Knife, Page 2

  Of course Bryony knew who it must be. But the figure in the bed looked so wizened and frail, so unlike her former apple-cheeked self, that it would have been easier to believe her a stranger. Her once ageless skin had turned white as ash flakes, showing the veins beneath. Her arms and legs were gaunt, and her scalp bore only a few clumps of grayish hair. She smelled of comfrey ointment but even more strongly of decay, and Bryony stumbled back from the bed, clapping her hands to her mouth.

  “That’s right,” said Thorn. “It’s Sorrel. She used to slip you treats from the kitchen, didn’t she, when Mallow wasn’t looking? She wasn’t even that old, you know. Only a hundred and ninety.”

  “What…happened to her?”

  “We call it the Silence.” Thorn drew the blankets back up over Sorrel again. “First you become short-tempered—sometimes even violent. Then you get confused, and babble nonsense. Soon you’re too weak to move, too cold for any fire to warm. Finally you end up like this.” She gestured to the figure in the bed. “Not moving, not responding. You lose your hearing, your sight, every sense and feeling. Eventually you just…fade…away.”

  Bryony swallowed. “But I thought…we didn’t get sick.”

  “So did the rest of us,” said Thorn, “until this started happening. Did you never wonder why there are so few of us? I suppose not, as an empty Oak is all you’ve ever known. But when I was your age, there were twice as many of us—and that was even after things got so bad the Queen had to order everyone to stay inside.”

  Bryony’s head swam. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the image of Sorrel’s wasted body. “You mean they all—died like this?”

  “Great Gardener, no,” said Thorn. “But even a few is too many. It was bad enough when we only had to worry about faeries doing fool things out of doors and getting themselves killed; more often than not their eggs got smashed or eaten by the crows before we could find them. But when the Silence takes a faery, it’s even worse, because then there’s no egg at all.”

  Nausea overwhelmed Bryony. “I didn’t—I never knew—”

  “Of course you didn’t,” said Thorn flatly, “because Wink didn’t want to give you nightmares. I always did say that woman was too softhearted.”

  “But—” Bryony was still struggling to understand. “Where does the Silence come from?”

  “Ah, that’s the question,” said Thorn. “Nobody knows, not even the Queen. But I’ve seen this happen a few times now, and you know what I think?” She beckoned Bryony closer, bent, and hissed in her ear, “It’s the humans.”

  Shocked, Bryony jerked away. “Got your attention now, haven’t I?” Thorn said. “Think about it. The House was built just over a hundred years ago…and the Silence came not long after. Do you really think that’s just coincidence?”

  She was right, Bryony realized, looking down at her own hands in horror. She had reached out to the human child—the boy. What would have happened if she had touched him?

  “There are only forty-six of us left now,” Thorn pressed on, “and with those humans right on our doorstep, staying in the Oak is our best hope of staying alive. So if you don’t want to end up in the same nutshell as Sorrel—”

  Bryony could bear it no longer. She whirled, stumbling on the rug, and rushed from the room as fast as her legs would carry her. As she dashed back up the Spiral Stair, she tried to think of her toys, her books, Wink’s mirror—anything but the terrible thing Thorn had shown her….

  She flung herself through Wink’s door and collided with someone tall. Staggering back, she looked up into the austere face and grave gray eyes of Valerian—and with that, Bryony burst into tears.

  “You needn’t worry about the child now,” said Thorn’s voice from behind her, as Bluebell clucked reproachfully and Valerian stroked Bryony’s hair. “She won’t do it again.”

  Two

  Bryony sat back on her haunches, wiping her brow with her forearm. All morning she’d been scrubbing the floor of the Dining Hall, polishing each cobble until it shone, but she was still nowhere near finished. As usual, Mallow had given Bryony the most grueling chore she could find.

  But the window behind her stood open, the sound of gentle rainfall mingling with the fragrance of wet grass and new-turned soil, and Bryony inhaled deeply as she worked. Nearly seven years had passed since she stepped out of the Oak and met the human boy, but she had never forgotten that bittersweet taste of freedom. And though her dread of the Silence had kept her from venturing out again, she still often found herself thinking about it.

