Summerkin

  The torches in the courtyard had been put out. The nathe-palace loomed behind him, dark except for a few windows watching like cats’ eyes. The clouds from the day’s rain were pulling away, leaving stars to hang low in the blue-black sky. Plenty of light for a puck. Rook slipped like a shadow down the gnarled steps and then popped his shifter-tooth into his mouth. As soon as his four paws hit the ground, he started to run, an easy lope that took him across the lawn and onto the path leading through the forest.

  He ran on, silently, until he reached the outer wall, where he spat out the shifter-tooth and caught his breath.

  Now this could get tricky. Shoving the tooth into the pocket of his ragged shorts, he paced to the wall, then tried the thing that Fer had done when they’d first arrived here, laying his hand against the twisted vines. For Fer, it had opened, but she’d been invited to come to the nathe, and she wasn’t a puck. For him, the wall stayed closed.

  “Nothing else for it, then,” he whispered. Clinging to the woven vines with his fingers and toes, he climbed to the top of the wall. For a moment he paused there, looking back at the forest. No lights showed. He pricked his ears, listening. Nothing, not even a breeze in the treetops. Nobody out there tracking him, then.

  Over he went, climbing down, then jumping onto the ground outside the nathe wall.

  Off to his right, the Lake of All Ways glimmered in the starlight. Everything was silent and still.

  Fer must have gotten back by now from her race to find him gone. He felt a twinge of something uncomfortable in his chest at that. Not guilt, was it? He was a puck! Pucks didn’t feel guilt. Banishing the feeling, he sat down with his back against the vine-wall, waiting.

  The grass was wet from the day’s rain and not very comfortable, but after a while, his eyes grew heavy. It’d been a long night already, and he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, either. To stay awake, he started counting stars.

  He woke up in the dark, flat on his back with somebody sitting on his chest, poking him. Somebody else was tickling his toes.

  Nathe-wardens! was his first thought, and he struggled, and then he heard laughing. A heavy, dark shadow rolled off him, and he scrambled to his feet. “Asher?”

  “I’m here, Pup,” one of the shadows answered, and a light flared, a lantern. Its dim glow revealed Asher, and a grinning Tatter, and Rip, whose eyes gleamed red like embers in the darkness.

  “Do you have it?” Asher asked. The crown, he meant.

  “No,” Rook answered. “Not yet.”

  “Huh,” Asher said, and squatted down. “Tell us about it.”

  Rook sat on the damp grass, and they made a little circle with the lantern in the middle, Tatter to one side, Rip on the other, and Asher across from him. “It’s just as you thought, Ash,” Rook said. “They’ve got a silver crown for a prize. Whoever wins it is the new Lord or Lady of the Summerlands.”

  “All right,” Asher said. He nodded, and the crystals braided into his long hair glinted in the lantern light. “Go on. When can you get it?”

  Rook shrugged. “I’m not certain.” He considered the possibilities. “They’ve got it locked up somewhere now. It depends on when I can get in, and when I can get away again. They’ve got guards watching us.”

  “Watching you and your friend Gwynnefar, you mean,” Rip put in.

  “No,” Rook shot back. He didn’t want to think about Fer, because this was a betrayal of trust he was plotting, right enough. “They’re watching me, I meant.”

  Rip and Asher exchanged a glance at that. Asher drew back from the lantern light, and a shadow fell across his face. “At any rate, Rook, you’re guarded,” he went on. “When did that ever stop a puck?”

  Rook forced a grin onto his face. “Not this time.”

  “Good,” Asher said, and stood. “Stealing the Summerlands crown will be a wonderful trick, maybe the best puck-trick that ever was.”

  Rook nodded. It was a good trick. But . . . “Ash, there’s one thing.”

  Asher raised his eyebrows, waiting.

  “Fer—Lady Gwynnefar, I mean. To get me into the nathe she took responsibility for me.”

  “Ah!” Asher grinned. “Very clever of you, Pup. A perfect plan. That means she’ll pay for any trouble you cause.”

