Summerkin

  Wait. The pucks had no place to go, did they?

  She turned to face them. They reminded her so much of Rook, the way they stood all tense and wary, and the quick grin Tatter had given her.

  “You can come to my land—to the Summerlands,” she found herself saying. “I’ll take you. You’ll be safe there until I get back with Rook.”

  Nineteen

  Rook fell through the Way. The wind ripped past him and a flurry of stars whirled by, and something brilliantly gold shot past like an arrow, and then he came out into darkness. His feet landed on a hard surface, and he stumbled and sat down with a bump.

  “Ow,” Rook muttered, and closed his eyes until his head stopped spinning. He heard a low buzz and opened his eyes to see a clearing filled with moonlight, pale as milk. One of Fer’s bees settled on the ragged collar of his shirt. He frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  The bee buzzed, almost as if it was answering.

  Rook looked around. To his left was a pond—the Way he’d just come through. On its smooth, dark surface glimmered the reflection of the half-moon overhead.

  He rubbed the sore spot on the side of his head where the stupid nathe-warden had hit him, then climbed to his feet. The air felt strange. He didn’t know what it was, but it smelled wrong. It was the cool, crisp night air of late autumn, but it was heavy, as if it was leaving a dusting of grime on his skin. “I don’t like this,” he growled to himself.

  Well, it didn’t matter if he liked it or not. He was stuck on this side of the Way, in Fer’s human world, and that meant he didn’t have long before he’d fade away, dead and gone. How long, he wasn’t sure.

  That snake Arenthiel, he’d gotten exactly what he wanted—the Lords and Ladies of the nathe ready to hunt down the pucks and kill them. Arenthiel, for all he looked young and beautiful, was old and cold and merciless; he’d really do it.

  He thought of his brothers—Asher, Tatter, Rip, the little baby, Scrap, all of them. They could all be dead by now. If he were in his dog shape, the thought of losing his brothers would make him howl, long and lonesome.

  And Fer, too.

  Your friend Gwynnefar has sworn me an oath, Arenthiel had said to him down in the nathe’s prison. She has bound herself to me.

  His brothers, lost. Fer, lost. And there was nothing he could do about any of it.

  Shivering, he eyed the pond, the Way that led back to his world. Then he turned his back on it. The Way was closed to him. He’d never see his puck-brothers again, or Phouka, or . . . or anybody else.

  Grrrr. Standing here like this was stupid. With the sleeve of his shirt, he wiped off the tears that had gotten onto his face. He’d been in the human world before, and it hadn’t felt very good, but it hadn’t killed him at once, either. He wasn’t dead yet. He had a little time. Maybe there was something he could do, even from here.

  In the morning, Rook was curled in his dog shape under a bush, watching plumes of steamy breath float up from his nose. This was the longest he’d ever been in the human world. So far he felt all right, except for having been awake all night long, shivering. The nearby pond was slicked with a skin of ice. This human land was edging into winter.

  Getting stiffly to his paws, he spat out the shifter-tooth and felt dizzy, not something that usually happened when he shifted. He closed his eyes until the dizziness passed. Opening them in his person shape, his stomach growled. There were probably rabbits in this forest, or some other delicious little animals, but he didn’t feel like hunting.

  It was time to go out into the human world to search for Fer’s grandmother. She didn’t live too far away from here; she’d be easy to find.

  The bee Fer had sent with him buzzed in a disconsolate circle around Rook’s head, then settled on his shoulder.

  “You don’t like this place either?” he asked it. The bee was from his own world; maybe it would fade away and die here too.

  Rook looked down at his hands, then spread them and held them up to the weak light. They seemed as solid as they ever had. He wasn’t sure what the fading was supposed to look like, but he didn’t think it was happening yet.

  It was early morning, the sky still pink with the rising sun. Over the quiet sounds of dry leaves rustling and the lap of waves in the pond, he heard the murmuring of a stream. The first time he’d been here, Fer had led them out by following that stream. He followed it again, the leaves and dirt icy cold under his bare feet. Shivering, he pulled out his shifter-tooth again and popped it into his mouth. He’d been warmer wearing fur. He felt the dog-shift coming and then . . .