  Everything had changed after that day, much of it for the worse: She had been taken away from Wink and given to Valerian, who had filled Bryony’s days with work and study and left her no chance to be idle. When she had learned how to read, write, and do her duty to the Queen’s satisfaction, she had been moved into a small room of her own near the foot of the Spiral Stair and told that she must carry out whatever tasks the older faeries gave her, until she was old enough to be given an occupation of her own.

  Since then Bryony had done everything from carding rabbit wool to digging out new privies, but all the while she knew what she really longed for: to be a Gatherer. It was hard work, she knew, with no time for exploration or flight; it was also dangerous, for a faery with a basket on her back was an easy mark for predators if she did not remain alert. But neither of those things would trouble Bryony, she felt sure, if only she could go outdoors again.

  Gatherers were chosen for their strength and endurance rather than their wits, but Bryony felt confident she had enough of both to be a good candidate. The only question was, would the Queen feel the same? Or would her magical Sight tell her to place Bryony in some other position, and she would simply have to make the best of it?

  Until recently Bryony had not troubled herself with such questions, since she was still too young to do a grown faery’s work. But over the winter she had shot up like a sapling, her spindly child’s frame filling out, and now she was a fly’s length taller than anyone else in the Oak. She had also worked hard to prove herself dutiful at all her tasks, no matter how unpleasant. At any time the Queen might summon her to an audience, and Bryony was determined to be ready.

  She bent again to her work, wielding the brush with renewed vigor. One more hour, she told herself, and she’d be finished. Then she could have a bath and pick out a book from the library, to reward herself after yet another of Mallow’s miserable chores well done.

  “Bryony! Where are you?”

  The voice came faintly down the corridor, muffled by echoes. But it sounded like Bluebell, and Bryony snapped her head up to listen. If the Queen’s attendant was looking for her…

  “There you are!” exclaimed Bluebell, bustling into the Dining Hall. “What are you doing here? The kitchens are empty, and we’ve all been waiting for you this age! Mallow said she gave you my message an hour ago.”

  Of course she did, thought Bryony with a spark of anger. No doubt it had pleased the Chief Cook to leave her scrubbing the floor when she should be getting ready for the most important moment of her life. She flung the brush into the bucket and stood up.

  “Oh, dear Gardener,” said Bluebell, “you can’t go before the Queen looking like that!” She whisked Bryony around and gave her a little push toward the door. “To the bath, and then off to Wink—hurry!”

  There was no time for argument. Bryony took off at a sprint, vaulting tables as she went, and raced down the corridor to the bath chamber. The water in the great tub was cold, but Bryony gritted her teeth and plunged in, scrubbing at the dirt beneath her fingernails. She soaped and rinsed her hair, then leaped out of the bath again, snatching up a towel to cover herself as she fled. Rushing back along the empty tunnel, she took the Spiral Stair two steps at a time, arriving breathless and dripping at Wink’s door.

  She had barely knocked before it flew open, and a pair of fluttering hands tugged her inside. “I thought you’d never get here! Quick—put these on!” Wink said, and she thrust a white
shift and a length of silky, thistle-colored stuff into Bryony’s arms.

  Bryony wormed her way into the petticoat, then the gown. It smelled of dust and rose petals, and the fabric was so fine that it seemed to weigh nothing at all. The sleeves were mere puffs, the neckline low and square, and the skirt fell in soft folds from the bodice to brush against her ankles.

  “It’s too short,” fretted Wink, bustling around her and twitching various bits of the dress into place. “I knew it would be, even after I let it out—you can breathe, though, can’t you? Only don’t breathe too much,” she added in haste as Bryony began to inhale. “You’ll split the seams, and Campion will never let me hear the end of it. Whatever took you so long?”

  “I didn’t know,” said Bryony.

  Wink picked up a comb and set to work on her hair. “You mean—Mallow didn’t tell you? Of all the spiteful things to do! Well, she’ll be sorry when—”

  “Is she ready yet?” asked Bluebell from behind them, and Bryony turned to see the Queen’s attendant standing in the doorway, one foot tapping with impatience.

