Summerkin (12 page)

It wasn't a long drop, just a little over his own height. He hit the bottom and leaped up, scrabbling with his fingers at the edge of the hole so he could climb out, but the warden kicked them off and then bent and did something with her hand against the ground, and thick vines grew, erupting from the dirt and stretching across the opening like bars.

He jumped up again and gripped the vine-bars, shaking at them, but they were solid. He dropped back to the bottom of the cell, the hard-packed dirt cold under his bare feet. Above him, the wardens stared down, dark shadows framed by the dim light of the crystal in a niche in the wall behind them. One of them said something in a low voice, and the other warden nodded.

“Let me out of here!” he shouted. “I didn't do it!”

Ignoring him, they turned and started up the narrow stairs.

“No!” he shouted, despairing, but they were gone. They were never coming back, were they? And there was
no way out
. He was stuck here. Stuck! There wasn't much room for pacing; the cell was just two steps wide. He thought of the shifter-bone in his pocket, but there wasn't enough space for his horse-form, so he couldn't kick his way out.

Maybe he could dig a hole. With his fingernails he scraped at the dirt around the vine-bars, but it was almost as hard as rock.

A long time later, his fingernails were cracked and his fingers black with dirt, and he'd scraped away a dent about as long as his thumb. Then he froze, hearing footsteps on the stairs.

Two feet wearing soft deerskin boots came down the steps, and then Arenthiel crouched at the edge of Rook's cell, looking down at him.

Rook felt a growl building in his chest. Without warning, he leaped up and grabbed through the bars for a grip on the other boy. Arenthiel flung himself back, out of reach, scrambling away, stumbling against the stairs.

Rook fell back into the cell, panting, and got ready to spring again.

Arenthiel got to his feet, examining the palms of his hands, then brushing them off on his long embroidered silk coat. “My goodness,” he said calmly. “I suppose I should have expected that.” He crouched on the steps again, farther away this time, and gave Rook a bright smile. “I want to talk to you, Robin. Are you going to listen to me?”

Rook didn't answer. With one hand he gripped one of the vine-bars, then hoisted himself up to make a grab with his other hand at the other boy's ankle. Out of reach, curse it. He fell back again, growling.

“Well, then,” Arenthiel said, with a mock-sad sigh. “I suppose I'll have to find some way to keep you still.” He leaned forward and placed a hand flat on the last stair. He closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath.

Rook felt something nudge his foot. He jerked around and saw a gray, scaly-skinned root as thick as a wolf-guard's muscled arm breaking through the hard-packed floor, questing toward him like a blind snake. He stumbled back, and another root broke from the wall behind him, looping over his shoulder. A third root snaked around his wrist and pinned him to the wall. “Let me go!” he gasped. But the more he struggled, the tighter the roots gripped him.

“Now are you ready to listen?” Arenthiel asked.

“No!” Rook snarled.

Another root twined out of the wall and around Rook's neck, and all of a sudden struggling didn't seem quite as important as just breathing.

“It's all right, Robin, you don't have to answer.” Arenthiel settled himself more comfortably on the bottom step. “I've always hated you pucks,” he said, wrinkling his nose as if he smelled something nasty. “So messy. So much trouble. And you
see
too much.”

It was true—even from down here, Rook could see what Arenthiel really was. Not a boy, but something old and, he was starting to realize, poisonous, somehow. If he squinted, in the dim light Rook could see some kind of darkness in him, almost as if he was rotting at the core. This ancient creature was plotting something, and nobody could see it except for him.

“I've managed to keep it hidden for a long time, but you've seen what I truly am, haven't you?” Arenthiel said. “Do you have any idea how old I am?” He glanced down into the cell. “I suppose a puppy like you couldn't possibly understand. Very old. I have waited a very long time to become Lord of a land, and for the power that would bring me. Then that Mór usurper tried to take over the Summerlands, and I thought, ah!” He held up both hands in mock excitement. “A Lordless land, all mine! I knew I could defeat the Mór and convince the High Ones to give me the Summerlands as a reward. But then”—he shook his head with false sadness—“then your Gwynnefar came, and the Summerlands, which should by rights be mine, went to her instead.”

Rook swallowed against the vine holding his neck. “You did it. You stole the crown.”

Arenthiel raised his eyebrows. “Of course I did! And made it seem your doing. Well done, wouldn't you say? And now your Gwynnefar has sworn me an oath. She has bound herself to me.”

