Summerkin, Page 3

  Rook held himself stiffly away from them.

  Fer? Binding magic? Is that what it was—not friendship but magic?

  “Come on,” Asher said again gently, then whispered, “Brother.”

  Rook gave a shaky sigh. He was a puck, and they were his brother-pucks; they knew him better than anybody. And maybe they were right. He gave in, leaning his head against Tatter’s shoulder. He’d tell them everything, and it would be all right.

  Four

  The bees that she couldn’t understand were a problem, and the oaths were a huge problem, and still another problem was the glamorie.

  Fer sat cross-legged on the bed in her room. During the summer, the Lady’s house, built on a platform high in the Lady Tree, was just a wood-shingled roof with walls made of billowing green silk curtains weighted at the bottom with river stones. On the floor was a green and gold rug with a pattern of leaves woven into it, and next to her bed was a wooden chest where she kept her clothes and the box her father had made out of pale wood, her leafy crown wrapped in blue silk cloth, and a broken black arrow fletched with crow feathers.

  On top of the chest was a smooth, shallow wooden bowl, and in the bowl was the glamorie.

  After the defeated Mór had turned into a giant crow and fled from the land, Fer had found the glamorie the Mór had stolen from Laurelin. The Mór had worn the stolen glamorie for two reasons, Fer figured. One, to hide what she truly was—a fierce crow-woman hunter and not a Lady at all—and two, to force her people to love and obey her. Even Fer had almost fallen under the glamorie’s spell, and she didn’t trust it one bit.

  The glamorie had looked like a tattered bit of cobweb in the grass after it had dropped off the Mór. Fer hadn’t even noticed it; one of the wolf-guards had picked it up and saved it for her. The first time she’d touched it, the glamorie had made her fingers tingle and turn cold. Fer had put it in the wooden bowl and had tried to forget about it.

  But she was going to the nathe to convince the High Ones that she was the true Lady of the Summerlands, like her mother before her. There would be a competition, one she absolutely had to win. To do that she would need all the power and magic at her command, and that meant using the glamorie.

  Fer climbed off the bed. In the bowl, the glamorie didn’t look like shredded cobweb anymore. Even in the greenish light of the room, it looked like a silver net, shimmering with pearl and ice and moonlight.

  Carefully Fer reached into the bowl. The glamorie felt cold under her fingers. With one quick motion, she grabbed it, flung it up in the air, and stepped under it as it fell. She shivered as the silver net settled over her. She blinked, and it had disappeared. But she still felt it, icy against her skin and a little prickly. Uncomfortable.

  What was the glamorie, exactly? If she looked in a mirror, what would she see? The ordinary Fer, tall and skinny, with her long, honey-colored braid coming unraveled and grass stains on her bare feet? Or would she see a tall, slender princess glowing with power and beauty?

  “It looks stupid,” said a rough voice from behind her.

  She whirled, and there was Rook, crouched just beside the doorway. He was wearing a tattered green shirt now. She frowned at him. When he’d left, it had seemed clear that he wasn’t coming back. But here he was.

  “Where—” she started. Where have you been? she was going to ask.

  But she already knew his answer. None of your business.

  Instead of asking, she held up her arms and turned around, showing him the glamorie. He’d said she looked stupid. “What do you see, Rook?”

  He got to his feet, scowling. “I always see the real you, Fer.”

  That’s right, he did. Pucks had clear vision. No magic or glamorie could enchant them; they always saw straight through to the truth. They spoke the truth too, but only when it would cause the most trouble.

  “You’ll not wear it, will you?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” she answered. Or maybe not. Fer raised her arm and tried to see the glamorie against her tan skin. Did her arm look more slender, more graceful? Less knobby at the elbow? She lowered her arm and glanced at Rook. “I thought you said you weren’t coming with me,” she said.

  “So I did.” He was still scowling, but down at his bare feet now, instead of at her.

  She smiled at him. She really needed a friend with her when she met the High Ones and competed to become the Lady of the Summerlands. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”

  “Don’t be,” he muttered. Then his head jerked up.

  Fer heard it too, a thump of heavy footsteps on the wooden platform. Behind Rook, a dark shape loomed in the doorway. “Here he is!” the shape called over its shoulder, and then it ducked into the room. Fray. Like all the wolf-guards, she detested Rook.