  “Oh, I wanted to put her hair up. Well, never mind,” Wink said, and she handed Bryony a pair of slippers.

  Bryony bent to put on the shoes. Like the dress, they were too small, but she would have to manage. Already Wink was tugging her toward Bluebell, who looked her up and down and sighed. “I suppose it can’t be helped. Here.” She held out a long, downy-plumed feather.

  “What’s this for?” Bryony asked.

  “You’re to give it to Her Majesty,” said Bluebell. “It’s part of the ceremony. Now hurry!”

  Bryony stopped short at the entrance to the Queen’s Hall, gazing up at the festive tapestries hanging from the rafters. Though worn with age, their colors were a wonder, as were the intricate patterns of birds and flowers they depicted. No faery alive knew how to dye such tints anymore, much less make pictures from them, and the sight of them brought a lump to Bryony’s throat. It seemed so wrong that this marvelous craft, like so many other creative things her people had done in the past, was now lost to the Oak forever.

  Bluebell cleared her throat loudly in Bryony’s ear, then announced, “Her gracious Majesty, Queen Amaryllis, invites her subject to approach.”

  The far end of the high-vaulting chamber was taken up by a semicircular dais. Atop this stood a chair carved with twining vines, and in it sat the Queen of the Oakenfolk. Her silken gown flowed about her feet, and her hair was the color of honey wine, crowned by a circlet set with emeralds. Her features were lovely, but her eyes held no warmth, and her expression gave nothing away.

  “Go on,” whispered Bluebell, poking Bryony in the back.

  Until now Bryony had felt strangely calm. After she had kept the Queen waiting for Gardener-only-knew how long and then shown up with damp hair and an ill-fitting gown, there had seemed no way that her situation could be any worse. But then she remembered why she was here, and how badly she wanted to be a Gatherer, and as she took her first step, she stumbled.

  Whispers ran up and down the hall, and Bryony’s cheeks glowed with humiliation. Deliberately she squared her shoulders and walked forward, holding the feather before her. Just not the scullery, she prayed silently, anything but the scullery…because no matter how disappointed she might be at not being a Gatherer, it would be far worse to end up apprenticed to Mallow.

  She had just reached the end of the carpet when the Queen spoke, her voice chill and remote:

  “Kneel.”

  Bryony dropped to both knees, wincing as the seam beneath her armpit ripped. She could sense the Queen’s searching gaze upon her; it was not a comfortable feeling.

  “Faery,” said Queen Amaryllis, “do you this day give me your service?”

  “I do,” said Bryony.

  “Give her the feather,” hissed Bluebell, and Bryony rose awkwardly and walked forward to offer her plume to the Queen.

  “I accept your service,” said Amaryllis. “And do you give me your honor?”

  Bryony wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but it sounded harmless enough. “I do,” she said.

  “I accept your honor,” the Queen said, then, in a lower voice, “and do you give me…your name?”

  Bryony froze. In addition to the common-name inherited from her egg-mother, each faery was born with a secret name that belonged only to her—and whoever knew that name could command her absolutely. Was this really how the Queen made sure of her subjects’ loyalty? Would it be considered treason to refuse?

  In the end she could think of only one answer that was not an outright denial, and her voice shook as she replied: “My name is Bryony, Your Majesty.”

  A sigh rippled through the hall, and Amaryllis sat back with an enigmatic smile. “I accept your name. And now I call upon the wisdom of the Sight, that I might declare to you the nature of your service….”

  There was a long pause while the Queen’s hyacinth-blue eyes slid out of focus and then sharpened again. “Bryony,” she said, “you are apprenticed to Thorn.”

  “What?” yelped a familiar voice from the back of the hall, but it was quickly hushed into silence by the other Oakenfolk. Up on the dais Bryony’s knees buckled, and her head spun like a dropped acorn; it was all she could do to keep from falling. “I…beg your pardon?” she said weakly.

  “So the Sight has told me,” said Queen Amaryllis, “and so it shall be. You will be trained as my new Hunter.” She spoke with confidence, but an ember of uncertainty flickered behind her eyes. “May the Gardener protect you and give you success, Bryony of the Oak.”

