Winterling 02: Summerkin

  She felt a huge wave of relief—he wasn’t dead yet, anyway. “Rook!” She stepped closer.

  The dog lunged toward her, his teeth bared in a snarl.

  She backed up, teetering at the edge of the pond. “Rook, it’s me!”

  The growling deepened.

  With a jolt, she remembered. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been wearing the glamorie and her fine Lady clothes, and standing next to Arenthiel as he pronounced a sentence of death on him. No wonder he was suspicious. More suspicious than usual, anyway. “Rook, look at me,” she said, holding her arms out. “I’m not wearing the glamorie.”

  The air around the dog blurred and Rook caught the shifter-tooth in his hand. In his person shape, he staggered back as if dizzy, and crouched on the snowy ground with his head lowered. She stepped closer, and he flinched away, growling fiercely. “Did you swear an oath to Arenthiel?” he asked, his voice rough.

  “No, I didn’t. He was lying if he told you I did.” She shivered, realizing how close she’d come to being bound to him. “I didn’t swear the oath. Fray knocked him on the head and she told me that he sent you here to die.”

  He shook his head, still wary.

  What would convince him? Oh. “Rook, your brother-pucks are all right. They’re in my land.”

  He stared at her. “What?”

  She nodded. “Your puck-brothers are in the Summerlands,” she told him again. And a third time, so he’d know it was true. “Your brothers are alive.”

  She saw him close his eyes and let out a breath, as if he’d been bracing himself against a terrible weight and it had suddenly been lifted. “You helped them, didn’t you.” He gave a ghost of his sharp grin.

  She didn’t know why that was funny. “I sent my bees to find them.” She went down on her knees in the snow next to Rook. “Once I explained what was going on, they agreed to come with me.” It hadn’t been quite that easy, but she didn’t have time to tell Rook all about it now. She reached out and laid a gentle hand against his shoulder. For once, he didn’t flinch away. Probably too tired. “We need to get you back to the Summerlands.”

  He looked up at her, his eyes shadowed, as if the flame in them was dying. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out.

  “Come on,” she said. She picked up the heavy leather pouch he’d been carrying and stuffed it into her patch-jacket pocket, then grabbed his arm, dragging him up. He wavered to his feet and stood leaning against her; she put her arm around his waist. Half dragging him, she struggled to the edge of the pond. She couldn’t put him down to open the Way—hopefully this would work. She reached out her toe and touched the surface of the water.

  A dark ripple spread out and Fer stepped into the pond and took them through.

  As they tumbled through the Way, leaving the human world, she lost her grip on Rook, and as they entered the Summerlands he went sprawling onto the mossy ground. She went to crouch beside him. Her bees buzzed worriedly around them. Rook lay with his mouth open and his eyes closed, as if he was sleeping. She checked for fever, resting her fingers on his forehead, but his skin was cool. He probably was sleeping, after three or four days awake in the human world.

  “She’s here!” she heard someone shout, and then more shouts. “The Lady! The Lady has come back!”

  Fer looked up. It was night; time flowed so slowly here in the Summerlands that only a few moments had passed since she had left. A fire had been lit near the pond, and her people were gathering. All of her people, shadows in the firelight, crowded around the clearing and the pool to see her, murmuring about the fallen puck.

  Then Fray and Twig were at her side. Phouka pushed his nose in and snuffled at his puck-brother.

  “It’s okay, Phouka,” she said, patting his neck. “He’s just sleeping.” She raised her head and called to the pucks who waited in a surly crowd beyond the firelight. “Rook’s all right.” He was better than all right, really. He looked quite peaceful and content, lying there on his soft bed of moss. She gave her head a wry shake. He was awfully good at getting himself into trouble.

  “Lady,” Fray interrupted urgently. “Arenthiel and his hunt are trying to break through the other Way, even though it should be closed until morning. You must come at once.”

  She looked around the clearing, at the Way to the human world, which glimmered with reflected firelight, at her people, who had gathered—Fray and the other wolf-guards, and Twig and her twin sister, Burr, and the deer-women and badger-men, and all the rest of them. The deep-forest kin had come too, the oldest and wisest of the land’s people, the ones whose roots grew deepest. And the pucks, lurking in the shadows.

