Authors: R. J. Anderson
Faery Rebels (6 page)
K
nife lay on her bed, staring at the gnarled ceiling of her room. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Paul was still sitting in his wheeled throne, looking at her.
She couldn’t believe she had just stood there like that, right in front of a human. Perhaps it was the shock. She had been too astonished to feel afraid, or even to move. And fortunately he had been just as astonished, or she might not be here right now.
Yet it wasn’t just shock that had made Knife linger by Paul’s side: It was fascination. This was the boy she had met when she first stepped out of the Oak eight summers ago, after all, and part of her had always longed to see him again….
She flopped over onto her stomach, rubbing her eyes.
Stupid girl,
she told herself.
He might not want to eat you, but he could still stomp you flat in an instant. Or worse, he could put you in a cage and keep you there until you die. He’s human, and you’re a faery—you’re nothing alike.
A soft tapping sounded at her door. “Hello?” she said, but there was no reply.
Mystified, Knife rose, lit her candlestick, and went to answer. She stepped out onto the landing and looked around, but all the doors were closed. Had she imagined that knock?
Then her foot struck something solid, and she bit back a yelp as it skittered away across the floor. Some crawling insect—? But no, it was just a small parcel, with her name printed on it. When she picked it up and tore off the wrappings, it turned out to be a book.
More puzzled than ever, Knife went back into her room and sat down on the sofa to examine it. Easing open the cover, feeling the worn leather flake and crackle beneath her fingers, she began to read.
I have never before tried to keep a diary, but Laurel says it is a worthy exercise; and as there is no one whose writings I admire more, I should be foolish not to take her advice. Still, even as I pen these words, I find myself at a loss for what to say. Had I a remarkable friend like Dr. Johnson, I should have no lack of diverting incidents to record, but alas, I am no Boswell.
Knife stared at the tiny, elegant handwriting. Dr. Johnson, Boswell…Those were
human
names. The writer must have lived when the ties between the Oak and the human world were closer—and if so, this diary might help her find the answers she’d been looking for.
Nevertheless, for the sake of my imagined reader I must give myself a proper introduction: Heather by name, one and forty summers of age, born in the reign of good Queen Snowdrop, and now appointed Seamstress of the Oak. I have an apprentice, named Bryony….
That confirmed it, thought Knife with a flare of excitement. She had never heard of Heather, but she knew her own egg-mother’s history well enough: The old Bryony had become the Oak’s Seamstress in the last few years of Queen Snowdrop’s reign, then served for nearly a century before dying and passing that role to her own apprentice, Wink. So this diary had been written near the end of the Days of Magic—exactly the time in the Oak’s history she needed to know about.
Somehow, thought Knife as she smoothed out the crumpled second page, whoever had sent her this book must have known she was trying to find out about the Oakenfolk’s past. Campion, perhaps? But surely it would have been easier for her to just slip the diary onto the back shelf and wait for Knife to find it?
Slowly she turned the diary’s pages. The first few entries were disappointingly ordinary: Heather had found a new lace pattern and was eager to try it; she approved of the chemise her apprentice had just made; and so on. It was like living with Wink all over again, and Knife was about to put the book down when the next line caught her attention:
Jasmine returned to the Oak today, much to everyone’s surprise. No one dared ask why she had come back, for she was full of black looks and could not give a civil word to anyone. I am sure Queen Snowdrop will want to speak to her; she has always been a difficult creature, and now she is insupportable.
Jasmine
…The name tweaked at Knife’s memory. She felt sure she had heard it before, but where?
Azalea says that Jasmine should be called to account for abandoning her post, but the Queen appears to feel more kindly toward her. Indeed, she has forbidden anyone to question Jasmine, and says that she will by no means allow her to be punished.
Knife frowned at the page. What did
abandoning her post
mean? Had Jasmine been sent on some important assignment? But if so, what?
The only idea she could think of was that Jasmine might have been sent out as an ambassador to another faery Wyld. But the Oakenfolk had not seen or heard from any of their
fellow faeries in centuries, so she would have had to search for them first. Curiosity rekindled, Knife read on.