  “Here now, Puck.” Fray made a grab after Rook, who ducked under her hands and darted behind Fer. “Sorry, Lady Gwynnefar,” Fray said. “He got past us.”

  A second, older wolf-guard bounded into the room. “Is it biting time?” he asked.

  Behind Fer, Rook growled. “Keep those idiot wolves off me.”

  “You’re not wanted here, Puck,” Fray said. She and the other wolf-guard started edging around Fer, watching Rook intently, trying to trap him.

  Fer raised her hand. Both of the wolf-guards stopped short, staring at her. Their eyes widened. Fer felt the glamorie spark over her skin, a sudden wash of chilly moonlight.

  “Lady,” Fray whispered.

  Fer caught her breath. What did the wolf-guards see? Power? Magic? She opened her mouth to speak. “It’s all right, Fray. Leave the puck to me.” Her voice sounded strange. Cold and distant.

  “Yes, Lady,” Fray murmured.

  Her partner bowed his grizzled gray head. “Yes, Lady,” he repeated. The two guards shuffled out the door.

  “Hmm,” Rook said, and stepped up beside her. He was smiling, but not in a nice way. “Maybe you should wear that thing after all.”

  “No, I shouldn’t.” Fer bent her head, stripped off the glamorie, shivering a little as the chill lifted from her skin, and tossed it back into the bowl.

  It glimmered against the dark wood. Beautiful, yes, but the glamorie was dangerous, too. She hadn’t thought about it before, but—the glamorie affected the people who saw it. Did it also affect the one who was wearing it? The glamorie had been her mother’s, so she must have worn it. Had it affected Lady Laurelin, too?

  Fer decided. She’d bring the glamorie with her to the nathe, but she wasn’t going to wear it unless she absolutely had to.

  Besides the glamorie, Fer wasn’t sure what to bring with her. Her bow and arrows, for sure. But what else? In their letter, the High Ones had sounded noble and proud, so she needed to look like a Lady. But she didn’t have anything fancy to wear. . . .

  Rook had faded back to lurk by the door. When she checked again, he was gone. Hopefully he’d stay out of trouble until it was time to go through the Way to the nathe.

  After putting the glamorie in the wooden bowl and setting it aside, Fer dug through the chest to see if the Mór had left any clothes behind. She hadn’t bothered to look before; she’d just dumped her own clothes on top of what was already there. She pulled out her wooden box of healing herbs and tinctures, then her jeans and T-shirts and sneakers and her patch-jacket, then the layer of the Mór’s clothes, black silk shirts and trousers, and a crow feather here and there. Under that was a layer of dried herbs—lavender and something else, maybe artemisia, from the smell of it—and then more clothes, neatly folded. Fer lifted them out and laid them on her bed.

  A creamy white shirt with a high collar. A vest embroidered in green silk with oak leaves. A knee-length dark green suede coat, soft as butter, with silver buttons shaped like leaves. Trousers made of some heavier fabric. High boots made of soft leather. Two more shirts like the first one.

  Fer ran her hand along the front of the vest. The embroidered leaves felt bumpy under her fingers. Some of the leaves were frayed, and one of the buttons was miss
ing. These were not new clothes. But they weren’t the Mór’s, either.

  Fer blinked away sudden tears. They were her mother’s clothes. Laurelin’s. She’d never met her mother, only imagined her, and in her dreams she’d been wearing clothes just like these. Not fancy princess dresses, but clothes good for riding and for walking on silent feet through her forest land.

  After checking to be sure that Rook was still gone, Fer stripped off her T-shirt and shorts and tried on the silk shirt and the trousers, then pulled on the boots. The vest was too big and the coat’s sleeves hung down over her hands. The shirt’s high collar brushed her chin and made her feel like standing straight and tall. She looked down at herself.

  They were nice, but the clothes were just like the glamorie—neither fit her quite right.

  Reaching into the chest again, she took out the silken package and unwrapped it. Freshly budded oak leaves and twigs had been twined into a crown. It looked as fresh and green as it had on the day it’d been set on her head, crowning her Lady of the Summerlands. Brushing tendrils of her hair aside, she put it on. There. She was the Lady, and no High One could tell her otherwise.