  “Let them come,” she decided, getting to her feet. “We’ll fight them here.”

  Her people murmured at that, and through the spiderweb threads that connected her to them, she felt their fright but also their determination. They did not want the Summerlands to be ruled by a Lord like Arenthiel. But without their oaths to tie them to her, they were adrift, unsure of their connection to her.

  “Lady,” Fray pleaded. “You must let us swear our oaths to you, so we can defend you.”

  Her heart sank. She had resisted taking their oaths for so long. Was it time to give up, and just become the kind of Lady this place, and its rules, demanded? She wouldn’t be able to defeat Arenthiel if she didn’t.

  “Quickly, Lady,” Fray urged. “They are coming.”

  She opened her mouth to say no—and she knew that they would never ask again, that this was the last chance she would have to prove herself the true Lady of this land.

  And then she felt it, the answer clicking into place inside her. The other Way was besieged and the hunt would be upon them soon, but she would do this right. Slowly she stepped away from the human-world Way, leaving it behind her, leaving Rook sound asleep beside it. Then, feeling solemn and shaky, she bowed to her people.

  She felt their confusion as they all, except for the pucks, bowed back.

  “The High Ones called me to the nathe to make me prove myself the true Lady of the Summerlands,” she said slowly, thinking it through. “Their kind of Lady takes her people’s oaths and rules over them and the land. She wears the glamorie and a silver crown and feels cold inside.” Fer nodded, feeling the rightness of what she was about to do. “I won’t be that kind of Lady. I will not rule. I will never ask for your oaths.”

  “But Lady Gwynnefar,” Fray said, frowning. “We need to swear oaths so we’ll be bound to you, so we can fight for you. It is our way and we need to do it now.”

  “We’re supposed to serve you,” Twig added. “All of the people of the land want this, Lady.”

  “That’s not how it should be,” Fer said firmly. “If I am truly your Lady, then I should swear to serve you.”

  As she said the words, the rightness of them swept through her. Yes, that’s what she would do. Fer stepped farther into the clearing so her people were all around her. Twig was shorter than she was, and thin as a sapling; Fray towered over them both, even though she wasn’t much older than they were. “Give me your hands,” Fer said. Wide-eyed, they did. The rest of her people moved closer, crowding into the clearing, around the glimmering Way.

  Her bees settled on her head like a crown over the leafy crown she already wore, their wings flickering. She spoke clearly so they could all hear. “I am your Lady and your kin, and I swear to you, Fray, and to you, Twig, and to the deep-forest kin and to all of the people of this land that I will serve you and protect you and help you. If you are injured, I will heal you, and”—she thought quickly—“and when we are attacked I will fight for you. I, Fer, swear this oath.” Then, to make it really binding, she added, “I swear it once, twice, three times.”

  She’d been connected to them all before, a thread as delicate as a spiderweb, but as she spoke the oath the thread became a magical cord of kinship like silvery steel, unbreakable, binding until death. She felt a new awareness of her land, too, from the tiniest bug burrowing into th
e ground, to the greenest leaf at the top of the tallest tree, from the Ways to the farthest reaches of the forests. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the connection washed through her, and she would have staggered, except that she felt as if she was strongly, deeply rooted there, and could never be moved.

  Twig’s face shone with happiness. “Lady,” she whispered.

  Fer put her arms around Twig; she felt Fray’s strong arms come around them both. Her crown of bees gave a contented buzz. At the edge of the clearing, the deep-forest kin hummed their approval, a sound like wind in high branches.

  And overhead, the first gray smudges of dawn appeared in the sky.

  It was time. Fer stepped out of Twig’s and Fray’s embrace and cocked her head, listening to her land. From the other Way, down a path and past the Lady Tree, she felt a shudder. Now that dawn was breaking, Arenthiel and Gnar and Lich and the other Lords and Ladies of the hunt were battering through that other Way. Then came a shuddering in the ground under her feet.

