“Your what?”
He looked at her then, his gaze questioning at first, then strangely sorrowful. “Am Fear-faire,” he repeated. “My guardians. I have at least two with me at all times.”
“Why?”
“Because I am a Winter faerie.” Jamison walked slowly down the earthen path, seeming to weigh his words as he spoke them. “Our gifts are the rarest of all fae, so we are honored. We alone can open the gates, so we are protected. And Avalon itself is vulnerable to our power, so we must never be compromised by an enemy. With great power—”
“Comes great responsibility?” Laurel finished.
Jamison turned to her, smiling now. “And who taught you this?”
Laurel paused, confused. “Uh, Spider-Man?” she said lamely.
“I suppose some truths truly are universal,” Jamison laughed, his voice echoing off the great stone walls. Then he sobered. “It’s a phrase we Winter faeries use often. The Briton King, Arthur, said it after witnessing the terrible revenge the trolls took on Camelot. He always believed that destruction was his fault, that he could have prevented it.”
“Could he have?” Laurel asked.
Jamison nodded to two sentries, who stood at either side of an enormous set of wooden doors that led through the walls. “Probably not,” he said to Laurel. “But it is a good reminder nonetheless.”
The doors swung open soundlessly, and all thoughts were chased from Laurel’s head as she and Jamison walked out of the enclosure and onto a hillside.
Verdant beauty flowed down the hill and as far as she could see in every direction. Black paths wound through masses of trees, interspersed with long, flower-speckled meadows and rainbow clusters of something Laurel couldn’t identify—they looked like gigantic balloons of every imaginable color, sitting on the ground and sparkling like soap bubbles. Farther down, in a ring that appeared to spread all the way around the base of the hill, were the roofs of small houses, and Laurel could make out brightly colored dots moving about that must be other faeries.
“There are…thousands of them,” Laurel said, not quite realizing she had spoken aloud.
“Of course,” Jamison said, mirth coloring his voice. “Almost the entire species lives here. We number more than eighty thousand now.” He paused. “That probably sounds small to you.”
“No,” Laurel said quickly. “I mean, I know there are more humans than that, but…I never imagined so many faeries all in one place.” It was strange; it made her feel both normal and very insignificant. She’d met other faeries, of course—Jamison, Tamani, Shar, the sentries she glimpsed from time to time—but the thought of thousands upon thousands of faeries was almost overwhelming.
Jamison’s hand touched the small of her back. “There will be time for sightseeing another day,” he said softly. “We must take you to the Academy.”
Laurel followed Jamison down the perimeter of the stone wall. When they rounded the side of the enclosure, Laurel looked uphill and her breath caught in her throat again. About a quarter mile up the gentle slope an enormous tower rose against the skyline, jutting from the center of a sprawling building straight out of Jane Eyre. It didn’t look like a castle so much as a grand library, all square, gray stones and steeply pitched roofs. Massive windows dotted every wall, and skylights glittered among slate shingles like caches of faceted prisms. Every surface was veined with creepers, framed by flowers, glimpsed through foliage, or otherwise host to plants of innumerable variety.
Jamison’s words answered the question Laurel was too amazed to ask. He gestured toward the structure with one arm as he spoke. “The Academy of Avalon.”
TWO
AS THEY WALKED TOWARD THE ACADEMY, LAUREL glimpsed another building through breaks in the forest. At the very top of the tall hill, just a bit higher than the towering Academy, sat the crumbling ruins of a castle. Laurel blinked and squinted; perhaps crumbling was not the right word. It was definitely falling to pieces, but ropes of green snaked through the white marble as if sewing the walls together, and the canopy of an enormous tree spread out above it, shading half the structure beneath its leaves. “What’s that building?” Laurel asked the next time it came into view.
“That is the Winter Palace,” Jamison said. “I live there.”
“Is it safe?” Laurel asked dubiously.
“Of course not,” Jamison replied. “It is one of the most dangerous places in all of Avalon. But I am safe there, as are its other occupants.”