No. Not Fer. He was lying.

“She did it to save your life, dear Robin.”

To save him? Knowing Fer, that could be true. How could she have been so stupid, trusting a creature like Arenthiel? Swearing an oath to him? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Rook strained against the roots that bound him to the wall.

“Oh, don't even bother, Robin,” the ancient creature said. “Now, a puck with keen vision like yours could be useful to me, at such a time. If you will bind yourself to me, as your friend did, I will see that you're not put to death.”

Swear an oath? Bind himself to Arenthiel? He'd already done that—bound himself to the Mór—and he'd never do it again.

“Well?” Arenthiel asked. His golden eyes glittered in the dim light.

“No,” Rook choked out. Death first.

“Oh, alas.” Arenthiel got to his feet and straightened his fine coat. “I suppose there's no changing your mind. Not to worry. I don't really need you; it simply would have been convenient. It's too bad about your brother-pucks, though.”

His brothers? What did they have to do with any of this? Rook wanted to shout questions, but the vines around his neck tightened, and then Arenthiel was gone.

The bee that had been watching him for Fer buzzed in a bright circle around the cell and then landed on one of the vines that bound his wrist to the dirt wall.

He eyed it. “Here, you bee.”

It flicked its wings and gave a low hum.

“Go and find your Lady. Tell her to come get me out of here.”

The bee flew off the vine and brushed softly against his face; then it zipped out of the cell and, like a fading spark in the darkness, disappeared up the stairs.

He waited. When Fer came, he could tell her the truth, and surely she'd believe him. She had trusted him once—she
had
to believe him. At least one more time.

But she didn't come.

Sixteen

Fer spent the night huddled in the corner of Phouka's stall, shivering at the glamorie's icy touch, seeing again the moment of Rook's betrayal. As the long night ended, she went, taking one of her bees with her, with the Lords and Ladies and Gnar and Lich along the forest path to the vine-wall, where Rook's punishment would be decided. She felt heavy with weariness, and she felt as if a block of ice had frozen inside her. She'd been wearing the glamorie for too long; she needed to take it off. But she couldn't, or she really would lose the competition.

The sky was silver with dawn, and the wide Lake of All Ways glimmered like a huge mirror. Fer stood apart from the other Lords and Ladies, and from Gnar and Lich. The dew soaked into her mother's soft boots, but she felt too numb even to shiver at the early-morning chill in the air. Her bee, the one that had been watching Rook for her, had come back; it had buzzed and bumbled at her ear, trying to tell her something, but she still couldn't understand what it was saying. Now it clung to the collar of her shirt next to the other bee. She reached up with a heavy hand to stroke its fuzzy back, and it gave her a reassuring buzz in reply.

The sky grew brighter. Then the gathered people murmured and turned toward the wall, and the vines drew apart and the High Ones glided out. They wore hooded cloaks the same silver color as the sky, and as they walked their feet left no prints on the dewy grass. Behind them came Lord Artos, and then Arenthiel, surveying the scene with glittering eyes; he came to stand beside Fer, almost as if he was guarding her. The High Ones stood, framed by the Lake of All Ways behind them. Their hoods shadowed their faces.

Then the lead nathe-warden stepped through the opening in the vine-wall, followed by two wardens with Rook between them. One more warden came last, carrying four spears tipped with leaf-shaped silver blades. Rook's hands were bound with vines, but he struggled, snarling and snapping at the guards as they dragged him across the grass. The wardens forced him to his knees before the High Ones and Lord Artos, keeping him there with a hand on each of his shoulders. He looked desperately around; seeing Fer standing beside Arenthiel, he fixed his flame-bright eyes on her and didn't look away.

Fer watched him with dull eyes. He was shaking, she could see, frightened despite his fierceness.

A part of her brain was clenched with fright too, and shivering with worry, but the glamorie made her feel far, far away from it.

The whispering Lords and Ladies fell silent. One of the High Ones tipped a hooded head down, nodding at Lord Artos, who stepped forward to speak.

“My Lords and my Ladies,” he said, looking around at the crowd. “We bring before us the puck who stole the Summerlands crown and delivered it to his brother-pucks. The proper punishment for such a crime is death.”

Fer saw many in the crowd nod at that. They wanted to see Rook die, she realized. Then Arenthiel caught her eye. “If you swear me the oath,” he whispered, “you will not have to see the puck put to death.” She knew swearing such an oath was wrong, but she couldn't bear to see Rook die. She gave a slow nod, her answer.

