Summerkin (9 page)

Thirteen

“I said he was not to be trusted, Lady,” Fray said from her post by the door.

“I know you did,” Fer answered, turning at the wall and pacing back across the room. Her bee zipped around her head, as if it could feel her nervousness. She wore her nightgown and robe, but she hadn't been able to sleep. Rook wasn't back yet, and it had to be almost dawn.

Twig appeared at her bedroom door, rubbing her eyes. “What's the matter?”

“The puck's still gone. He's betrayed us,” Fray said, her voice a low growl.

Had he? Had he
really
? Fer shook her head. “We don't know that he's done anything wrong.”

“It's most likely,” Fray said. “You don't know how pucks truly are, Lady. That puck has tricked you. He can't be your friend; it's not in his nature.”

A knocking, and they all turned toward the door. It swung open, and the stick-people came in with their loaded trays. “Breakfast,” said the nathe-warden, a different one this time, a man who had wide brown eyes like a deer but who wore the same uniform as the other wardens she'd seen.

Fer stepped up to the door. “My friend has gone out,” she said, thinking quickly. “He's under my protection. If he comes back, be sure to let him in, all right?”

The warden blinked his big eyes, then bowed. “As you command.”

The stick-people set down their trays and left again, and the door closed behind them. Fray and Twig started to eat, and Fer sat on a cushion at the low table and poured tea and tried to eat something, but worry gnawed at her stomach. What would the nathe-wardens do to Rook if they caught him? What would they do to
her
?

The next part of the competition was this morning. It would be shooting with bow and arrow, the bear-man had told them yesterday, and after losing so badly in the race, she had to win. She knew how to shoot. The Mór had taught her, and she had practiced until she was good at it. But if Rook was out there causing some kind of trouble, the High Ones might not let her compete at all.

She was tearing pieces off a sweet roll when the door burst open. “Your friend has returned,” said the warden blandly, and shoved Rook into the room. The warden left, slamming the door behind him.

Rook panted as if he'd been running, his black hair was a mass of tangles, and he had a long, bloody scratch on his leg.

Fer dropped the roll and set down her teacup with a clatter. “Rook!” She jumped to her feet. “Are you all right?”

“I am, yes,” Rook answered, catching his breath. His eyes went to the table. “Is that breakfast?”

Not for the first time in their friendship, she wanted to strangle him. “Where have you been?” she asked. He opened his mouth to answer, and she interrupted. “And don't say ‘none of your business.' It
is
my business. If you get into trouble, then I get into trouble.” She waited for him to explain himself, but he didn't speak, just stood scowling at the floor. Okay. Fine. She still had plenty of healing herbs in her box. “I'll put some medicine on that scrape so it doesn't get infected.”

“It's all right,” he said, his voice rough, and brushed past her to the table, where he crouched and tore into the food like a ravenous dog.

No more
Oh, Rook
. She was starting to get mad. She spun on her heel and stalked into her room to get ready.

When she had dressed—her jeans and patch-jacket were still a little damp from the day before—and Twig had finished braiding her hair, Fer picked up her bow and slung the quiver of arrows over her shoulder and went back into the main room. The bee was on the table, leaving tiny footprints in the butter from breakfast. Rook was sprawled awkwardly across two of the pillows, sound asleep.

She stood looking down at him. Rook was ragged and grubby, and he was, for sure, keeping dark secrets from her. “You were right, Fray,” she admitted. “I shouldn't have let him come with us,”

“It's all right, Lady,” Fray said gruffly from over by the door. “I'll keep a closer eye on him. He won't slip away again, not if I can help it.”

 

After Fer had checked on Phouka, she headed out to the green lawn before the nathe, where the archery contest was set to begin. Like the day before, tents had been set up, but now they were there to protect the Lords and Ladies and the High Ones from the sun, which blazed down from a brilliant blue-glass sky.

As she stepped out onto the lawn, gripping her bow, Lord Artos loomed up before her.

“Gwynnefar,” he rumbled. “The High Ones wish to speak with you before this morning's competition begins.”

Fer felt a twist of worry in her chest. “Okay,” she answered, and followed Artos to the tent. The air beneath it was cool and shadowed. The two High Ones, dressed in white, their braided sunlight hair like crowns on their heads, sat apart from the other Lords and Ladies. Artos led her to them and then stepped aside, leaving Fer standing on the grass before them.

For a long moment, the two High Ones looked her over, and Fer felt the heaviness of their gazes. Their power was rooted so deeply; it made her shiver, standing this close.

“Gwynnefar,” one of them said, and Fer almost jumped, the voice was so unexpected. It was cool and clear, like water flowing over smooth rocks.

She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do. Bow, maybe? Kneel? Part of her wanted to kneel before such power. But she didn't; she just tried to stand straighter.

“We ask you, Gwynnefar,” the other High One said. “Are you content with the outcome of yesterday's contest?”

“Not really,” Fer answered.

“But you saved your fellow competitor's life,” the High One said smoothly. “Does that not content you?”

“Well, yes. It does,” Fer said. “But I lost the race.”

The dappled faces of the High Ones were calm, and they didn't speak, they just looked. Their power rippled around her. Fer felt like squirming under their gazes, but kept herself still. It felt as though they were seeing into her deepest, most secret heart.

What did they see there?

“What is it to win?” asked the first High One at last.

“And what is it to lose?” asked the other, in a lower voice.

Fer blinked. What did
that
mean?

“That is all,” Lord Artos said, suddenly appearing at her shoulder.

Fer felt the High Ones watching her as she left the tent.

What had they wanted with her? Were they glad that she'd lost? Or did they mean something else?