“Is it going to fall down?” Laurel asked, eyeing one corner that was done up like a corset with viridian laces.
“No, indeed,” Jamison replied. “We Winter faeries have been caring for this palace for more than three thousand years. The roots of that redwood grow with the castle now, as much a part of the structure as the original marble. She would never let it fall.”
“Why don’t you just build a new one?”
Jamison was silent for a few moments, and Laurel worried that her question had offended him. But when he responded, he didn’t sound upset. “The castle is not only a home, Laurel. It also safeguards many things—things we cannot risk moving simply for convenience or for satisfying our vanity with a fancy new structure.” He gestured back at their stony gray destination with a smile. “We have the Academy for that.”
Laurel looked back up at the castle with new eyes. Instead of the haphazard loops of green she had seen at first glance, she could now pick out the order and method in the latticework stripes. Careful braces on the corners, a web of roots supporting large expanses of wall—the tree really had become part of the castle. Or perhaps the castle had become a part of the tree. The whole structure seemed to lounge contentedly in the embrace of its sprawling roots.
Around the next bend they came upon what Laurel first thought was a wrought-iron fence. A closer look revealed that it was actually a living wall. Branches wound and curved and wrapped about one another in complicated curlicues, like an impossibly complex bonsai tree. Two guards, one male, one female, stood at a gate, both in ceremonial armor of a vibrant blue, complete with shiny, plumed helmets. They both bowed low to Jamison and reached for their side of the gate.
“Come,” Jamison said, beckoning Laurel forward when she hesitated. “They are waiting for you.”
The grounds of the Academy were bustling with life. Dozens of faeries were at work around the yard. Some were dressed in fine, flowing dresses or light silken pants and had books in their hands. Others were clad in more homespun cottons and busied themselves digging and pruning. Still others were picking flowers, searching the many heavy-laden bushes for perfect specimens. As Jamison and Laurel passed, most of the faeries paused in their work and bowed at the waist. But everyone at least inclined their heads respectfully.
“Are…” Laurel felt silly asking. “Are they bowing to me?”
“It’s possible,” Jamison replied. “But I suspect they are mostly bowing to me.”
His casual tone caught Laurel off guard. But clearly being bowed to was commonplace for Jamison. He did not even stop to acknowledge it. “Should I have bowed when you came to the gate?” Laurel asked, her voice a little unsteady.
“Oh, no,” Jamison said readily. “You are a Fall faerie. You bow only to the Queen. A slight nod of respect is more than enough from you.”
Laurel walked in silent confusion as they passed several more faeries. She watched the few who only inclined their heads. They caught her eye as she passed and she wasn’t sure quite how to take their expressions. Some seemed curious; others glared. Many were simply unreadable. Ducking her head timidly, Laurel hurried forward to keep pace with Jamison.
As they approached the towering front doors, a set of foot-men pulled them open and Jamison led Laurel into a spacious foyer with a domed ceiling made entirely of glass. Sunlight poured through it, nourishing the hundreds of potted plants adorning the room. The foyer was less busy than the grounds, though there were a few faeries sitting on lounges and at small desks with books out in front o
f them.
An older faerie—not so old as Jamison, Laurel thought, though it was hard to tell with faeries—approached them and inclined her head. “Jamison, a pleasure.” She smiled at Laurel. “I assume this is Laurel; my, how you’ve changed.”
Laurel was startled for a moment, then remembered that she had spent seven years in Avalon before going to live with her parents. The fact that she couldn’t remember anyone didn’t mean they couldn’t remember her. It made her strangely uncomfortable to wonder how many of the faeries she passed on the grounds could remember a past she would never recall.
“I’m Aurora,” the faerie said. “I teach the initiates, who are both ahead of and behind you.” She laughed, as if at some private joke. “Come, I’ll show you to your room. We’ve freshened it up—traded outgrown things for new ones—but other than that we have left it undisturbed for your return.”
“I have a room here?” Laurel asked before she could stop herself.