  As she was folding back the too-long coat sleeves, she felt a tingle along a thread that bound her to one of her people, the fox-girl Twig. A moment later, Twig slipped into the room.

  Seeing Fer in the new clothes and the crown, Twig gave a shy smile. “Pretty,” she said.

  Startled, Fer frowned. Pretty was not what she was after.

  “They were hers,” Twig said. With a slender hand, she stroked the coat sleeve. “The Lady Laurelin’s—your mother’s.” She pulled a wooden comb out of the pocket of her shift. “Sit down.” She pointed at the bed. “I’ll do your hair.”

  Fer took off the coat, then sat on the bed. Twig’s quick fingers set aside the leafy crown and unraveled her braid; Fer closed her eyes as the comb went through her hair, long, slow strokes.

  “It’s good to have you back, Lady,” Twig murmured. “The land is happier with you here.”

  Fer smiled. She was happier here too.

  “If you would only let us swear our oaths . . . ,” Twig began.

  Fer sighed and opened her eyes. “Twig,” she interrupted. “I have to go see the High Ones at the nathe.”

  The comb stilled. “Why, Lady?”

  “They . . .” She wasn’t sure how much to tell. Just talking about it made her feel shaky. “They summoned me. I have to prove to them that I’m the true Lady of these lands.”

  “We will come too,” Twig said, and started combing again.

  What did she mean by “we”? Fer felt another thread-pull from one of her people and opened her eyes to see Fray looming in the doorway.

  “Yup, we’re coming,” Fray said, folding her arms.

  “No, you’re not,” Fer said firmly. “Nobody’s coming. I’m going by myself.”

  In the doorway, Fray shook her head. “That puck is going, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Fer admitted.

  Fray stepped further into the room. “Lady, he’s not to be trusted.”

  She and Rook had risked their lives together to defeat the Mór—she trusted Rook more than she trusted almost anyone. “Rook’s my friend.”

  “He isn’t,” Fray insisted. “A puck cares only for his brother-pucks. He follows no rules but his own, and a puck’s rule is to make trouble wherever he goes. Pucks are betrayers and destroyers.” Fray bared her sharp teeth in a snarl. “They are outcast for a reason!”

  Fer opened her mouth to argue, when Fray continued.

  “Lady Gwynnefar, if that puck’s going with you, then we’re coming too,” the wolf-girl pronounced.

  “We’re coming,” Twig added. Once more she ran the comb through Fer’s hair. “You are our Lady.” She set down the comb and started to weave the hair into a braid. “We have to come.”

  Five

  Rook lurked at the edge of the clearing, hand in a pocket of his shorts, the shifter-tooth and shifter-bone warming under his fingers. The sun was setting, the long, rosy twilight of midsummer. Shadows gathered under the trees, and fireflies flashed and floated in the air.

  On the other side of the clearing, he saw Fer standing next to Phouka, who had once been Finn and a puck like Rook but was stuck now in his black-maned, fiery-eyed horse form. Fer was dressed in a shirt, shorts, and bare feet, and she wore her patched jacket on top, the one stitched with protective spells. Her hair hung in its usual long braid down her back. A swarm of bees circled her head, humming. She reached out and patted Phouka’s neck but kept her eyes on the sky.

  She was waiting, Rook knew, for the first star to appear. The Way in and out of this land began in the clearing, and it could only be opened at the turning of the day into night, or of night into day.

  The Ways were like that—tricksy. Most Ways were like unlocked doors that stayed open all the time and could be used by anyone, even the pucks. A few Ways opened only on the longest or shortest day of the year. Some, like this one, could only be opened at certain times of day or night. The Way that went to the human world, where there was no magic, could be opened only by a Lord or a Lady, or by one of the High Ones.

  Anybody could go through this Way to the nathe, where there was a meeting of all Ways, but a puck on his own would never get inside the nathe. The guards there would stop him from coming in.

  Near Fer were her wolf-guards, all prick-eared and hackle-raised now that they’d spotted him in his patch of shadow. More of Fer’s people gave him fearful glances and edged away, keeping Fer and the guards between themselves and him.

