Summerkin (3 page)

He flinched as if she'd hit him, then shook his head and jumped to his feet. “I won't, no,” he snarled, and then stalked off along the branch to the tree trunk, where he swung himself onto the ladder and climbed down.

Fer stared after him. It hadn't been such a terrible thing to ask, had it?

This new Rook was going to take a lot of getting used to.

Three

In his dog form, Rook raced away from the Lady Tree, cursing himself. Going to see Fer had been
tame
, and stupid, and he'd really done her a favor, hadn't he, delivering the letter from the High Ones when he should have given it to his brother-pucks to make trouble with. It was a good thing his brothers would never know that he'd had the letter in his hands and had given it away.

Panting, he trotted on, his paws silent and sure on the mossy ground, his black fur blending with the shadows of the late-afternoon forest. Arriving at a clearing at the edge of Fer's land, he spat the shifter-tooth from his mouth and felt the blurring dizziness of the change. He caught the tooth in his hand and shoved it into his pocket. His head down, he went on. No, he wouldn't go back to see Fer again. Fer, with her strange, human ideas about friendship. As if a puck could ever truly be friends with anyone but another puck.

Yes, it'd be better for her if he stayed away.

The sky, what he could see of it through the trees, grew darker, and shadows gathered in the branches overhead. He set off across a clearing gray with twilight.

“Hellooooo, Rook,” came a voice from behind him.

He whirled, but nobody was there.

He turned back, and Tatter stood before him, grinning. “Rook!” Tatter exclaimed, and pulled him into a rough hug.

Rook grinned back at his brother-puck. Tatter was older—almost all of the other pucks were older than he was—and taller, and wore his black hair in a matted mane down his back. His skin was the red-brown color of oak leaves in the autumn; for clothes he wore a shapeless wrap made of tattered and stained yellow silk. His flame-orange eyes danced. “Haven't seen you in ages, Rook-pup.”

“I've been around,” Rook said.

“No you haven't.” Tatter gave him a quick cuff on the side of the head. “You've been playing hard-to-find.” He looped an arm over Rook's shoulders, then pulled him closer to kiss the spot where he'd hit him. “Come on,” he said, bringing Rook along with him. “Asher wants to see you.”

In his chest, Rook felt a surge of longing mixed with a curl of fear. Pucks didn't like to be alone; they tended to gather with other pucks, and wherever they gathered, that was their home. Ever since the trouble with the Mór, Rook had been keeping himself apart. He mostly wanted to see Asher and the others, but part of him wanted to run away and hide. Asher was not going to like what he'd gotten himself mixed up in. Still, if Asher called, a puck did well to answer, or his life would get very tricky.

Tatter shifted into his dog form, and Rook did too, and they trotted through the growing night to the nearest Way. Ways that led from one land to another, like doors that led from one room to another, were kept open so that anyone—even pucks—could come and go as they wished. This Way led from the twilit clearing in Fer's Summerlands to another Way that lay at the bottom of a steep hill crowded with brambles, then to the next Way, which waited in the shadow of a huge boulder, to a last Way that led to the Foglands, where a chilly wind whistled through the bare branches over their heads and leaves crunched under their paws. They passed over that land like two dog-shaped shadows until they came to a high cliff. Overhead, a half-moon shone down. Tatter spat out his shifter-tooth, and so did Rook.

The chilly breeze brushed across his bare shoulders, and Rook shivered, missing his black fur, and wishing for more clothes than just his ragged shorts.

“Not far now,” Tatter said, and led Rook along the cliff until they reached a path so narrow they had to go up it sideways, clinging to handholds that were bumps of shadow in the harsh moonlight.

Rook felt the cold cliff face grating against his chest and tried not to look down at the dark ground below as they climbed higher. His fingers grew numb from gripping the knobs of rock that kept him from falling off.

“Just here,” Tatter said, crouched down, and disappeared.

Rook edged farther along until he saw a deeper shadow in the cliff face. An opening. Stooping, he crawled through, then around a corner, coming out into a cave. It was wide and high ceilinged, with smooth, sand-colored stone walls and a bright fire burning at its center. His eyes automatically searched for another way out, then found it—two openings in a side wall, tunnels, no doubt, that led outside. No puck would let himself be caught in a place without a back exit.

“Look who I brought!” Tatter was announcing, and then, as Rook climbed to his feet, he heard
Brother!
Puppy!
It's our Rook!
echoing from the cave walls, and a few cheerful yips from the other pucks lounging around the fire. All of them jumped up and gathered around Rook, hugging him and tousling his hair. A younger puck toddled over and grabbed Rook's knees, grinning up at him. He found himself laughing and returning hugs, and buzzing with sudden happiness.

Then another puck pushed through the crowd and seized Rook in a fierce hug. Asher was lithe and tall, had skin tinged ashy gray, and wore gleaming crystals woven into his many long black braids. His eyes burned with a redder flame than most yellow-eyed pucks.

He gripped Rook's shoulders and looked him over, his eyes narrowing when he saw the scars from the wolf bites. “Ah, it's our young Rook, come home at last,” Asher said. “How we've missed you!”

He'd missed them, too. Being bound to the Mór, being away from his brother-pucks—it had been like having a hollow, empty place inside him. Seeing them again filled it up, to overflowing.