  He found himself sprawled on the cold ground. Panting, he got to his four paws, and then fell over again, dizzy. He spat out the shifter-tooth.

  After a while in his person shape, the dizziness passed. All right. So shifting was harder here. It’d probably get even harder the farther from the Way he got. Still, he had to go on.

  Unsteadily, he climbed to his feet and followed the stream until it went bubbling through a huge pipe. He scrambled up the bank to a straight road made of small gray rocks. Which way? Fer’s bee lifted off his shoulder and buzzed off to the left, then circled back to land on his collar again. Right. If he followed the road to the left, he remembered, it would lead past farms and fields, and after a while it would take him to Fer’s grandmother’s house. He set out. The rocks were rough on his bare feet, so he walked through the tall dry grasses that rustled at the edge of the road.

  The day grew brighter. Strange clouds crossed the sky; they were thin and absolutely straight, as if somebody had drawn a line with white ink across the blue. Human-world clouds, he figured. Another reminder that he was very, very far away from home. On he trudged. From behind, he heard a rumbling sound. He whirled to look and saw, careening along the road, a cart made of metal, with a window at the front.

  Quickly he stepped farther off the road. The cart came hurtling toward him, then roared past in a cloud of dust and sooty smoke. As it passed, the smoke settled over Rook’s skin like a poisonous curtain. He bent over, coughing.

  In a rattle of little stones, the cart lurched to a stop, then backed up.

  Rook crouched at the side of the road, coughing into his folded arms. The cart stopped next to him.

  He looked up to see a human man poking his head out the cart’s side window, frowning down at him. The man had a broad, wrinkled face and wore a bright red shirt and canvas jacket, and he had a cap on his head with a picture of another cart stitched on it. “You okay, kid?” the man asked.

  Rook nodded and kept coughing. The cart smoke had hooks in it; it didn’t want to let him breathe it out.

  “You need a ride somewheres?” the man asked.

  Rook shook his head and gave one last cough. Trying to take small breaths so he wasn’t breathing in too much of the smoke, he got to his feet. In the back of the cart, a scruffy brown dog poked its nose out another window. It sniffed at Rook, and then broke into frenzied barking.

  “Dozer!” the human man shouted at the dog. “You shut up back there, hear?”

  The dog strained toward Rook, and its barking grew even more shrill.

  Rook felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. “Grrrr,” he growled at the little dog, narrowing his eyes.

  The dog gave a yelp and cowered away.

  “Good dog,” the human man said. He looked Rook up and down. “You aren’t dressed for this kind of weather, kid. You sure you don’t need a ride?”

  “I am sure, yes,” Rook snapped, backing away. Humans. Always wanting to help.

  “Ooookay,” the man said. “And you got a bee on your shirt.” He made the glass go up over his open window, and then the cart zoomed away.

  “I know I’ve got a bee on my shirt,” Rook grumbled. Putting his head down, he went on.

  After a long, plodding time, he reached Fer’s grandmother’s house. It was set at the end of a dirt road edged with oak trees bare of leaves. He padded past empty fields, then circled the house, ending up crouched behi
nd a row of white boxes. Beehives, he realized, when Fer’s bee gave a happy buzz and was answered by buzzing from inside them.

  From where he was hidden, Rook surveyed the house. It was a white box with windows and a gray roof, and it was set in the middle of a square of wiry brown grass. A neatly plotted garden lay near it too, full of withered stalks. Herbs, he guessed. The house wasn’t so bad, but the farm fields surrounding it felt soaked with poisons made to kill insects and certain kinds of plants, and make other kinds of plants grow. The air was tainted too. It made his head ache. It was hard to imagine Fer living in such a tamed and tidy place.

  He watched as a light went on at a lower window, and he saw a figure cross a room inside. Fer’s grandmother. Grand-Jane, her name was.

  Hm. This could be tricky. He’d met Grand-Jane before. She’d lived near the Way for a long time, long enough to know about magic and about pucks. She didn’t like him. Even though she was human, she probably wouldn’t want to help him.

