“You all just…work? On whatever you want?”
“Well, advanced projects need to be approved by the faculty. They’ll wander through here and check up on us periodically. But yes, we decide on our own projects.”
The whole process reminded Laurel of the years she’d spent being homeschooled by her mother, building a curriculum around her personal interests and learning everything at her own pace. She smiled at the memory, even though she had long since stopped begging her mom to return to homeschooling—thanks in no small part to David and her friend Chelsea.
But here Laurel didn’t have a project of her own, and wandering the room didn’t seem like it would help her actually learn anything. Even after two weeks of memorizing plant uses, she simply didn’t know enough to ask meaningful questions of the students. So she was relieved when she saw a familiar face enter the room—an emotion she had doubted she would ever feel upon seeing the stern face of Yeardley, the fundamentals instructor.
“Is she ready?” Yeardley asked, addressing Katya instead of her.
Katya smiled and prodded Laurel forward. “She’s all yours.”
Laurel followed Yeardley to a station at the table lined with equipment. Without so much as a greeting, he began to quiz her on the second batch of books she had been reading the past week. She didn’t feel complete confidence in any of her answers, but Yeardley seemed pleased enough with her progress. He reached into his own shoulder bag and pulled out…more books.
Disappointment washed over her. “I thought I was done reading,” Laurel said before she could stop herself.
“You are never done,” Yeardley said, as if it were a bad word. “Each caste has its essential nature. The essence of Spring magic is social; it trades on empathy. Summer faeries must hone their sense of aesthetics; without art, their magic is thin indeed. The essence of our magic is intellect; knowledge gleaned through careful study is the reservoir from which our intuition draws its power.”
That didn’t sound like magic to Laurel. Mostly it sounded like a lot of hard work.
“That said, these are my books, not yours.”
Laurel managed to stifle a sigh of relief.
“Laurel.”
She looked up at the tone of his voice. It wasn’t stern, the way it had been a moment earlier. It was tense—worried, even—but there was a softness to it that hadn’t been there before.
“Normally at this point I would begin teaching you rudimentary potions. Lotions, cleansing serums, nutritional tonics—that sort of thing. The things we teach novices. But you’re going to have to come back at a less important time and learn those or catch up on your own. I’m going to teach you defensive herbology. Jamison insisted, and I’m in full agreement with his decision.”
Laurel nodded, feeling a rush run through her. Not just from excitement at starting actual lessons, but because of the reason for the acceleration: the threat of the trolls. This was what she’d been waiting for.
“Most of what I teach you will be beyond your abilities to replicate, likely for quite some time, but it will be a start. I expect you to work hard, for your own sake more than mine.”
“Of course,” Laurel replied earnestly.
“I’ve had you reading about a variety of plants and their uses. What you may not yet realize is that making potions, serum, elixirs, and the like is not simply about mixing essences together in the right amounts. There is always a general guideline—a recipe, if you will—but the process as well as the result will differ from one Fall faerie to the next. What we teach in the Academy is not about recipes, but following your intuition—trusting the ability that is your birthright, and using your knowledge of nature to enhance the lives of everyone in Avalon. Because the most essential ingredient in any mixture is you—the Fall faerie. No one else can do what you do, not even if they follow your rituals with unerring precision.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small pot with a little green plant growing in it, its buds tightly closed.
“You must learn to feel the very core of the nature you work with,” he continued, touching the plant gently, “and to form a connection with it, so close, so intimate, that you know not only how to bend its components to your will”—he searched through a row of bottles and picked one up, opening it and dabbing a drop of its contents on his finger—“but to unlock its potential and allow it to thrive as no one else can.” He carefully touched each of the closed blossoms with his wet finger and as he pulled his hand away, the tiny buds opened to reveal bright purple flowers.
He looked up into Laurel’s wide eyes. “Shall we begin?”
SEVEN
LAUREL KNELT ON THE BENCH IN FRONT OF HER window with her nose pressed against the glass, squinting at the path that led to the front gates of the Academy. Tamani said he’d arrive at eleven o’clock, but she couldn’t help but hope he would come early.
Disappointed, she wandered back to her work—today, a monastuolo serum that was clearly going horribly wrong. But Yeardley insisted that seeing her failures through to the end, even when she knew they were doomed, would teach her better what not to do. It seemed like a waste of time to Laurel, but she had learned not to second-guess Yeardley. Despite his gruff exterior, the past month had shown her another side of him. He was obsessed with herbology and nothing delighted him more than a devoted student. And he was always, always right. Still, Laurel remained skeptical of this particular rule.
She was about to sit down and toss in the next component when someone knocked on her door. Finally! Taking a moment to check her hair and clothes in the mirror, Laurel took a deep breath and opened her door to Celia, the familiar Spring faerie who had not only cut her note cards but done hundreds of little favors for her over the last few weeks.
“There’s someone here for you down in the atrium,” she said, inclining her head. No matter how many times Laurel asked them not to, the Spring faeries always found a way to bow to her.