  “Be ready!” Fer shouted. “They are coming!”

  Twenty-four

  Arenthiel and his hunt thundered into the clearing, scattering Fer’s people. The sun had just leaped into the sky, and in its light the hunt was blindingly tall and golden, and they were armed not just with spears but with their glamories and their power to rule. Arenthiel was at their front, riding his tall golden horse. Blood dripped from slashes on its side—he’d spurred it hard during his hunt. Right behind him rode Gnar on her dragon-mount, carrying a spear, and Lich on his fish-goat, with his long bow drawn. A few other Lords and Ladies were ranked behind them.

  Fer’s people gathered to face them. Through the bond of her kinship with them, Fer could feel their terror and awe at the glamorie ranged against them. Fray and the other wolf-guards bared their teeth; the rest, weaponless, stood ready to fight. Around the edge of the clearing, tall and treelike and short and stumplike, were the deep-forest kin, standing still and silent.

  And, ready to fight alongside her people were the pucks, some in their dog shapes, some as horses, all of them flaming with fierceness. It was right that the pucks were here. They were the ones who knew best how to live without rule.

  Bows were being drawn; spears were being lowered—the hunt was about to begin.

  “Stop!” Fer shouted. Her people made a path for her, and she strode to the front and into the space between her people and Arenthiel and his hunters.

  From the lofty heights of his horse, Arenthiel, as beautiful and perfect as ever, looked down at her and gave a careless-sounding laugh. “Well, little human,” he said. “You had your chance to ally with me, and you failed to take it.” His voice sharpened. “Instead, you joined those thieving pucks. So now it falls to us to deal with them as we see fit, and then we will deal with you, and your land will be mine. You have no power to stop us.” He pointed at the Way, which shone like a golden mirror in the blazing sunrise. “There is your Way, Gwynnefar. Flee to the human world, where you belong.”

  Staring up at him, Fer felt something strange welling up in her. It was anger—fury that curled her toes and made her eyes blaze and made her hair feel like it was standing up on end. Her bees’ buzzing grew loud as a roar behind her words as she spoke them. “How dare you,” she said, her voice shaking. “All of you.” She pointed at Gnar and Lich and the rest of the Lords and Ladies. “This land and its people will never be ruled by anyone. And definitely”—she pointed straight at Arenthiel—“not by you.”

  She was bound to this land and its people, and she would show Arenthiel what that really meant. She waved her hand and her bees swarmed around her, buzzing furiously. She stamped her foot and the ground trembled. The deep-forest kin at the edge of the clearing swayed like trees in a growing wind. “How dare you come into my land, threatening my people,” she shouted.

  “We shall see about that, false Lady.” Arenthiel gave a sharp gesture and his Lords and Ladies surged forward. Arrows flew; spears were lowered.

  From all around her came snarls and shouts as her people responded, leaping to meet Arenthiel’s hunt.

  “Phouka!” she called, ducking an arrow that sizzled past just over her head. The horse kicked out with a forehoof, sending a Lady flying from the saddle of her goat-mount, and dashed across the clearing to her. “Watch Rook!” she shouted at the horse. “Don’t let anybody hurt him.”

  Phouka snorted and, shouldering aside a charging Lord, trotted to the edge of the Way, where he stood over sleeping Rook, all four hooves planted, immovable.

  In the clearing, arrows zipped past. A puck shifted in midleap, turning into a huge dog that carried a Lord off his mount and onto the ground. A clot of bees zoomed after a shrieking Lady. There were screams and shouts. The hunt’s spears flashed in the sunlight.

  Fer stepped farther into the clearing. “I’ve had just about enough of this,” she murmured to herself. Under her feet she felt her land trembling. But not with fear. It was waiting. Waiting for her to call it forward, to join the fight.

  “Lady, look out!” she heard Fray shout. Turning, she saw Arenthiel on his tall horse, charging toward her, drawing a long knife from his belt as he came.

  She stood firm. The power in her land flowed up through her feet and legs, filling her whole body. She would not let them spill blood here.