  A sharp wind blew, and he shivered. Without his fur, he was going to freeze out here. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the shifter-tooth out of the pocket of his ragged shorts and popped it into his mouth. The shift into his dog form came with a swirl of darkness and dizziness that had him shuddering and panting and clinging with his four paws to the ground. Finally it passed.

  For the rest of the day, moving from one shadowed place to another, he watched Fer’s grandmother. She seemed busy inside her box of a house. The time ticked on. His stomach growled. His head ached. At last, as the wind was growing even more chilly, the sun was setting, and black shadows were creeping across the grassy lawn behind her house, she stepped outside. His ears pricked. She closed the door behind her and came down the steps, crossing the grass toward the beehives.

  For a while she was busy doing something with the hives. Rook made his move, getting shakily to his four paws and slinking out of the shadows. When the old woman turned to go back to the house, he was waiting.

  Seeing him, she froze. He knew what she saw, a shaggy black dog with flame-bright eyes and a giant bee perched on one ear. Then her eyes widened—she’d realized who he was.

  “You,” she said. “The puck.”

  He watched her warily.

  “Where is Jennifer?” Grand-Jane asked sharply. She glanced around the yard; she was looking for Fer. “Tell me!”

  He backed away. A growl rumbled in his chest. She was dangerous; he could smell that much.

  She stepped closer, fierce. “What have you done with her?” She pointed at him with a long, bony finger.

  Snarling, he scrambled away, then fled, counting on the growing shadows to hide him.

  Grrrr. He’d have to try again in the morning.

  Twenty

  Pucks!

  Fer had thought Rook was difficult, with his surly stubbornness, but these pucks were far worse. Before they would consider coming with her to the Summerlands—where they would be safe, she kept reminding them—they had to argue it out among themselves.

  “We need to hurry,” Fer told them. Time was passing quickly in the other world. Rook needed help—and he needed it now. And she was sure Arenthiel—and Gnar and Lich, she feared, if they were still wearing the glamories—would be starting the hunt very soon. She could feel the time slipping away. Why were they being so slow? “Come on,” she said.

  The black-and-red-painted puck bared his teeth at her, and a few of the other pucks gave her baleful looks. Then they turned back to their huddle around the dying campfire. The painted puck was arguing in low growls with the puck named Tatter, the one with the quick grin like Rook’s. The tall leader-puck leaned forward now and then to add something to the argument.

  Fer blew out a sigh. They didn’t trust her; that was the problem. She opened her mouth to insist that she wasn’t a spy, which was what the painted puck seemed to suspect—when she caught a flash of gold out of the corner of her eye.

  She whirled to see what it was.

  One of her bees came shooting through the cloud of other bees around her and settled at her ear, buzzing and bumbling. It was the bee she’d left behind at the Lake of All Ways.

  Arenthiel was coming, it warned.

  The rest of her bees hovered over her head, buzzing loudly. “Yes, go,” she said. “Find out how close he is.” They flowed down to the passageway and out of the cave.

  The puck-leader grabbed her shoulder and pushed his face close to hers. “What is it?” he growled.

  “My bee saw Arenthiel,” she answered, stepping back. “He knows where we are.” She turned to face the rest of the pucks. “The hunt is coming. We have to get out of here right now.”

  “You get out of here, Lady,” snarled the painted puck. “We will fight them!” Several of the other pucks shifted into dogs and bared their teeth.

  Stupid pucks!

  “No!” she shouted. “If we hurry, we can beat them to the Way out of here.” The bee had come quite a distance to report; there was no way Arenthiel and the hunters had gotten themselves armed and saddled up and ready so quickly. She and the pucks still had time to escape.

  She grabbed the leader-puck by the arm. Pucks hated traps, she knew. “If we don’t hurry, we’ll be trapped here.”

  He jerked his arm out of her grasp and growled.

  “Do you all want to die?” she shouted at him, exasperated.

  Die—die—die echoed around the cave.

  For a second everything in the cave went quiet. As if they really would rather die than give in and trust her.

