its beauty couldn't trick her. “That's the crown you offered,” she said. “But I don't want it. I like my own crown better.” She reached up to touch the circlet of leaves and twigs. Then she told them everything, that Arenthiel had stolen the crown and framed Rook for it, that he'd tried to cheat in the contest to win the Lordship of the Summerlands. And that he'd failed. “You should find something for him to do,” she said, pointing at Arenthiel, “besides plotting.”

And she had another thing to say to the High Ones.

“You, and all the rest of you—” She pointed at all the Lords and Ladies of the nathe who had gathered in the chilly moonlight. “You've got it the wrong way around. Sometimes some people have more power than others. It's that way in the human world too. But those with power should do good things with it. If you are true Lords and Ladies, you won't command them with your glamories; you won't demand that your people swear oaths to you. You should swear to serve them, and to serve your lands.”

She finished. Maybe they would listen to her, and maybe they wouldn't. “I
am
the Lady of the Summer-lands,” she added, just to be sure they understood. “I am sworn to serve all my people.”

There was a moment of shocked silence, and then the High Ones glided forward, stepping past the silver crown, as graceful as birch trees swaying in the wind. Their power washed over Fer. It was stronger than any glamorie, ancient and—somehow—pure. Fer closed her eyes, feeling how deeply the High Ones belonged here, in this place.

Lord Artos opened his mouth to speak for them, but then one of the High Ones waved him silent and beckoned to Fer.

On shaky legs, Fer went over to stand before them. She knew she was supposed to bow her head and kneel, but she steadied herself and stayed on her feet. She looked up at the High Ones.

Their eyes were ancient and deep and knowing. “Did you know, Gwynnefar,” one of them said in her flowing-water voice, “that you nearly lost the competition in the final round?”

Fer took a deep breath. “Because I took off the glamorie?”

“No,” the High One said. Her voice was smiling, even though her dappled face stayed still and smooth. “Because you put it on.”

“Ohhh.” Fer breathed. It really
had
been a test.

“Your mother . . .” one of the High Ones began.

“Your mother, the Lady Laurelin,” the other continued, “refused to wear the glamorie. She was the first Lady ever to do so.” Ignoring Fer's gasp of surprise, the High One went on. “It was a terrible risk she took. Because she did not rule her people as a Lady should, one of her people—the crow-warrior, the Mór—rebelled against the oath she had sworn your mother. The Mór took the glamorie for herself; she killed your mother and attempted to rule as Lady in her place.”

“Thanks to you, Gwynnefar,” the first High One put in, “she failed.”

“But we wonder . . .” the other High One began.

“Yes, we wonder,” the first continued smoothly. “Was your mother right to refuse to rule?”

There was a cool silence. When Fer spoke, she felt like her words were dropping like stones into still water, spreading ripples as they fell. “My mother was right,” she said steadily. “To rule is wrong.”

The Lords and Ladies gathered behind the High Ones stirred at that, and murmured to one another.

“Arenthiel was right about one thing,” a High One said. “You are dangerous, Fer. As your mother was before you. Time passes slowly here, and in some places, not at all. Change does not come often to these lands. You bring change.” She paused, and Fer saw a flash of something in her dark eyes, like a ripple passing over deepest water. “Whether that change is for good or for evil, we have yet to discover.”

There was a long, still silence.

“I—I think it's good,” Fer said. She hoped it was.

“See that it is so,” the High One said.

Trembling, Fer nodded. “I will.” The High One nodded. Fer was dismissed, she understood. Trying not to stumble with sudden weariness, Fer crossed the grass and climbed onto Phouka's back. Time to go home.

Oops, she'd almost forgotten. “The pucks helped save Arenthiel's life,” she said to the High Ones. “And they gave him a new name. Will you make sure he's called by that name from now on?”

“We will, Lady Gwynnefar,” the High One answered, all solemn and beautiful under the silver moonlight.

Fer felt a sudden lightness in her heart. She grinned down at them from Phouka's back. “The pucks named him Old Scrawny. They'll know if you change it, so that's what you'd better call him.”

