R. Anderson - Wayfarer

The Queen is dying.

The knowledge sat in Linden’s belly like a cold stone as she hunched over the tub of greasy water, scrubbing her thirty-ninth plate. She’d promised Mallow, the Chief Cook, that she’d wash all the Oakenfolk’s dishes in exchange for a second piece of honey cake at dinner, and at the time it had seemed a reasonable bargain. But now that she knew what was happening at the top of the Spiral Stair-that the faery Queen was lying pale and weak upon her bed and might never rise from it again-she wanted to heave up all the cake she’d eaten and throw the last few dishes straight back in the Chief Cook’s face.

How could Mallow look smug, after bringing them such terrible news? The moment she’d spoken those words the whole kitchen had gone silent, Gatherers and cooks and scullions all staring in horrified disbelief. Yet the corners of Mallow’s fat mouth were curled up in obvious self-satisfaction, as though the important thing wasn’t Queen Amaryllis’s fate, only that she’d been the first of them to find out about it.

Still, Linden didn’t dare to question Mallow, or beg her for more details-unless, of course, she was prepared to bargain for the information. The other faeries in the kitchen must have thought the same, for they’d already gone back to work, downcast faces and trembling hands their only signs of emotion. But Linden could imagine the anxious thoughts running through their minds, because the same fears chilled her own:

How much longer can the Queen live?

Who will rule the Oak now?

And most of all: Oh, Great Gardener, what will become of us when she’s gone?

Linden bowed her head over the tub until her long brown curls almost brushed the water. She squeezed her eyes shut and her lips together, trying not to weep. To be brave, like her foster mother Knife had taught her-but oh, she wished that Knife could be with her now!

“Don’t forget these,” said Mallow’s voice from behind her, and a silver tray clattered onto the counter by Linden’s side. “Not that she’s eaten much, so be sure to scrape them first.”

In Mallow’s language scrape them really meant save all the good bits for me. Linden looked at the almost untouched food-a plate of delicately carved roast finch with mashed roots and chestnut dressing-and felt sick all over again. If the Queen couldn’t even muster the will to eat, how would she find the strength to do magic? If the spells that protected the Oak weren’t renewed on a daily basis, they would start to weaken, and then it wouldn’t take long for disease, insects, and a host of hungry predators to start gnawing their way inside….

“Someone else can wash the Queen’s dishes, Mallow,” said a calm voice from the doorway. “Her Majesty wishes me to bring Linden to her at once.”

Linden looked up, her tears draining into the backs of her eyes as she recognized the tall, grave-looking faery who had spoken. “Me, Valerian? Why?”

But Mallow spoke up before Valerian could answer. “Linden made me a bargain, Healer. You can wait.”

Someone gasped but quickly turned it into a cough as Mallow swung around. “Stop gawping and get back to work!” she barked, then returned her glare to Linden. “Well?”

Anger surged through Linden, and she clenched her soap-slick hands. It was one thing for Mallow to bully her own kitchen workers, or a temporary servant like Linden herself. But to be rude to Valerian-worse, to deny a request from their own dying Queen-it was intolerable.

Yet what could she do about it? At fifteen, Linden was by far the youngest faery in the Oak, and one of the smallest besides. She had no magic, no influence, not even a proper occupation yet: It was ridiculous to think she could stand up to someone like Mallow. Linden swallowed, nodded, and began removing the uneaten food from the Queen’s plate.

“No,” said Valerian, walking over. She took the plate from Linden, gently but firmly, and set it aside. “Her Majesty is not dead yet, Mallow. And even among faeries, there are duties more sacred than a bargain.” She bent and looked into Linden’s face with her searching gray eyes. “The Queen has need of you. Will you come with me?”

Not commanding but asking: That was Valerian’s way. And yet that simple courtesy was enough to straighten Linden’s spine, making her ashamed that she had bowed to Mallow for even a moment.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I’ll come at once.”

The Queen’s apartments were nine floors up, at the top of the Spiral Stair. Through the window slit on the landing Linden could see a rare view of the whole Oakenwyld: on the east side a matted brown carpet of meadow fringed with leafless trees, and to the north and west the withered hedges and empty flower beds that separated the Oak from the nearby human House. Drab though it looked now, in just a few weeks the garden would be glorious-but what did that matter when the Queen would likely not live long enough to see it? With a heavy heart Linden closed the shutter and turned away.

“There is one thing I must tell you,” said Valerian quietly as she climbed up onto the landing beside Linden. “If we should meet Bluebell on our way, let me be the one to speak. And however she may press you afterward, tell her nothing about your meeting with the Queen.”

Bluebell was Queen Amaryllis’s personal attendant, a haughty but loyal faery who had served her for more than seventy years. “Why?” Linden asked.

“Think, child. How do you think the news came out that Her Majesty is dying? If Bluebell would gossip about such a serious matter-and to Mallow, no less-then I fear she cannot be trusted with even the least of Queen Amaryllis’s secrets anymore.”

Sobered, Linden nodded her agreement, and the Healer parted the curtains and led the way inside. A distant bell jangled, and Linden braced herself for a confrontation-but, mercifully, Bluebell seemed to be elsewhere for the moment, and they walked down the corridor unchallenged.

The Queen’s bedchamber was the most elegant room Linden had ever seen. Carvings of vines and berries surrounded every door and window frame, all the furnishings were antique, and the floor was carpeted in ermine, a white pelt thick and soft enough to bury Linden’s bare feet to the ankles. But the moment Linden saw Queen Amaryllis, she forgot everything else.

She had the face of a goddess, untouched by age, and yet her half-lidded eyes held the burden of centuries. No faery could expect to live much beyond three hundred and fifty, and Amaryllis had passed that age seven years ago. Now all the warmth had drained from her skin, leaving it as white as apple flesh, and she lay in the four-poster bed with her wings flattened beneath her as though she already knew that she would never use them again.

“Your Majesty,” said Valerian, dipping a curtsy, “I have brought Linden, as you asked.”

The faery in the bed stirred, and her faded blue eyes focused on Linden. “Good,” she breathed. “Come close to me, both of you.”

Valerian walked around one side of the bed while Linden moved woodenly to the other. She couldn’t speak, even if she had known what to say; she could only look down at the Queen’s honey-gold hair lying tangled on the pillow and gulp back the grief that threatened to choke her.

“I had hoped you would be older when this day came,” the Queen murmured. “But I cannot delay it any longer, even for your sake.” She extended one soft, fragile hand, her fingers curling around Linden’s. “It is time you learned what your task must be, and how carefully we have prepared you for just such a time as this. For you are our people’s greatest hope-perhaps our only hope.”