  Fer waited, holding her breath. Now or never, pucks.

  Then the leader-puck shrugged. “As it happens, we don’t want to die. We’ll come.” He gave the other pucks a quick nod, and they raced to grab up their things. A few of them helped the old-man pucks, and Tatter picked up the baby-puck and stuffed him into a knapsack with just his head sticking out. Some of them hurried out the back of the cave; some came with Fer, edging down the side of the darkly shadowed cliff to the ground, where an anxious Fray and Twig waited, and Phouka, who tossed his head and gave a joyful whinny when he saw the other pucks. They shouted back to him—Finn! Brother!

  The last of the pucks joined them. They started shifting into their dog or horse forms; a few shifted into big black goats with curling horns. Against the black of night, they were a crowd of shadows with fiery eyes.

  Fer heard buzzing, and then her bees were there, swirling around her head in a golden swarm. Arenthiel was through the Way, they told her. He would be there soon.

  Fer pushed through the jostling crowd of dogs and horses and found the puck-leader. “What do you know about the other Ways leading from this place?” she called. Most lands had more than one Way leading in and out of them, just as a house had more than one door.

  “Tatter brought Rook here from your Summerlands. He knows.” He shouted for his brother-puck and a black dog bounded up and shifted into the sharply grinning Tatter.

  “There’s a Way that leads from here to the Summer-lands?” Fer asked him quickly.

  “Not directly,” Tatter answered. “There’s one Way leading to another, and then another. It’s a bit of a run.” He pointed to show her where.

  “Just so we stay ahead of the hunt,” Fer said. She pushed through the crowd to Phouka; gripping his mane, she swung onto his back. A couple of the dog-pucks growled at that, but Phouka flared his nostrils and pranced. Fer gave Fray her hand and helped the wolf-guard onto Phouka’s back too.

  From not far away came the high, thin call of a hunting horn.

  Fer’s heart gave a frightened jolt. Arenthiel’s hunt. They were coming. “Come on!” she shouted, and Phouka leaped into a run. Twig and her goat-mount followed, and then the pucks in a galloping, bounding, racing crowd.

  She crouched over Phouka’s neck and clung with her hands and legs. Twig’s quick-hooved goat bobbed along beside her, Twig clinging tightly to its back. From behind, the horn sounded again, closer. “Bees!” Fer called. They zoomed closer. “Sc
out ahead for the Way,” she gasped, pointing in the direction Tatter had shown her, and the bees flew ahead. A moment later they were back, like shooting stars through the night, and they led her to the first Way.

  The Way was in the shadow of a huge boulder. It was wide open; they didn’t even need her to go first to open it. “Here!” Fer shouted, and she gripped Phouka’s mane as he jumped into the shadow. A whirl of blackness and a cold feel of stone and they were through the Way, onto a wide grassland with gray clouds looming over them. Rain poured down. Brushing wet hair out of her eyes, Fer glanced over her shoulder, past Fray’s set, pale face, and saw the pucks pour out of the Way, shadows flowing out of a darker shadow.

  “Find the next Way,” she told the bees, and they flashed ahead again, darting through the silver raindrops. Phouka pounded on through the rain. The pucks surged forward until they were all around her. The next Way was at the bottom of a hill crowded with brambles. They thrashed through it, the Way prickling like thorns, and out into a pine and birch forest with stars overhead that blazed like lanterns.

  The ring of hunting horns echoed through the trees.

  On they ran. Phouka’s flanks were heaving; beside him the pucks were panting. One of them slowed, and they all slowed—brothers, they wouldn’t leave anyone behind.

  Again, Fer sent her bees ahead. They zipped around the tall pine tree trunks, sparks in the night, then led her to the last Way, a round clearing edged with birch trees. Phouka took the Way in a mighty bound, and it passed in flashes of black and white and tumbling stars, and they touched down in her own land, into the grassy clearing just turning from day into night.

  Phouka staggered, and Fer slid off his back. Her own connection with her land flowed up from the ground; she felt it all, from the blades of grass to the wind in the very tops of the trees, to the wide-open Way with the exhausted pucks stumbling through.