R. Anderson - Rebel

It was breathtaking, and a little daunting, to see the field stretching out in front of him like some withered alien jungle. The Oak still rose in the near distance, but now it looked huger than ever, a colossal pillar bisecting the sky.

“Come on,” said Linden. “Hurry.” And she flitted off. Timothy thrashed after her, wincing as the wet grass whipped at his arms and legs. In minutes his jeans had soaked through and his sneakers were heavy with mud, but the Oak seemed little closer than it had been before. His heart sank as he realized how much farther they still had to go.

“I don’t suppose-you could make me some wings-too?” he panted to Linden.

“That would mean turning you into something different than you are,” she called back. “I can make you smaller for a while, but that’s all.”

Somewhere in the wood behind them, a crow gave its raucous cry. Timothy froze. “Did you…Back in the restaurant, when you were telling me about the Oakenfolk…didn’t you say that crows…”

“Eat faeries, yes,” said Linden. “Which is why we’ve got to hurry. And keep your eyes open for burrows you could hide in, just in case.”

The idea of crawling into a muddy hole didn’t much appeal to Timothy, but neither did being eaten. No wonder Linden’s people preferred to stay inside the Oak. “Right,” said Timothy faintly, and kept walking.

By the time they arrived at the foot of the Oak, Timothy’s legs felt numb, his teeth were chattering, and half his weight in mud seemed to be stuck to the bottoms of his shoes. He had to stop and scrape them clean before he could move freely again. But as Linden led him down a rough ladder to a shadowy, root-framed door, he felt the old excitement resurface. He’d made it, they were really here “What is it?” he asked, seeing the look of distress on Linden’s face.

She held a finger to her lips, then replied in a near whisper, “The wards that protect us from humans are down again. And so is the glamour I put on the Oak to hide our doors and windows. You didn’t notice?”

Timothy shook his head. He’d been so focused on getting inside the Oak, he hadn’t even paid attention to the outside.

“Well, maybe it’s not as obvious as I thought,” said Linden, but without much conviction. She leaned all her weight against the door; with a grudging creak it swung wide, and the two of them walked in.

They emerged into a vast, cavernous space, where dim light filtered down from window slits high above. To their left, a round tunnel stretched into darkness, while in front of them stood a door whose tarnished brass plate read LIBRARY. And to their right rose a spiral staircase wide enough for three faeries to climb side by side, its smooth-worn steps twining upward as high as Timothy could see.

“We’ll have to go as quietly as we can, and hope we don’t bump into anyone,” Linden whispered. “It makes my head hurt to keep up too many different glamours at the same time, so I won’t make us invisible unless I have to-but it’s a long way up to the Queen’s chambers.”

Timothy nodded his understanding, and the two of them began climbing the stair together.

They trudged up past one landing, then another, all ringed with closed doors that looked virtually identical. He saw no paint or pictures on the walls, no carpeting, not even a single piece of furniture to distinguish one landing from another. The staircase itself was a fantastic piece of engineering, but on the whole, the inside of the Oak seemed to be a place built for function rather than beauty.

Still, to think of all this, carved into the heart of a single tree-he ran his hand wonderingly along the rail, feeling the age-polished wood. In all his childhood daydreams he’d never imagined anything like it.

“Someone’s coming,” hissed Linden. She pulled him back against the inside curve of the stair, and sparkling heat rippled over him as she cast a glamour to hide the two of them from view.

Now he could hear the sound of bare feet padding down the stairs, see the glow of a lantern bobbing toward them. As the other faery passed he caught a glimpse of a square face and bluntly cut dark hair, saw the wings that sprang from between her shoulder blades. She paused to sniff the air, frowning, and Timothy held his breath-but then the faery stomped on down the steps and was gone.

Who was that? mouthed Timothy when Linden nudged him to start climbing again.

“Thorn,” she whispered back. “She’s a friend…well, mostly. I’d love to introduce you, but trust me, this would be a very bad time.”

Timothy could believe it. From the scowl on Thorn’s face, he could just imagine the kind of tongue-lashing she’d be capable of giving out. Especially if she knew that Linden had brought a human into the Oak…

Meanwhile, the stairs kept spiraling upward. Timothy had played football so often back in Uganda, and even since he’d come to Greenhill, that his leg muscles were in pretty good shape; but as the two of them climbed through turn after turn, the gentle burn in his calves grew to a fiery ache. He was just about to beg Linden to stop and give him a chance to rest when she stepped up onto another landing, and he realized they’d reached the top at last.

An intricately carved archway stood in front of them, hung with red curtains as soft as velvet. This is more like it, thought Timothy, limping after Linden as they passed through into a paneled corridor gently lit by brass lamps. A bit more like a high-class hotel than faeryland, but at least some thought had gone into decorating it-even if all the furnishings looked at least a hundred years old and the draperies were worn through in several places.

They were almost at the end of the corridor when a voice spoke up primly from behind them:

“Her Majesty is not to be disturbed.”

Linden made a startled noise and spun around, putting herself between the newcomer and Timothy. She pushed him back into the shadows, her invisibility spell prickling over him again.

“But Bluebell,” she said as the other faery advanced, “I have to talk to her right now. It’s important.”

Bluebell swept up to them, her long skirts almost brushing the floor. The last time Timothy had seen a dress like that was in a museum. “There were two of you here a moment ago,” said the other faery suspiciously. “And what is that smell? Have you been with the humans again?”

“The Queen will want to see me,” Linden insisted. “I know she will. Just ask Valerian.”

Bluebell gave a disdainful sniff. “I find it hard to believe that the judgment of a mere Healer should matter more than the word of Her Majesty’s own personal attendant. I tell you, the Queen is resting. If the message you have for her is so important, then you can deliver it to me.”

“So you can repeat it to Mallow?” retorted Linden with a fierceness that surprised Timothy. “No, I will not. What I have to say is for Her Majesty’s ears alone, and if you won’t show me in, then I’ll just have to announce myself.” And with that she reached out and rapped on the nearest door.

Bluebell gasped. “How dare you! You impudent-” But the door opened almost immediately, revealing a tall, gray-robed faery with brown hair hanging loose about her shoulders.

“I am very sorry,” she said, lowering her somber gaze upon them. “But I fear that you have come too late.”

She stepped back, holding the door open. Inside, Timothy saw a splendidly furnished bedchamber, complete with a four-poster fit for a dying Queen to lie in-but now the covers lay smooth on both sides, with a hollow ridge down the middle, and the pillows by the headboard were empty.

“You mean…” whispered Linden, and the tall faery put a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m afraid so, child. Queen Amaryllis is dead.”