  In her wildest imaginings, Bryony had never anticipated this. The most dangerous task in the Oak—and yet it was also the most free. Gatherers were forced to plod and dig, and hide in burrows for safety; but the Queen’s Hunter flew, protecting herself by speed and skill alone. The task required not only a strong body and a steady hand but sharp eyes and quick wits as well—and best of all, it meant leaving the Oak on a regular basis, not just during the growing season but all year round. Thorn would be a hard mentor, Bryony knew, but right now not even that thought could diminish her joy.

  “Your Majesty,” she stammered, bowing deeply to the Queen. “I can hardly tell you—” But Amaryllis only shook her head, averting her gaze to the crowd below.

  “You are dismissed,” she told them in a clear voice. “Thorn, come and claim your apprentice.” Then without another word she rose, beckoned Bluebell after her, and swept out of the hall.

  Bryony wandered back down the aisle, still dazed. As she neared her fellow Oakenfolk she heard whispers, many of them scornful or pitying; few seemed to think she would succeed in her new position, and some even doubted she would survive. Mallow especially looked smug, as though she thought Bryony’s new occupation a fitting punishment—but her smirk faded as Thorn shoved past her and planted herself by Bryony’s side.

  “Well?” she said to the other faeries. “She’s my apprentice, not yours, so off with you.”

  Grumbling, the others filed away. Only Wink paused, dabbing at one eye as though she had something in it, before hurrying out after the rest.

  “Gardener’s mercy,” muttered Thorn. “What a cuckoo’s egg this day’s turned out to be. All right, girl”—she turned to Bryony—“get out of that frippery you’re wearing and put on some proper clothes. We’re going outdoors.”

  Wink wrung her hands when she saw the damage to the gown, but she also lost no time in finding a tunic, waistcoat, and breeches for Bryony to wear. Bryony could only suppose that it must be the privilege of Hunters to have their wardrobe provided without cost, for not only did Wink refuse to bargain with her, she apologized for the ill-fitting clothes and promised to make her better ones soon. This was pleasant. However, Wink also kept sighing and giving her mournful glances, which was not nearly so pleasant, and Bryony was glad to finally get away.

  She found Thorn by the Queen’s Gate, near the foot of the Spiral Stair. Together they hauled the heavy door open, climbed the
ladder of roots, and emerged from the Oak into a misty gray afternoon. The sunlight filtered dimly through the veil of cloud, and the air smelled of earth and green things. Thorn stalked straight out across the lawn, her bow and quiver dangling at her side; but Bryony lingered, gazing up at the colossal bulk of the Tree. She had never viewed it from this angle before, and the sight of it filled her with awe.

  The Oak was at least five centuries old, and in happier days it had sheltered more than two hundred faeries within its hollow heart. Even by human standards it was huge, and Bryony supposed that only Queen Amaryllis’s spells had kept the humans from trying to live there as well. Carriers of the Silence or not, it was almost enough to make her pity them, for how could their House of dead stone compare to the majesty of the living Oak?

  “Stop dawdling and move,” snapped Thorn. “We’ve work to do.”

  Bryony hurried to catch up with her. Picking their way through the damp earth of the flower beds, they ducked beneath the privet hedge and skidded down the dew-slick incline into the field beyond. The grass grew long here, mingled with weeds and wildflowers, and nearby she could hear the gurgling of the brook from which the Oakenfolk drew their water.

  “Right,” said Thorn. “Lesson number one: How not to get killed.” She shielded her eyes with one hand and squinted upward. “The first thing to do when you leave the Oak, always, is to look out for predators. Most birds and animals ignore us, but foxes will eat us if they get the chance, as will cats, owls, and especially crows.” She lowered her hand and turned slowly, scanning the field in all directions as she went on. “There’s one big, ugly crow in particular—Old Wormwood, we call him—that you’ll need to watch out for. He killed Foxglove, the Hunter before me, and he’s been hungering for another taste of faery ever since.”

  Bryony glanced apprehensively at her weaponless hands. “So what do we do if we see him?”

  Thorn snorted. “You have to ask? We hide, of course. In the Oak, if we can get there quick enough, or down the nearest burrow we can find.”