He bent down and picked up the baby, Scrap, and hugged him. “Hello, little one,” he whispered. Rook himself had found the abandoned baby-puck and brought him to his brothers when Scrap had been tiny. As the next-youngest of the pucks, Rook had spent many long nights feeding the baby with stolen milk and rocking him to sleep. “And here you are, walking on your own legs like a grown-up lad,” Rook said, giving the baby a kiss. Scrap squirmed and laughed, his yellow eyes alight, and Rook set him on the stone floor. Scrap staggered away, and another puck caught him before he could fall and took him away to the warm fire that blazed at the center of the cave.

“Come on,” Asher said. “We want to talk to you.” The other pucks faded away, went back to sit by the fire. Asher put an arm around Rook's bare shoulders and pulled him to a darker corner of the cave. Tatter came too.

Another puck was waiting for them, crouched in shadow. Rip, it was, sharp-faced and wearing nothing at all except for swirls of red and black paint on his skin. He gave Rook a narrow-eyed nod.

Rook shivered and nodded back.

“You're cold, Rook-pup,” Tatter said, settling on a pile of blankets. “Have a shirt.” He dug into a bag at his feet and pulled out a wad of stained green cloth, which he tossed to Rook.

“Thanks,” Rook said, and pulled the shirt over his head. It must've come from somebody even bigger than Fer's wolf-guards, because its ragged hem hung almost to his knees and the sleeves were too long.

Asher went to lean against the smooth cave wall, where he looked Rook up and down. “Been out wandering?”

Rook nodded, then busied himself with rolling up the sleeves of his new shirt.

“From the looks of those scars, you've been fighting.” Asher glanced aside at Rip. “Wouldn't you say, Brother?”

“Wolves, at a guess,” Rip answered from the shadows.

“Should've asked your brothers for help dealing with them,” Asher said, testing.

Rook shrugged. It'd happened too fast to ask for help with the wolves or with anything else. Rook had been on his way to see his puck-brother Finn and had arrived just as the Mór was about to kill him in one of her bloody hunts. The only thing she would take in return for sparing Finn's life was Rook's thrice-sworn oath, and that had bound him to her more tightly than iron chains.

“Didn't you miss us?” Asher went on.

“I did, yes,” Rook answered.

“But you didn't ask us for help.” Asher's voice had turned cold. “And you were gone such a long time.”

“A long time,” Rip echoed, his narrow eyes fixed on Rook.

Rook stared at them, not sure what to say. Behind him, the rest of the pucks in the cave, even the baby, had fallen silent, as if they were all listening to hear how Rook would explain why he'd stayed away from home for so long.

Suddenly Asher grinned. “It's all right, Puppy. We know about your little troubles with the Mór. Not very smart of you, was it, binding yourself to one like that. Letting her wolves get at you?”

Rook breathed out a sigh of relief. So he didn't have to explain. “It was stupid, yes,” he agreed.

“You were trying to save that idiot Finn!” Tatter put in, from where he sat in his nest of blankets. “Not stupid at all, dear Rook.”

“Finn is the horse Phouka now, and he's not come back to us, has he?” Rip said.

“He hasn't, no,” Asher agreed. His red eyes watched Rook carefully. “Instead of coming home to us he's staying with that new Lady, the one who somehow managed to defeat the Mór even though she's no more than a girl.”

Rook nodded. He didn't add anything, because the less he said about Fer, the better.

Asher straightened and stepped closer. “But Rook, it's been ages since the Mór lost her bid to be a Lady. What've you been up to since then?”

The question he'd been dreading. “This and that,” Rook mumbled.

“Really!” Asher exclaimed.

Beside him, Rip rose to his feet. His black and red body paint made him look like a creature of shadow and burning coals. His eyes gleamed orange in his black-painted face.

“This and that, is it?” Asher went on. He glanced at Rip and gave a slight nod. “We heard
this
”—Rip reached out and gave Rook a rough shove. Asher went on, leaning closer. “You've spent the last little while skulking 'round the borders of that new Lady-girl's lands, and we've heard
that
”—Rip shoved harder, and Rook stumbled back, his heart pounding—“you gave a ride to a nathe's messenger but didn't bring his message to us, as you should have.”

Rip shoved with both hands and, as Rook crashed to the cave floor, Rip flicked his shifter-tooth into his mouth, blurring into his dog shape. Rook scrambled backward as Rip came snarling after him. A heavy leap, and Rip forced him to the ground, breathing down on him with two big paws on his chest. Panting, Rook stared up. The Rip-dog had a heavy muzzle and small eyes, and he growled deep in his chest. His breath was hot and smelled of dead rabbits. Rook lifted an arm to push the dog off; Rip seized his wrist in his teeth. Rook froze.

Asher crouched next to him. Firelight gleamed from the crystals knotted into his braids. “What we hear is, you brought the
nathe
message to the girl instead.” He grinned. “So. What's going on, Rook?”

Rook shook his head. Not telling.

Rip bit harder, his teeth digging into Rook's skin.

“Get off me, Rip,” Rook growled.

Asher's eyes narrowed. After a moment he stood and gave his sideways nod to Rip, and the dog released his grip.

Rook got shakily to his feet, rubbing his wrist. Rip's teeth had left indentations but hadn't drawn blood.

“Ah, Rook.” Tatter loomed up beside him and before Rook could flinch away, put a comforting hand on his head. “We raised you from a baby, didn't we? You've always been a strange one, but we know what you're thinking.”

“That's right, we do,” Asher said, coming up on Rook's other side. He shot Rook a sideways grin. “That girl's got some kind of binding magic. She used it on Phouka, and now she's trying to use it on you. But you're a puck, after all. Come on and tell us the rest, and we'll help you get free of her.”

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 missing. 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.”