Laurel thanked her for the message and slipped out the door. Every step she took made her feel a bit lighter. It wasn’t that she disliked her lessons—on the contrary, now that she understood them better, they were fascinating. But she had been right about one thing from the start: It was a lot of work. She studied with Yeardley for a full eight hours each day, observed the Fall faeries for several hours, and each night she had more reading to do as well as practicing potions, powders, and serums. She was occupied from sunrise to sunset, with only a short break for dinner right at the end of the day. Katya assured her it wasn’t like that for all Falls; that they worked and studied “only” about twelve hours a day. Even that seemed way excessive to Laurel.
But at least they got time off. Laurel didn’t.
“I will admit that the amount of work expected of you is a just a little excessive,” Katya said one day—a huge concession from the studious, loyal Fall. She was rather like David in that way. But when Laurel had tried to compliment her by saying so, Katya had been mortally offended at being compared to a human.
So when Tamani’s note arrived three days ago requesting Laurel’s company for an afternoon, she had been ecstatic. Just a small break, but it was a welcome chance to rejuvenate herself and prepare for one last grueling week of study before she went back to her parents.
Laurel was distracted enough that she almost missed Mara and Katya standing at the railing of a landing that overlooked the atrium.
“He’s here again,” Mara said, disdain dripping from her perfect ruby lips. “Can’t you make him wait outside?”
Laurel raised one eyebrow. “If I had it my way, he’d meet me in my bedroom.”
Mara’s eyes widened and she glared at Laurel, but Laurel had grown only too accustomed to vaguely menacing looks from this statuesque beauty. Things had not gotten better since that first surprising glare in the lab. Laurel generally just avoided looking at Mara at all. And even the one time Laurel had asked her a question about her project—fittingly, research on a cactus—Mara had simply turned her back and pretended no
t to hear.
With her head held high, Laurel walked on without another word.
Katya fell into step with her. “Don’t bother with her,” she said, her tone warm. “Personally, I think it’s rather brave of you.”
Laurel glanced at Katya. “What do you mean, brave?”
“I don’t know many Spring faeries outside of our staff.” Katya shrugged. “Especially soldiers.”
“Sentries,” Laurel corrected automatically, not really sure why.
“Still. They just seem so…coarse.” She paused and peeked over the railing into the atrium, where Tamani would be waiting. “And there are so many of them.”
Laurel rolled her eyes.
“Of course, the two of you have known each other for a long time, so I suppose it’s different.”
Laurel nodded, although it was only a partial truth. As far as she could remember, she had known Tamani for less than a year. But a year was a lot longer than she could remember knowing any of the Fall faeries she now saw every day. “Well, I’ll see you later,” Laurel said brightly, the weariness of the last several weeks nothing more than a wispy memory.
“How long will you be?” Katya asked with wide eyes.
As long as I can, she thought. But to Katya she said, “I don’t know. But if I don’t see you tonight, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Katya didn’t look convinced. “I really don’t think you should go alone. Perhaps Caelin could accompany you.”
Laurel suppressed the urge to roll her eyes again. By some fluke, Caelin was the only male Fall near Laurel’s age. And even with his puny stature and squeaky voice, he insisted on playing the role of protector for all his “ladies,” as he had dubbed them. The last thing she needed was him hanging around trying to prove he was better than every other male they encountered. Which was exactly what Caelin would do.
She didn’t even want to think about how Tamani would react.
A small smile crossed her face. Then again, maybe it would be interesting. Caelin didn’t look like he’d last ten seconds in Tamani’s presence. She would enjoy seeing him put in his place. But not as much as she would enjoy time alone with Tamani. “Trust me, Katya, I don’t need a chaperone.”
“If you say so.” Katya smiled. “Have a good time,” she said, her tone both earnest and doubtful.
“So where are we going?” Laurel asked after she and Tamani completed the charade of walking silently and formally through the Academy grounds and out of the gates.
“Can’t you tell?” Tamani asked with a grin, gesturing to the large wicker basket swinging from his left hand.
“I said where are we going, not what are we doing.” But there was no annoyance in her tone. It felt so good to leave the Academy behind, to feel the fresh wind on her face, the soft soil under her feet, and to see Tamani out of the corner of her eye, following behind her. She wanted to spread her arms and spin and laugh but managed to hold herself in check.
“You’ll see,” he said, his fingers at her back, guiding her down a fork in the path that led away from the houses they’d strolled through last time. “I want to show you something.”
As they walked, the path narrowed and steepened; after a few minutes they crested the tall hill and for a moment Laurel thought something was wrong with her eyes. Shading the hilltop’s considerable expanse was an enormous tree with broad branches that spread wide. It vaguely resembled an oak tree, with lacy, elongated leaves, but rather than having a tall, statuesque trunk, it was enormously stout, knobby, and misshapen. Laurel suspected it would dwarf even the mightiest of the redwoods growing in the national forest that bordered her land outside of Orick.
Aside from its immensity, it didn’t appear too out of the ordinary, but when Laurel stepped under the shade of its branches she gasped as she felt…something…something she couldn’t identify or explain. It was almost as though the air had grown thicker, swirling around her body like water. Living water that crept into the air she breathed and filled her, inside and out.