The High Ones nodded at that. Then they used their power to open the Way for her. Leaving Old Scrawny to his fate, Fer rode through the opened Way, going back to her own land—to her home, and to her kin.

 

When Rook woke up under Fer's Lady Tree, it was night and his puck-brother Asher was kneeling on the ground next to him, building a fire. Tatter sat on a thick root, and Rip crouched in the shadows nearby.

“Where's Fer?” Rook asked, pushing the blankets off and sitting up. How long had he been asleep? What had happened with Arenthiel's hunt? Things must have worked out all right, or his brothers wouldn't be here. He stretched. His stomach felt like a gaping black cavernous cave of emptiness. “Ow. Is there anything to eat?”

“There will be in a moment, Pup,” Asher answered, and tossed more wood onto the fire, then held a spitted rabbit over the flames.

“You don't have to cook it too much,” Rook said, leaning forward. “I don't mind it a little bloody.”

Asher laughed at him.

Rook stared at the rabbit, watching juices drip into the fire as it cooked. His mouth watered. His stomach was going to eat
him
if he didn't put something in it soon.

“You asked about the Lady,” Rip growled from the shadows. “Before you asked about your brothers.”

Whoops. “They're all well?” Rook asked. “Is that done yet?” he said to Asher.

“Not yet, Pup,” his brother-puck answered with a grin. “And yes, we're all well. Thanks to that Lady of yours.”

Rip moved out of the shadows. He was hard to see in the firelight, with his red-and-black-painted skin. “Are you bound to the Fer-Lady, Rook?” he asked, his teeth gleaming.

“It seems like you are,” Tatter put in from his log.

Rook blinked. He was. Sort of. The thread he'd felt before, the one he'd broken twice, had spun itself out again, connecting him to Fer. It was just a cobweb of a thread; he could easily break it again. That would make three times, and the thread would never connect them again.

“It's her binding magic,” Rip growled.

Rook shook his head. “I've been bound before, to the Mór, and this is nothing like that.” He nodded at the fire. “I think that's done, Asher.”

His brother-puck pulled the rabbit off the fire. “It's not binding magic she's using, but it's something,” Asher said slowly. He handed the cooked rabbit to Rook. “Careful, it's hot.”

Ignoring his brother-puck's warning, Rook ripped into the rabbit. Mmmm, perfectly bloody, just as he liked it. Juices ran down his chin and he tore off a leg, gnawing it down to the bone.

“Something,” Tatter put in. “That Lady of yours has something about her. I can feel it too.”

“Doesn't matter,” Rip said. “We're not bound to her.”

“She offered us safety here,” Tatter argued. He leaned forward, and his yellow eyes reflected the firelight. “She's our back way out, our safe place. There aren't any oaths between us, but she's our Lady, whether we like it or not.”

“Not,” said Rip fiercely. “We are
pucks
. She is not our Lady.”

“Maybe you're right.” Tatter shrugged. “It's clear, anyway, that she doesn't understand what a puck truly is.”

Rip gave a nasty grin. “We'll show her, then, won't we.”

“Well, we're not tame, at any rate,” Asher said, getting to his feet. “The other lands are safer for us now. We'll be leaving when the moon gets a little higher; we'll wait at the Way and go through as soon as the sun rises and it opens.” He gazed down at Rook. “You can come with us, Pup, as you please. We'll be glad if you do, and we'll be back in this land again to see you if you don't. You choose.”

Asher faded into the shadows. Rip followed. Tatter shot him a quick grin and then left too.

Rook put down the rabbit and got to his feet, ready to follow them. They were his brothers; he needed to follow. But the thread of connection still tied him to Fer. All he had to do was break it, and then he would go.

 

Fer came through the Way from the nathe, landing in the dark clearing. Phouka was tired too. He trotted along the path to his favorite meadow, where he stopped. She yawned as she slid off his broad back. The meadow smelled of grass warmed by the sun all day, and clover, and of the falling dew. “Thanks for the ride,” she whispered to Phouka, and leaned against his warm, solid side. She felt tired down to her bones. Maybe she could just lie down in the meadow and sleep until morning.