“Of course,” Aurora said without looking back. “This is your home.”
Home? Laurel glanced around at the austere foyer, the intricate banisters on the winding staircase, the sparkling windows and skylights. Had this really been her home? It looked—felt—so foreign. She glanced behind her where Jamison followed, but there certainly wasn’t any gawking from him. His surroundings in the Winter Palace were probably even more grand.
On the third floor they approached a hallway lined with dark cherrywood doors. Names were painted on each in a glittering, curly script. Mara, Katya, Fawn, Sierra, Sari. Aurora stopped in front of a door that very clearly said Laurel.
Laurel felt her chest tighten and time seemed to crawl as Aurora turned the knob and pushed the door open. It glided on silent hinges over a plush, crème-colored carpet and revealed a large room with one wall made completely of glass. The other walls were draped in pale green satin that stretched from ceiling to floor. A skylight opened over half the room, shining down onto an enormous bed covered with a silk spread and enclosed by sheer curtains so light they ruffled in the hint of a breeze that came through the doorway. Modest but obviously well-constructed furniture—a desk, dresser, and armoire—completed the room. Laurel stepped inside and gazed slowly around, searching for something familiar, something that felt like home.
But though it was one of the most beautiful rooms she had ever seen, she didn’t remember it. Not a wisp of a memory, no trace of recognition. Nothing. A wave of disappointment crashed over her, but she tried to hide it as she turned to Jamison and Aurora. “Thank you,” she said, hoping her smile wasn’t too tight. What did it matter that she didn’t remember? She was here now. That was the important thing.
“I’ll let you unpack and freshen up,” Aurora said. Her eyes flitted over Laurel’s tank top and jean shorts. “You are welcome to wear whatever you like here at the Academy; however, you might find the clothing in your wardrobe a bit more comfortable. We guessed your size, but new clothing can be tailored for you as early as tomorrow, if you like. Those…breeches…you’re wearing—the fabric looks like it would chafe terribly.”
A small chuckle from Jamison made Aurora stand a little straighter. “Ring this bell,” she said, pointing, “if you need anything. We have a full staff to attend you. You may do as you will for an hour, then I will send one of our fundamentals instructors up to begin your lessons.”
“Today?” Laurel asked, a bit louder than she had intended.
Aurora’s eyes darted to Jamison. “Jamison and the Queen herself have instructed us to make full use of the time you have with us. It is far too brief as it is.”
Laurel nodded, a thrill of excitement and nervousness shooting through her. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be ready.”
“I’ll leave you then.” Aurora turned and looked at Jamison, but he waved a hand at her.
“I will stay a few moments more before I return to the palace.”
“Of course,” Aurora said with a nod before leaving them alone.
Jamison stood in the doorway, surveying the room. As the sound of Aurora’s footsteps faded down the hall, Jamison spoke. “I haven’t been here since I escorted you to go live with your parents thirteen years ago.” He looked up at her. “I hope you do not mind the rush into your work. We have so little time.”
Laurel shook her head. “It’s fine. I just…I have so many questions.”
“And most will have to wait,” Jamison said with a smile that softened his words. “The time you will spend here is too precious to be wasted on the manners and mores of Avalon. There are many years ahead for you to learn things like that.”
Laurel nodded, even though she wasn’t sure she agreed.
“Besides,” Jamison added with a sly look in his eye, “I am sure your friend Tamani would be more than happy to answer every question you have time to ask him.” He started to turn to go.
“When will I see you again?” Laurel asked.
“I will come for you when your eight weeks are up,” he said. “And I will make sure we have some time to discuss things,” he promised. With a brief farewell he left, pulling the door shut behind him, leaving Laurel feeling starkly alone.
Standing in the middle of the room, Laurel turned in a circle, trying to take it all in. She didn’t remember this place, but there was a comfort to it—a realization that, on some level, her tastes had not changed. Green had always been a favorite color, and she generally chose simplicity over ornate patterns and designs. The canopy was a little girlish, but then, she had chosen it a lifetime ago.
