R. Anderson - Wayfarer

Preferably one with a motor, or at least a good pair of oars. He hadn’t a clue how to sail, but Paul had taken him rowing on his last visit to Oakhaven, and he’d learned a few things then. Never mind that he’d probably rip his side open on the first stroke, or how likely it was that some current would grab hold of the boat and whisk the two of them straight out to sea….

The path grew rockier as they walked along, the countryside more open and wild. Soon they had left St. David’s behind, and were edging around the side of a steep and rugged hill. Timothy paused to get his bearings, and when he looked out at the choppy waters of Cardigan Bay, he could now see three distinct green islands.

“We need to go over more this way,” he called back to Linden, but she had lagged behind, and he could no longer see her. He was cupping his hands to his mouth to shout again when he saw her flashing toward him at faery size, her wings buzzing frantically.

“They’ve found us!” she gasped, circling around him. “The Blackwings-they’re here!”

Timothy looked up to see two familiar ragged shapes flapping across the sky toward them. The first raven’s wings beat the air with smooth, powerful strokes, but the other’s flight was halting, as though it had been injured….

He broke into a run, leaping from rock to rock with blind urgency as he angled down the gravelly slope toward the sea. The green islands looked so close-he knew he hadn’t a prayer of reaching them, but there was nowhere else to go except back and he wasn’t ready to give up, not like this, not yet-

The world pitched over and he hit the ground hard, skidding his palms raw on the stony ground. His side flared with agony as he rolled over, sickeningly certain the Blackwings had caught him in their spell-but then he saw his shoe trapped between two rocks, wedged there by nothing more sinister than his own carelessness. He wrenched his foot free, ignoring the throbbing pain in his ankle, then scrambled around and pried the shoe loose so he could put it back on.

“Hurry!” screamed Linden, her voice so high he could barely hear it. She was just a speck in the distance now: He’d never catch up to her. But the ravens were almost upon him, weaving through the air, a shimmering web of magic coalescing between their wings. Timothy limped down the hillside as quickly as he could, eyes raking the slope for some sign of cover. He’d seen a lopsided heap of stones on the far side of the hill, ruins of some ancient monument. If only he could find something like that, he might be able to hide-but though his gaze swept the ground in every direction, there was no sign of shelter.

A tingling heat raced up his back, and all his hair stood on end. Timothy knew at once that he’d been touched by magic-but as the electric feeling died, he realized that the iron key in his pocket was still protecting him.

Relieved, he scrambled around the side of the hill and back onto the footpath. The ravens wheeled above him, regrouping for another try…no, wait. There was only one of them now. Where was the other? He looked around-and a great black shape leaped into him, snarling.

Timothy tumbled flat onto his back, rigid with horror as he stared up into the glowering eyes of an enormous hound. It bared its teeth, and hot breath steamed over his face, reeking of carrion. Then a word rumbled up from its throat, slurring over the dog’s lips and tongue but horribly comprehensible just the same:

“ Checkmate .”

He couldn’t see Linden anywhere. Not that it mattered: There was nothing she could do. You didn’t warn us they could be dogs, too, Rob.

The dog reared up, heavy paws lifting from his shoulders-and suddenly he felt a booted foot on his chest instead. “I know about the iron you carry,” said a cool voice, and he looked up into the faery’s hard, contemptuous eyes. “Attempt to touch it, and I will snap your neck.”

The remaining raven flapped down onto the path, folded its wings-and became another male faery, like a slightly flawed copy of the first. He flexed his stiff arm and winced, then slapped his brother on the shoulder and broke into a grin. “Good hunting, Corbin.”

“The hunt is not over yet,” said the taller Blackwing, his eyes still on Timothy. “The little rebel escaped-but in that small form, she cannot fly far. We will take her soon enough.”

“How did you…find us?” gasped Timothy. The Blackwings didn’t know about the Children of Rhys; if he kept them talking long enough, then Linden might be able to fly to one of the magical islands, out of their reach. “Thought we’d thrown you off the scent.”

“We track by magic, not some human stench,” said Corbin with contempt. “With a hair from the girl’s head in our possession, all we needed to catch you was patience and time.” Then he leaned down and said softly, “But where, I wonder, were you headed? And what did you hope to find there?”

Timothy faked a fit of coughing, buying himself a few precious seconds to think. “We were looking for some…magical plants. They’re…supposed to grow around here. Because Linden’s Queen…she’s dying.”

Corbin made a scornful noise. “And for this you chose to throw in your lot with the Forsaken, and risk your very life? Only a fool would believe such a tale.”

“She promised me…gold…if I helped,” Timothy wheezed. “As much as I wanted.”

Behind them, the injured Blackwing laughed. “Gold! Say rather a handful of acorns and a few withered leaves, for that is all you would have in the end.”

“Indeed,” said Corbin, and the pressure on Timothy’s chest eased a little. “And where is your faery companion now? Flying away from you as fast as her wings will carry her. So much for your hopes of reward.” He stepped back, nodding at his brother. “Byrne, guard him. I will catch the girl.” And with that he shifted back into raven form and flapped off down the hillside.

Until then Timothy had lain limp on the rocky ground, offering no resistance. But all the while he and Corbin were talking, he’d been inching his fingers toward his pocket. Now he risked everything on a sudden snatch at the key-

— but he’d only just pulled it out when Byrne kicked his elbow, and the key went flying. As Timothy’s only weapon clattered against the rocks and tumbled out of sight, the faery grabbed him and wrenched him to his feet.

“That was foolish, boy,” he breathed, his dark eyes gleaming. “Very foolish.” He hooked his fingers, and Timothy jerked back-

“Let him go!” shrilled Linden’s voice from behind them, and the male faery whirled, his grip on Timothy loosening. Timothy’s ankle still throbbed and his side felt as though it were splitting open, but he planted his feet and shoved Byrne as hard as he could.

The Blackwing swayed, lost his footing, and toppled down the hillside. “Come on!” Linden shouted at Timothy, and he lurched after her, mouthing ow with every step.

From somewhere behind him came a raven’s croaking call, then an answering cry from the far side of the hill. But Linden darted straight toward the ocean, and Timothy forced himself to ignore the pain and just run, run, run down the lessening slope until at last the pebbles and dry scrub gave way to green grass, and he could see the waves smashing against the rocks far below.

“What do I do now?” he yelled at Linden, as the frigid sea wind whipped his hair into his eyes. “I can’t fly!”

“This way!” she shouted back, pointing to a narrow trail that slanted down from the cliff’s edge. At its foot lay a smudge of sandy beach, a scant half-moon of a cove, where two tall stones stuck out of the water like the ruins of some ancient Roman gate. “Can’t you feel it? It’s magic!”