…Jasmine came to my room today, bringing with her a gown which she said was in need of mending. I was tempted to refuse, yet I could not help but exclaim aloud when I saw it, for the bodice was badly torn and one sleeve ripped quite away. The skirt was blackened almost to the knee, as though she had fallen in the mire, and it seemed to me that if this were the gown in which she had returned home, it was little wonder the others had found her ill-tempered. Pity overcame me, and I told her I should have it mended in a fortnight.
“And how shall I repay you for your services?” she asked.
I knew I ought not to pry, yet my curiosity was too great to resist. “Knowledge,” I said. “What misfortune befell you, that you should return to the Oak?”
Her lips pressed tightly together. “I cannot speak of it,” she said. “Suffice it to say that I believe I can better serve our people here.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said, for I saw that I had grieved her.
“No matter,” she said. “If curiosity is a fault, it is one I share.
But I shall offer you knowledge more suited to your craft—some sketches of clothing I saw when Outside, perhaps?”
“Oh!” I said, much surprised. “Could you?”
“Certainly. I have gained some little skill as an artist, since I went away.” She smiled, but her eyes remained bitter. “It would
be pleasant to put the talent to more…worthy use.”
I could not think what to say to that, and we stood a moment in silence. Then Jasmine continued in a lighter tone: “I shall bring you the drawings soon. A fortnight before the gown is mended, you say? I should not like to press you, for I know that you do fine work; but I fear that I have little else to wear.”
“I shall have it ready in a few days,” I told her, for now I truly did pity her. She inclined her head to me, and left.
I have always felt inferior in Jasmine’s presence, and tempted to fault her for it; but now I see that my thoughts have been unkind, and that she has suffered more than any of us guessed. I think that I shall exhort the other faeries to show her more kindness—but discreetly, for Jasmine is proud even in her disgrace, and would no doubt be offended if she thought I was gossiping about her.
Knife was tempted to read on, but by now she was so tired, she could scarcely see the page. She pulled out one long white hair and used it to mark her place, then shut the diary and crawled into bed.
The next morning Knife found the Gatherers lined up in front of the Queen’s Gate as usual, shouldering their baskets and discussing their plans for the day. She could hear Holly’s voice raised above the general chatter: “…done well these past few days, especially as it hasn’t rained until now.
We’re well stocked with berries and greens, so…”
All at once she caught sight of Knife and stopped, swallowing visibly. The other Gatherers also fell silent and averted their eyes.
“What?” asked Knife, but no one answered until Holly cleared her throat to reply:
“I think we won’t be needing you today after all. The crow seems to have moved on, so we should be all right on our own for a while.” She looked around at the others. “You agree, don’t you?”
They all nodded.
“All right,” said Knife, perplexed. “It’s all the same to me. I’ll be out hunting later anyway; if you need me you can always shout.”
Holly looked relieved. “Yes. We’ll do that. Everyone ready? Let’s go.”
Knife watched until the Gatherers had filed out and shut the door behind them. What had all that been about? Surely they couldn’t be frightened of her just because she had gone near a human?
Eventually she shrugged, and headed off toward the kitchen. If her services weren’t going to be needed right away, she might as well have a proper breakfast—and then, perhaps, she’d pay a visit to the library. Reading Heather’s diary had made her curious about the reign of Queen Snowdrop, and she wanted to see what the old histories had to say.
She was surprised, on reaching the kitchen, what a blaze
they had going in the fireplace. Usually the cooking fire was kept modest during the summer months, to keep the inside of the Tree from becoming too stuffy.
Still, that was the kitchen workers’ problem and not hers, and furthermore they all kept looking at her askance as though finding her presence unwelcome, so she poured herself a cup of hot chicory and headed off to the library.
Campion was sitting at the desk when she arrived. The catalog lay open before her, and she dipped her pen mechanically into the inkwell as she stroked out one entry after another. Her head was down, her face hidden behind her hair, but the fingers that gripped the quill were trembling.