“What is this?” she gasped as soon as she found her voice. She hadn’t even realized that Tamani had closed the distance between them and placed a steadying hand at her waist.
“It’s called the World Tree. It…it’s made out of faeries.”
“How…” Laurel wasn’t even sure how to finish the question.
Tamani’s brow furrowed. “I guess it’s…well, it’s a long story.” He led her closer to the trunk. “Ages and ages ago—before there were humans, even—faeries sprang from the forests of Avalon. According to legend, we didn’t yet speak. But there was one faerie, the very first Winter faerie, who had greater power than any faerie before or since. And with that power came tremendous wisdom. When he felt that his time was growing close, he sought to pass on the wisdom he had gained. So instead of waiting until he wilted, he came to this hilltop and prayed to Gaia, the mother of all Nature, and told her that he would give up his life if she would preserve his consciousness in the form of a tree.”
“So…he…is this tree?” Laurel asked, stepping close to the knobbly trunk.
Tamani nodded. “He is the original tree. And other faeries could come up here with questions or problems. And if they listened very carefully, when the wind blew, they would hear the rustling of the leaves and he would share his wisdom. Years went by and soon the birds taught the faeries to speak and—”
“Birds?”
“Yes. Birds were the first creatures faeries heard singing and vocalizing and we learned to use our voices from them.”
“What happened then?”
“Unfortunately, when faeries started talking and singing they eventually forgot how to listen to the rustling leaves. The World Tree was just another tree for a very long time. Then Efreisone became King. Efreisone was also a scholar and he found legends about the World Tree scattered through his ancient texts. Once he pieced together the whole story, he wanted nothing more than to revive the World Tree and harness its wisdom. He spent hours and hours in the shade of this tree, caring for it and bringing it back from its dormancy. And in those hours he discovered that he was beginning to hear the words the tree was saying. From it he learned the stories of the ages, and every evening when he returned home he would write them down and share them with his subjects. And when he felt that his time was growing short, he decided to join the tree.”
“What do you mean, join the tree?”
Tamani hesitated. “He…he grafted himself into the tree. Grew into the tree and became part of it.”
Laurel tried to visualize it. It was both grotesque and fascinating. “Why would he do that?”
“Faeries who become part of the World Tree release their consciousness into it. The wisdom of thousands of faeries lives in that tree. Thousands of thousands.” He paused. “They are called the Silent Ones.”
Realization blossomed on Laurel’s face and she gasped quietly. “Your father did that. He’s part of this tree.”
Tamani nodded.
Laurel stepped away from the tree, feeling suddenly intrusive. But after a moment, she reached out and touched the trunk with tentative fingers. Yeardley had taught her to feel the essence of any plant with careful fingertips—one of the few lessons she had picked up both easily and quickly. She closed her eyes and felt for it now, her hands pressed against the bark.
It was like no other plant she had ever felt. The life didn’t hum gently under her hands, it roared like a mighty river; crashed like a tsunami. She sucked in a quick breath as something like a song flowed into her hand, up her arm, and seemed to fill her from head to foot. She turned to Tamani with wide eyes. “So he lives forever.”
“Yes. But inaccessible to us, so it’s as if he has died. I—I miss him.”
Laurel pulled her hand away from the tree and slipped it into Tamani’s. “How often do faeries do that?”
“Not often. It requires sacrifice. You have to join the tree while you still have the strength to go through the process. My father was only a hundred and six
ty—he had a good thirty or forty years ahead of him—but he felt himself start to weaken and knew he had to act soon.” He laughed morbidly. “It’s the only time I ever heard my parents argue.”
He paused and his tone became somber again. “If you join the tree, you must go alone, so I don’t know which part of the tree he chose. But sometimes I swear I can see the features of his face on that branch three limbs up,” he said, pointing. He shrugged. “Wishful thinking, probably.”
“Maybe not,” Laurel said, desperate to provide some words of comfort. After a heavy silence she asked, “How long does it take?” In her mind she saw an elderly faerie being overtaken by the large tree, his life slowly choked from him.
“Oh, it’s quick,” Tamani said, washing away the gruesome picture from Laurel’s mind. “Don’t forget that both the faerie who became the tree and the first one to join were Winter faeries. The tree retains some of that immense power. My—” He hesitated. “My father told me that you select your spot on the tree and submit yourself to it and when your mind is clear and your intentions burn true, the tree sweeps you up and you are changed instantly.” She saw his eyes wander back up to the spot where he thought he could see his father’s features.
Laurel edged a little closer. “You said the tree communicates. Can’t you talk to him?”
Tamani shook his head. “Not to him specifically. You talk to the tree as a whole, and it speaks back in one voice.”
Laurel looked up at the towering branches. “Could I talk to the tree?”
“Not today. It takes time. You have to come and tell the tree your question, or concern, then you sit, in silence, and listen until your cells remember how to understand the language.”
“How long does it take?”
“Hours. Days. It’s hard to predict. And it depends on how carefully you listen. Also how open you are to the answer.”