She walked over to the desk and sat down, noting to herself that the chair was just a little too small. She pulled out drawers and found sheets of thick paper, pots of paint, quill pens, and a composition book with her name on it. It took Laurel a few seconds to realize that the name looked so familiar because it was written in her own young-girl handwriting. Hands shaking, she carefully opened the book to the first page. It was a list of Latin words Laurel suspected were plants. She flipped through the pages and found more of the same. Even the English words didn’t make much sense. How utterly discouraging to realize that she had known more at seven than she did now, at sixteen. Or twenty, she corrected herself, or however old I’m supposed to be now. She tried not to think about her actual age too much; all it did was remind her of the seven years of her faerie life now lost to her memory. She felt sixteen; as far as she was concerned, she was sixteen. Laurel put the book back and stood to walk over to the wardrobe.
Inside were several sundresses and a few ankle-length skirts made from a light, flowing material. A column of drawers revealed peasant-style blouses and fitted tops with cap sleeves. Laurel rubbed the material against her face, loving the silky soft feel of it. She tried on several and settled for a light pink sundress before continuing her exploration of the room.
She didn’t get far before she walked to the window and caught her breath at the view below her. Her room overlooked the biggest flower garden she had ever seen; rows of flowers in every imaginable hue spread out below her in a cascade of color almost as big as the grounds in front of the Academy. Her fingers pressed against the glass as she tried to take in the whole sight at once. It struck her as a waste that a room with such a magnificent view had just been sitting, empty, for the last thirteen years.
A knock on the door startled Laurel and she hurried to answer it, adjusting her dress as she did. After taking a moment to smooth her hair, Laurel opened the door.
A tall faerie with a stern face and brown hair starting to gray at the temples stood in front of a younger, more simply dressed faerie who was holding a large stack of books. The older faerie wore what looked like linen Yoga pants and a silky green shirt that hung open at the chest in a way that was not the least bit sensual. Laurel considered her own tendency toward tank tops and decided this was similar. His demeanor was distinguished, formal—and quite at odds with his bare feet.
“Laurel, I presume?” he said in a smooth, deep voice. He studied her. “Well, you haven’t cha
nged all that much.”
Taken aback, Laurel could only stare blankly up at him. She had seen pictures of herself as a child; she had changed immensely!
“I am Yeardley, professor of fundamentals. May I?” the faerie said, inclining his head.
“Oh, of course,” Laurel blustered, opening the door wider.
Yeardley strode in and the faerie behind him followed closely. “There,” Yeardley said, pointing to Laurel’s desk. The other faerie stacked the pile of books on Laurel’s desk, bowed low to both Laurel and Yeardley, and backed out of the doorway before turning to walk down the hall.
Laurel turned back to the professor, who hadn’t looked away.
“I know Jamison is eager for you to begin classes, but, to be quite frank, I cannot start you on even the most basic lessons until you have some sort of foundation on which to build.”
Laurel opened her mouth to speak, realized she was in completely over her head, and closed it again.
“I have brought you what I believe to be the most basic and essential information that is requisite to beginning your true studies. I suggest you start immediately.”
Laurel’s eyes swung over to the stack of books. “All of those?” she asked.
“No. This is only the first half. I have one more batch when you have finished. Trust me,” the faerie said, “these were as few as I could possibly justify.” He looked down at a piece of paper he had pulled from a shoulder bag. “One of our acolytes”—he looked up at her—“that’s the level you would be at, by the way, under more favorable circumstances—has agreed to be your tutor. She will be available to you during all daylight hours, and explaining such basic concepts to you will hardly be a strain, so feel free to use her. We hope you spend no more than two weeks relearning the things you have forgotten since you left us.”
Wishing she could disappear through the floor, Laurel stood with her fists clenched.
“Her name is Katya,” Yeardley continued, paying no attention to Laurel’s reaction. “I suspect she will come introduce herself soon. Don’t let her social nature distract you from your studies.”