  He felt a growl rising in his chest when he saw the fox-girls, Burr and Twig, flinch away. Afraid of him. Well, they should be; he was a puck, after all.

  He’d woken up that morning in the puck cave in the Foglands, tangled in a warm, sleepy heap with the other pucks, some of them in their dog forms, others lying sprawled by the dying fire. Scrap, the baby, was curled against his chest in his puppy form. Home with the other pucks, where he belonged; how he’d missed it, especially his littlest brother.

  And here he was, back in Fer’s land again.

  Asher had gotten the whole story out of him. Rook had told him and Tatter and Rip about how he’d sworn a thrice-binding oath to the Mór and how Fer had defeated the Mór by refusing to spill more blood in the land. And about the other thing.

  “Three times?” Asher had asked, appalled. “You let that girl save your life three times?”

  “I didn’t let her,” Rook snapped. She’d just done it. First she’d saved him from the wolves, who would’ve torn him to pieces on the Mór’s orders. Then she’d kept him on Phouka’s back during a wild ride through the Way, when to fall off would’ve meant dissolving into dust. And then she’d healed him when the wolf bites had turned him feverish and would have killed him, like as not.

  Asher’s eyes narrowed. “What did you give her for it?”

  “Nothing,” Rook shot back.

  “You haven’t made her any promises, sworn to do her a service, bound yourself to her, nothing like that?” Asher asked.

  “I told you—no.”

  “But she knows you’re a puck and she lets you come and go as you will, is that it?” Asher went on.

  “She does, yes,” Rook admitted.

  “So, she’s a fool,” Asher mused.

  Maybe she was, trusting a puck. Calling him her friend.

  Then Asher had gotten a keen look in his orange-bright eyes. “We can use this to our advantage, can’t we, brothers?”

  Rip, in his dog form, had growled. Tatter grinned and nodded. And then they’d come up with a plan, a devious and tricksy puck-plan to bring trouble to the High Ones and to get back at Lady Gwynnefar for stealing Phouka away from them. “And you, dear Rook,” Asher had said, “are the one who is going to make it happen.”

  So, like it or not, back he’d come. Fer would get him into the nathe, and then he’d carry out his brother-pucks’ plan.

  Across the clearing
, Fer looked like she was arguing with her wolf-guard. The big young female folded her burly arms and shook her head, saying no. Fer stepped closer and pointed toward the forest, in the direction of the Lady Tree. Ah. Fer wanted the guard to stay behind. That would make things easier, having no idiot wolf-guards around.

  Rook narrowed his eyes, watching to see if she’d put on the glamorie to force the wolf-girl to obey her.

  Then the wolf-guard pointed across the clearing, straight at him. Fer looked over, and seeing Rook, her face brightened. “Hi, Rook,” she called.

  Her people fell silent at that, and, as he crossed the clearing toward her and Phouka, they edged deeper into the shadows. As if he wouldn’t see them cowering there. Stupid.

  When he reached Fer, the girl wolf-guard stepped forward, blocking him.

  “Back off,” Rook snarled. He felt in his pocket for his shifter-tooth. She was younger than the other guards; in his dog form he’d be able to give her a good fight.

  The wolf-guard leaned over him and showed her teeth. “Watch your manners, Puck,” she growled.

  Rook barked out a sharp laugh. “Oh, sure I will.” He ducked past the guard and gave Fer a mock bow. “Lady Gwynnefar,” he said. There. How was that for manners?

  Fer gave him a sunny smile, as if his coming along to the nathe made her happy.

  Her happiness to see him made him feel prickly. “Are the idiot wolves coming too?” he asked.

  “Just Fray,” she answered, nodding at the young female. “Who is not an idiot. And Twig,” she added, pointing at the fox-girl, who was strapping Fer’s bow and quiver of arrows to the saddle of her own mount, a white goat with curly horns. “The rest are staying behind. Except Phouka.” Fer rested her hand on the horse’s neck.

  Phouka watched Rook with flame-yellow eyes. Almost like he suspected Rook of something too. Rook grinned at him, and Phouka stamped his hoof in reply and snorted. Phouka knew his brother-puck well enough to know he was up to no good.