  The deep-forest kin were waiting; she could feel their roots trembling with anticipation. She nodded to them. Now. All over the clearing their roots exploded from the ground. Like whips they cracked through the air, sweeping Lords and Ladies off their mounts. She flicked a finger and grass grew up over the legs of their horses and goats and stags, bringing them to a snorting, wide-eyed standstill. More roots erupted from the dirt, looping themselves around Gnar and Lich, dragging them down to the ground.

  A few Lords and Ladies squirmed out of the roots’ hold and tried to flee; the deep-forest kin caught them in their branchlike arms, holding them more tightly the harder they fought to get away.

  Silence fell. The bees returned to her, hovering over her head. Her own people and the pucks backed away from the root-imprisoned enemy.

  Arenthiel pried himself up from the ground, kicking his feet free of the grass that caught at him, slashing at the roots with his knife. Her bees buzzed a warning as he paced toward her. His tawny beauty was smudged with dirt, but his eyes glittered golden and keen. “I have waited long enough for my time,” he panted. “I am far more suited to rule this land than you are.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Lady,” shouted one of the pucks. The leader-puck, she thought it was. “He’s rotten to the core—we can see it!”

  “Curst pucks,” Arenthiel hissed. “As soon as I am done with you, Gwynnefar, I will deal with them.” Roots oozed up over his feet, and he kicked free of them and lurched toward her again.

  She let him come, though she felt the land quivering, wanting to seize him. “I am the Lady of this land.”

  “You are a part-human interloper, and no Lady,” he said, crouching, getting ready to spring.

  “I know what I am,” she said more quietly. She steadied herself and reached into the land.

  As Arenthiel leaped toward her, raising the knife to strike, the ground opened under his feet. Down he sank, struggling wildly as tiny grass roots crawled over his skin and dirt surged up like a wave, until he was sunk into the ground up to his neck and covered with grass, all but his wide, golden eyes and his wide, gasping mouth. He struggled, but the land held him fast.

  Fer went to crouch beside his head. Her anger evaporated, just like dew on a hot summer morning. She rested her fingers over where his ears were, and the grass pulled aside, so he could hear. “I know you stole the crown and that you planned to steal my land,” she said calmly to his grass-covered face. “You’ve failed.” She considered what she wanted to do with him. Not death. She couldn’t stain the land with his blood. Hmm. “I think I want you to do two things,” she said.

  Arenthiel spat dirt from his mouth. His eyes narro
wed. He started to hiss out a curse at her, and the grass crawled up over his face and snapped his mouth closed.

  “Don’t say anything,” Fer said firmly.

  The golden eyes glared at her. She pulled the seeing-stone out of her patch-jacket pocket and stared into his eyes, and now that she knew what to look for she could see past their beauty, deeper and deeper, and then she saw that the pucks were right—way down in there was something very, very old, akin to the High Ones, but also not like them at all, something using the shell of a beautiful body to do ugly, rotten things. The old thing in there resisted. She pushed back. This was a land of green, of long summer days, of fresh life. That rotten core didn’t have any place here.

  The resistance in his eyes shriveled.

  Fer put the seeing-stone back into her jacket pocket. She tapped Arenthiel’s mouth, and the grass let him catch a gasping breath. “I want you to swear to end the hunt and never hunt the pucks again,” she said.

  Silence. Then, in a cracked, ancient voice, he said, “I will never hunt again.”

  “Louder,” Fer ordered.

  He coughed out a clot of dirt. “I will never hunt again,” he said. “Once, twice, three times I swear it.”

  “Thank you,” Fer said, getting to her feet. She walked over the quivering ground to where Lich and Gnar were wrapped in roots and held by branches.

  “Well, Strange One,” Gnar said, still fiery, even with gnarled roots pinning her to the ground.

  “She’s a Lady,” Lich gasped. One of the deep-forest kin held him in a tight embrace; he looked half squashed.

  “Lady Strange One, then,” Gnar said.

  Fer sighed. She’d hoped maybe Lich and Gnar would be friends, but they weren’t. “I’m not sure what to do with you,” she told them.