R Anderson - Spell Hunter

The monster had hair almost as pale as her own, but yellower and cropped close to its head, exposing a pair of oddly rounded ears. Its eyes, when it lifted them upward in search of the next branch, were as blue as Wink’s. And despite their enormous size, there was something familiar about its features…

It was a child, Bryony realized, her excitement rising. Just like herself. A real playmate at last!

Meanwhile, Wink had stopped dithering and begun to lose her temper instead. “Bryony, if you don’t come back in the Oak this very minute-”

“Shh!” said Bryony. “You’re going to frighten it away!”

That stopped Wink short. “Frighten…what?”

“The monster, of course,” Bryony told her impatiently, without taking her attention from the child. It was only a couple of branches below her now, and although it did not appear to have seen her, it paused and tipped its head to one side as though listening.

Several heartbeats passed in silence. Then she heard Wink say in a strained whisper, barely audible above the rustling of the leaves, “Bryony. Don’t…oh, please, whatever you do, don’t move.”

Bryony had lived with Wink all her life, but she had never heard that particular note in her foster mother’s voice before. Wink didn’t just sound nervous, or even worried: She sounded terrified.

Bryony’s confidence wavered, and she began to wriggle backward, very cautiously, toward the Oak. She could hear the monster’s labored breathing as it resumed the climb, and her own breath quickened as she realized how close it was now, close enough to seize her in that grubby hand, to tear off her wings, to cram her into that red, half-open mouth…

Then the child looked up, and its gaze met hers.

The fear within Bryony burst like a soap bubble. She saw astonishment on the creature’s face, but no hint of malice or hunger. In fact, if she had not been assured all her life that faeries were the only real people in the world, she might have taken the alertness in those eyes for intelligence.

Impulsively Bryony stretched out her hand. The other child’s teeth gleamed as it pulled itself level with her branch, and its huge fingers reached out toward hers…

All at once Bryony felt herself seized from behind and wrenched into the air. Throat tight with terror, she could not even squeak as her captor dragged her down the length of the branch and tossed her through the window into the Oak. Bryony tumbled to the dusty floor, flinging up an arm to protect herself-only to realize that it was Thorn standing over her, panting and furious.

She had been rescued by the Queen’s Hunter.

Thorn’s dark hair was windblown, her tunic and leggings streaked with dirt. Her face a scowl of concentration, she slammed the window shut and leaned against it, listening intently. Then she spun about and snapped at Bryony, “You ignorant, selfish little gnat. And you, Periwinkle-” She stopped, the anger fading from her face. “Wink?”

There was no reply. Bryony turned and saw Wink lying on the rug an arm’s length away. Her eyes were closed, her face colorless.

“Oh, blight,” said Thorn wearily. Reaching down, she hauled Bryony to her feet and shoved her into a nearby chair. “Sit there, and don’t move. I’ll ring for the Healer.”

“She has merely fainted,” said Valerian, straightening up from the sofa where Wink lay. “I will give her some chamomile tea when she wakes, but she will need rest and quiet to recover.”

“Well, she won’t get much of that with this one underfoot,” said Thorn with a glance at Bryony. “All right, girl, come with me. You can explain yourself to the Queen-”

“That will not be necessary,” said a lofty voice, and they all turned to see Bluebell, the Queen’s attendant, standing in the doorway. “Her Majesty has sent me to investigate. Am I to understand that this child actually”-she paused and gave a little shudder-“crawled out of the Oak?”

“Yes, and in another two heartbeats she’d have been down that human boy’s gullet,” said Thorn. “If there weren’t so few of us already, I’d say it was no more than the silly chit deserved.”

“Human?” said Bryony, testing out the strange word.

“But this cannot be,” said Bluebell, looking alarmed. “Every morning the Queen renews her spells of protection about the Oak for this very purpose: to keep the humans at bay.”

“It works on grown humans, no doubt,” said Thorn. “But children are chancy little weasels. And speaking of which, this one”-she pointed at Bryony-“has obviously grown too wild for Wink to manage. Someone else will have to take the brat.”

“I shall consult Her Majesty,” said Bluebell, and Bryony’s stomach squirmed. What if the Queen sent her to live with someone like Thorn? Or, even worse, Mallow?

“I’m sorry,” she burst out. “Let me stay with Wink. I’ll be good from now on-”

“You,” said Thorn, whipping around to glare at her, “shut up. The trouble you’re in right now, you’ll be lucky if the Queen doesn’t clip your wings and make you scrub the chamber pots until you’re fifty.”

Bryony’s eyes grew huge. She sat back in the chair, hands clasped meekly in her lap.

“Well,” said Bluebell, “that seems a little extreme-the Queen is merciful. But clearly the child needs to be educated.”

“Leave her to me,” said Thorn. She strode forward, seizing Bryony by the elbow and yanking her to her feet. “I’ll put some fear into her.”

“If you plan to beat her-” began Bluebell, but Thorn cut her off.

“I’ve got something better than a willow switch,” she said, “believe me.” And with that, she pushed Bryony toward the door.

Panicking, Bryony dug in her heels, but Thorn merely grabbed the back of her tunic and lifted her into the air. The fabric bunched beneath her wings, and Bryony kicked and twisted, but Thorn marched out of the room with her, undaunted. When they reached the landing she dropped Bryony back onto her feet and said, “Six winters ago your egg-mother went out of the Oak in the middle of an ice storm and froze herself to death. By the time I found her, she’d already given up the last of her magic and vanished: There was nothing left but a pile of old clothes-and you. The first intact egg we’d found in Gardener knows how many years, and we all held our breath for fear you wouldn’t hatch. D’you think the Queen a fool, making rules on a whim? You could have died out there today.”

“He wasn’t going to hurt me,” Bryony protested. “He only wanted to play-”

“So do cats,” said Thorn. “And they eat you afterward. Now you can walk, or I can carry you over my shoulder like a dead shrew, but either way you’re going down that Stair.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“You’ll see,” said Thorn. “Now move.”

With dry mouth and leaden feet, Bryony obeyed. Thorn prodded her down two full turns of the Spiral Stair to the next landing, then across the walkway and around the curve of the hall to an unfamiliar door. There Thorn rapped with her knuckles and waited, fingers drumming on the hilt of her bone dagger. When it became clear that no one would answer, she put her shoulder to the door and shoved it open.

The room smelled stale inside, and the air was cloudy with dust. Thorn lit a lamp and carried it over to a narrow cot heaped with blankets, where a faery lay on her back, open-eyed and still.

“Look,” said Thorn. “Do you recognize her?”

Of course Bryony knew who it must be. But the figure in the bed looked so wizened and frail, so unlike her former apple-cheeked self, that it would have been easier to believe her a stranger. Her once ageless skin had turned white as ash flakes, showing the veins beneath. Her arms and legs were gaunt, and her scalp bore only a few clumps of grayish hair. She smelled of comfrey ointment but even more strongly of decay, and Bryony stumbled back from the bed, clapping her hands to her mouth.