Leaving the cool tent, Fer broke out in a sweat just crossing the grass. As she reached the others, she took off her patch-jacket and tied it around her waist, then put the quiver back over her shoulder again.

“Hi,” she said to Lich and Gnar.

The Drylands girl gave her a wide grin in return. “Good morning, Strange One.” Then she tilted her face toward the sky as if she was drinking in the sun's warmth.

Beside Gnar stood Lich. He carried a bow as tall as he was. On his head he wore a wide hat, keeping his pale face shaded from the sun. “Lovely day for lizards,” he said, with a dour look at Gnar.

“You're all right?” Fer asked Gnar. She certainly looked healthy.

“Better than all right,” Gnar answered, holding up her bow. It was black, of course, and its ends were carved with dragon heads that had glittering red jewels for eyes. “I am an excellent archer, and I am planning to win today.”

Fer found herself smiling at the other girl's fiery confidence. “Not if I can help it,” she said, holding up her own bow.

Gnar gave her
snrr snrr
laugh, smoke drifting up from her nostrils.

Still smiling, Fer busied herself buckling on a leather bracer so the bowstring wouldn't take the skin off her left forearm, then looked around. A row of white targets with black bullseyes had been set up way across the lawn, at the edge of the forest. Hmm. Somehow she felt sure that this part of the contest would be more challenging than just shooting at targets.

Arenthiel came bounding across the grass to join them, flashing his glittering smile. “Good morning, all,” he said brightly, as if he hadn't refused to help Gnar the day before; as if he hadn't left his horse cold and bleeding it its stall.

In silent agreement, Fer, Lich, and Gnar turned away, ignoring him.

Then Fer had a thought and turned back. She knew why Gnar and Lich wanted to win the silver crown. They each wanted to turn the Summerlands into a home—into a desert, for Gnar, or into a swamp, for Lich. “Arenthiel,” she asked. “Why do you want to be Lord of the Summerlands?”

He raised his perfect eyebrows. “It is a wild and ugly land,” he said smoothly. “As its Lord, I will tame it. I will make it beautiful.”

But her Summerlands were already beautiful. What Arenthiel really wanted, she suspected, was to control the land. His idea of beauty, she guessed, would be to cut down the forests and divide the Summerlands into squares and rectangles of neatly trimmed lawn.

She
was
not
going to let that happen. He had won the race the day before, but today she would win.

Over by the tents, Lord Artos, the bear-man, was speaking with the High Ones. He bowed and crossed the lawn to where the contestants waited. “The archery contest will begin in a moment. You will shoot there—” He pointed at the targets at the edge of the forest. “And there.” Then he pointed behind them.

Fer turned with the others to look and saw that another row of four targets had been set up on the edge of the grass closest to the nathe. Maybe a quarter of a mile of lawn lay between the two sets of targets.

“Your skill with the bow will be tested,” Lord Artos went on, “your accuracy, the speed at which you loose a shot, and your stamina. The first round begins here.” He nodded at the targets nearest the nathe. “After each round, I will tell you what comes next.”

“That seems simple enough,” Arenthiel said, all cool confidence. Over his shoulder he carried a crossbow inlaid with silver. Its shape, with the bow at the end and the long stock, reminded Fer of a dragonfly.

Lich was busy getting ready, pulling his longbow back against his leg to string it, then adjusting his wide-brimmed hat. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, Fer noticed, and long pants, both made of white leather. Hot, she figured, but it protected him from the sun. Lich saw Fer watching him and pointed with his chin at Arenthiel, who was using what looked like a crank to pull back the string of his crossbow. “He's not an archer,” Lich said, in a low voice.

Gnar was listening too, and stepped closer. “Crossbow,” she said, as if that explained it.

“What do you mean?” Fer asked.

“He shoots a crossbow,” Lich said calmly. “It requires less skill, and far less practice to become accurate. But he will be slow to reload.”

“It'll be heavy, too,” Gnar added, with one of her flashing grins. “Though so is that tree you've got there.” She pointed at Lich's longbow.

Lich gave a damp sniff, but Fer was sure she saw a smile in his eyes. Fer couldn't help smiling herself. Lich and Gnar were her competition, but she was starting to like them.

“Are you ready?” Lord Artos's rumbling voice interrupted. He led them over to the four targets—one for each of them. The white canvas they were made of glittered under the hot sun. Nearby were the tents where the Lords and Ladies and the High Ones sat in shady comfort, watching.

“The first round tests your accuracy. From twenty paces, you will each take five shots. Begin!”

Fer felt a sudden jolt of excitement. But no. To shoot cleanly, she had to have steady hands. She took a deep breath and ran her fingers along the smooth curve of her bow.

She knew how to shoot. She'd practiced every day she'd spent back in the human world with Grand-Jane. The tips of the three fingers she used to draw back the bowstring were callused and her arm muscles were strong. Carefully she shut out the tent full of spectators, and the heavy gaze of the High Ones, and the sun blazing down on the top of her head, and the other archers. It was just her and the target. She reached back and took an arrow out of the quiver and fitted it to the string. Pulling back the string to her cheek, she sighted down the arrow to the center of the target. She waited one breath, two, then felt the rightness of the shot settle in, and released the string. Her arrow flew cleanly and landed with a satisfying
thunk
on the inner edge of the bullseye.

Without hurrying, she shot four more times, hitting the black twice more, and not far off it on the other two shots. When she looked up, the others had finished.

Gnar had done about as well as Fer had, though smoke drifted up from the feathered ends of two of her arrows.

All of Aren's arrows were in the black.

And Lich's five long arrows were clustered in a tight circle at the center of the bullseye. Perfect shooting.

All right. Fer took a deep breath. She would just have to shoot better.