Arenthiel left her side, gracefully bowing to the High Ones and then speaking quietly to Lord Artos. Behind her, Fer heard the Lords and Ladies murmuring, wondering why the execution of the puck was being delayed.

Lord Artos nodded, spoke with the High Ones for a few moments, then addressed the crowd again, with Arenthiel at his side. “The puck will not be killed at this time.” Fer heard a sigh of disappointment from the Lords and Ladies as the bear-man went on speaking. “For Arenthiel has made a request on behalf of Gwynnefar that we not kill the puck here today, which the High Ones, in their wisdom, have granted.”

Rook was still staring at her, and he didn't look grateful.

“And now, on behalf of the High Ones, I pronounce the puck's sentence.” Lord Artos turned and pointed at the Lake of All Ways. “The Way to the human world opens here. The puck will be put through this Way, never to return to these lands.”

Fer looked up and met Rook's eyes. His teeth were clenched, she saw, and his face was set.

“Furthermore,” Lord Artos went on, “the pucks themselves will be punished for the trickery they dared to bring into the nathe. This afternoon, those who still wish to be named Lord or Lady of the Summerland will compete in the last part of the contest. They will hunt down the pucks. The one who recovers the crown from them shall be the new Lord or Lady. And then every last puck in these lands will be killed.”

Fer saw Rook flinch at that, and his face went pale with horror. “No!” he shouted. “They don't have the crown!” He lunged desperately toward her. “Fer, my brothers didn't—” and the warden's fist came down on the side of his head, sending him sprawling onto the wet grass.

“Bring him,” the warden ordered, and the two other wardens hauled Rook up and dragged him to the pebbled shore of the lake. They stood him on his feet, holding him upright as he wobbled from the blow. One of the wardens put his hands on the vines, and they dropped from Rook's wrists and lay writhing on the ground. Each of the four wardens had a spear now, and they lowered them, forcing Rook toward the lake.

Arenthiel leaned in and said something to Rook that made the puck snarl back at him. Then Lord Artos knelt and put his pawlike hand on the rippled surface of the water.

He was opening the Way to the human world, Fer realized. Only a Lord or a Lady could do it. The bear-man crouched there for long minutes, his shoulders hunched, his bearded face growing tense and lined, the tendons in his hands standing out as if he was pushing hard against something. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped from the end of his nose. At last, the ripples on the surface of the lake ironed out. “The Way is open,” Lord Artos said in a strained voice.

“Go in, Puck,” a warden said sharply.

Rook turned, blinking, and found Fer in the crowd. “I didn't betray you, Fer,” he said in a steady voice. “I was going to, but I didn't.”

He turned back to the lake.

Fer caught her breath; even the glamorie wasn't enough to stop the horror that was building in her chest. This was wrong.
Wrong
. She remembered the bees clinging to her collar, and she took one of them into her heavy hand. “Go with him,” she whispered. The bee bumbled at her fingers, then zoomed through the crowd to Rook.

The wardens closed in with their spears, driving him toward the water. Fer saw Rook flinch away. Without a backward look, he jumped from the pebbled shore into the Way.

And he was gone.

 

Fer stumbled back to the nathe-palace with the rest of the Lords and Ladies. They cast her suspicious looks and muttered loud enough for her to hear. “She let him in,” they hissed. “Human.” And “
. . .
in league with the puck.” Arenthiel appeared next to her and said something about swearing an oath to him, but she bowed her head and plodded on.

“Very well,” he said sharply, not so friendly anymore. “I will come to you shortly. Prepare yourself.”

Finally she made it to her rooms.

“Are you all right, Lady?” Fray asked, meeting her at the door.

Fer just stared at her.

“Come in,” Twig said, gently taking her hands and leading her into the room.

She found herself sitting on the cushion by the low table. The bee buzzed from her collar and circled her head, round and round. Fray and Twig were talking, their voices a muddle to her tired ears. She looked down at her hands in her lap, and they looked pale, the fingernails tinged with blue.

The glamorie. Contest or not, she had to get it off. She closed her eyes and summoned every scrap of her own will. Passing her cold fingers over her arm, she felt for the net of glamorie. She felt its chill sparkle but no edge.

Gritting her teeth, Fer pushed her fingertips against the net of the glamorie. She gasped as the net tore; its edges slithered away from her fingers. Fer seized an edge and pulled, and slowly, slowly, a sliver of the glamorie peeled off her arm. Its icy fishhooks had set themselves into her; they'd grown through her skin and deep into her bones.