“Campion, what—” began Knife, but at the same moment she glanced toward the back of the library, and the words froze on her tongue.
The door to the secret closet stood open, and a trail of ashy footprints led into it and out again. The shelves were empty, the precious books on humans all gone.
“What happened?” demanded Knife, rounding on Campion. “Who did this?”
Campion slowly put the quill back in the inkpot and looked up. Her face was colorless, her eyes so full of fury that Knife took a hasty step back, afraid the other woman might strike her.
“You,” said Campion in a low voice. “You never thought, did you? You couldn’t pretend, even for a moment, to be afraid.”
“I—don’t understand—”
“Of course not, you’re too young to think about anyone but yourself. All you cared about was showing off to the Gatherers. Look at me, not a bit frightened of humans, tra la!” She gave a hysterical laugh. “It never occurred to you, did it, that the Queen might hear how terribly
brave
you were, and start wondering just what had made you feel so confident around humans? Or that she might take—steps—to make sure that no one else would follow your example?”
Nausea crept into Knife’s throat. “You mean…the books…they’ve been destroyed?”
“Oh, yes,” said Campion, biting off the words savagely. “Didn’t you notice what a lovely cheerful fire they’ve got going in the kitchen this morning? All because of you, and I’m sure we’ll appreciate the extra heat even more by this afternoon.”
Knife closed her eyes, her lips shaping inaudible oaths.
“Those books were priceless,” Campion told her. “Irreplaceable. I hope you’re happy.” She snatched up her quill again and began crossing out entries, while a large tear rolled off the end of her nose and splashed onto the page.
“I’m…sorry,” said Knife. She felt helpless and, for the first time she could remember, ashamed.
“Yes, well, that’s what the Queen said, too,” sniffed Campion. “But at least she was doing what she thought was
best for all of us. What’s
your
excuse?”
There was no answer to that, so Knife bowed her head and turned to leave. But then a thought struck her, and she looked back. “I don’t suppose…? What I mean is, if you knew this was coming, then maybe…”
The uncertainty in her voice made Campion look up again, the anger in her sharp face easing. “What?” she said.
“Did you send me a package last night?”
“Me, send a package? To
you
? Right now I wouldn’t give you a dead slug if you offered me gold for it.” Her mouth hardened. “Now get out.”
Defeated, Knife left the library. Climbing the stairs to the Oak’s ground level, she made her way slowly toward the East Root exit, her thoughts full of black smoke.
The first thing she heard when she emerged from the Oak was Beatrice’s tremulous voice: “Paul. Please.”
The words came faintly from the far end of the lawn, but there was no mistaking the distress in them. “I just—I want to talk to you. Why won’t you speak to me?”
Paul made no reply. His blond head inclined a little as she spoke, but his face remained expressionless. Beatrice pressed her hands to her mouth as though muffling a sob, then hurried back into the house, leaving her son alone on the veranda.
Knife folded her arms and studied Paul critically. He
must be quite proud of that throne of his, since he was always sitting in it. His own mother waited on him like a servant, and pleaded for his favor. And yet for all that apparent wealth and power, he did not seem happy.
Well, he was in good company there, thought Knife with a rush of bitterness. How could Amaryllis have burned those books? She had been a scholar once; she should have known better….
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of faery voices. Knife glanced back to see two Gatherers emerge from the Oak, duck beneath the hedge, and pick their way down the slope, heading for the distant wood. Somehow they had become separated from the rest of the group, but judging by their slow pace it didn’t concern them very much.
Knife made a disgusted noise. All that fuss about Old Wormwood and the need for extra protection, when the whole time she’d guarded them there was scarcely a crow to be seen. And now there they were, sauntering across the field as though—
She snapped her fingers. Of course! Old Wormwood had never returned at all. The whole story had been a lie, an excuse to keep Knife busy. Somehow Queen Amaryllis must have found out that she’d been watching the humans again, and put her on guard duty to punish her. No wonder the Gatherers out there didn’t seem afraid! They knew there had never been any real danger.