  That’s what it meant. But if it was such a perfectly pucklike plan, why did it make him feel sick and empty inside?

  “This Gwynnefar Lady used her binding magic to steal Phouka from us,” Asher reminded him. “It’s just what she deserves.” He gave Rook a keen look. “Am I right, Pup?”

  He knew that Asher was wrong. Fer hadn’t bound anybody, and he didn’t think she’d worked some kind of magic on Phouka. But he couldn’t argue with his brothers, not now. Rook gave Asher a wooden nod. “You’re right, yes.”

  Picking up the lantern, Tatter stood too, and so did Rip. They’d head through the Way now, back to the cave in the Foglands where they’d been hiding out with the rest of the pucks. A long way to come.

  Rook got to his feet. “Once I’ve stolen the crown, I can bring it to you, if you like,” he offered. That way he wouldn’t have to see Fer’s face when the puck-plot was discovered.

  “Better not,” Tatter answered.

  Beside him, Asher shook his head. “The cave’s not safe anymore. The Lord of the Foglands has taken notice of us. We’ll have to move on soon.”

  Rook nodded. The pucks never got to settle anywhere for long. “So you’ll come here again.”

  “That we will.” Asher pulled out the bit of horn that he used to turn himself into a tall black goat with curling horns. Then he leaned closer to Rook to whisper in his ear. “Remember what you are, dear Pup. And remember what the High Ones and their Lords and Ladies are and what they do to the likes of us. She is one of them.” Then he popped the shifter-horn into his mouth. Tatter and Rip shifted into dogs, and the three of them set off, racing over the glinting grass to the lake, where they could go through the Way.

  Rook checked the sky. Off in the east it was stained with gray. Sunrise would come soon, which meant it was time to get back to the nathe.

  Before starting up the vine-wall, he hesitated, rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes. Was he really going to do this? Betray Fer and let her take the blame for this puck-trouble?

  He shook his head. The pucks were his brothers. They were his home. He had to stay true to them.

  He climbed back up the vine-wall, and, as before, he stopped at the top to sniff the air and listen. All was dark and silent, but he had the prickly feeling of being watched. He waited for another moment, about to start down the other side, when he felt something thunk into the wall beside him, leaving behind a streak of pain on his leg.

  An arrow!

  Grasping the vines, he scrambled down the wall. As soon as he hit the ground, he started running. Lights flared on the path ahead, and he heard shouts. Abruptly he veered into the forest, dodging trees, pushing through thorny bushes. He flinched as another arrow sizzled past; he felt its fletchings brush his ear.

  The nathe-wardens. They’d warned him before. If they caught him now, they’d kill him for sure.

  From behind, he heard bushes thrashing and more shouts as the wardens followed him into the trees. He tripped on a root and went sprawling, and heard an arrow zip past, right where his head would have been. Curse it, they were good shots. He crawled into a bush, then flicked his shifter-tooth into his mouth. Four paws were faster than two feet.

  More shouts, this time from behind and away to his left. They were trying to cut him off. Panting, he raced on, splashing through streams, squeezing past trees as the forest grew thicker, taking a route that would send him in a wide loop and then back toward the nathe-palace.

  Finally he slowed, spat out the dog-tooth, and as he shifted, swung himself up into the boughs of a tree. Crouching there, he muffled his panting breath in his sleeve and listened for the sound of pursuit.

  A rustling in the bushes right below him, and a nathe-warden paused, his
head cocked, listening. His long knife glinted in the starlight.

  Rook froze. If the warden looked up . . .

  The warden listened for another moment; at a distant shout, he raced away through the trees. The shouts of the other wardens faded.

  Rook let out his breath. Now what?

  The gray of dawn tinted half the sky. He could make his way back to the vine-wall, go through the Way, and tell his brother-pucks that he’d ruined their plan, almost getting caught.

  Or he could go back to the nathe and trust that Fer would protect him from the nathe-wardens if they came after him there.

  It’d be a risk. But it was worth it.

  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.