Bit by painful bit she peeled off the rest of the glamorie until it lay like a pile of broken glass on the low table before her. Her heart pounded as if she'd been running through the woods with the Mór and all of her hunters in pursuit. Exhausted, she put her head down on her arms. All the frozen tears inside her melted at once, and she cried until the sleeves of her mother's coat were wet.

Once all the tears were gone, she lifted her head, sniffling, wiping the tears off her face. It was funny how crying actually made her feel better.

Twig and Fray were watching her, their eyes wide. The bee hovered before her, almost as if it was worried.

“I'm okay,” she croaked. She looked at the glamorie, shimmering like moonlight on the tabletop. “Twig, get the box.”

The fox-girl nodded and darted into Fer's room, coming back with the little wooden box.

With the tips of her fingers, Fer picked up the glamorie and dropped it into the box. She closed the lid and gave a great, shuddering sigh. Every Lord and Lady of the nathe wore a glamorie, and it made them cold and heartless.

“I will never be that kind of Lady,” she whispered to herself. Even if it meant losing the contest and going back to the human world, she would never wear the glamorie again.

 

Arenthiel would come soon to demand her oath. To get ready, Fer put on her jeans, T-shirt, and patch-jacket. They were her simpler clothes, but they were her strength, too—her armor. The stick-people brought food, but she couldn't eat. Fray and Twig watched as she paced nervously across the room. The bee buzzed back and forth, just as agitated.

“What did they do with the puck?” Fray asked.

The thought of Rook's punishment made her stomach clench. But maybe it wouldn't be too awful. The Way that led to the human world came out not too far from Grand-Jane's house; she might help him. “Arenthiel promised me he would speak to the High Ones. Instead of killing Rook, he got them to put him through the Way into the human world.”

At that, Fray and Twig exchanged a glance. “That Arenthiel promised to save the puck?” Fray asked sharply.

Fer nodded. Maybe Fray didn't like that idea. “Do you think Rook really stole the crown?” The question had been nagging at her.

Fray shrugged. “He slipped away that night. He could have done it then.”

Yes, he could. The glamorie had made her thoughts as clear as icicles, and as cold, and then it'd seemed like he'd done it, but now she wasn't so sure.
I didn't betray you, Fer
, he'd said on the edge of the Way. What if he really hadn't?

“Lady,” Fray said, looking grim. “What words did Arenthiel say when he promised to help you save the puck?”

What words? “He promised . . .” Fer paused, trying to remember exactly what Arenthiel had said, when there was a heavy knocking and the door burst open.

Arenthiel strode into the room followed by a willowy nathe-warden. The warden slammed the door and stood in front of it, blocking the way out.

Rook wouldn't like this, Fer found herself thinking. It was too much like a trap.

“Gwynnefar!” Arenthiel exclaimed, smiling widely and holding out his hands to Fer.

She stood staring at him. She wasn't going to play his game, pretending to be his friend. Slowly Fer crossed the room to Aren and stood before him, her heart pounding. Didn't his cheeks get sore, she wondered, smiling so much?

He looked her over, eyebrows raised. “Oh, you are not wearing the glamorie. It really is too bad, Gwynnefar. With the glamorie you are”—he waved his hand airily—“quite lovely. Worthy to rule. To take it off is to admit failure. And without it, I am sorry to say, you look rather dowdily human.” His mouth turned down into an exaggerated pout.

“I don't care what you think,” Fer said firmly. “I won't wear the glamorie again.”

For just a moment, she thought she saw a hard gleam in his eye, but then he was beaming again. “Well, you know why I am here!”

She nodded slowly, her stomach sinking. “You saved Rook, so I owe you an oath of service.”

“Yes.” He gave a graceful nod. “Gwynnefar, I must tell you how much danger you are in. I have been visited by several Lords and Ladies of the nathe.” He lowered his voice, speaking confidingly. “They are certain that you were in league with the puck all along. Why else would you have brought him here, they ask! It is only a matter of time before they convince the High Ones to imprison you. But once you have sworn an oath of service to me—the oath you owe me, my dear—I will be able to protect you, just as I protected your puck.”

She swallowed down a lump of fright. If she swore this oath, it meant she'd have to do whatever Arenthiel ordered her to, which made her feel cold and shivery inside. What if he ordered her to put on the glamorie again?