R Anderson - Spell Hunter

Bryony wormed her way into the petticoat, then the gown. It smelled of dust and rose petals, and the fabric was so fine that it seemed to weigh nothing at all. The sleeves were mere puffs, the neckline low and square, and the skirt fell in soft folds from the bodice to brush against her ankles.

“It’s too short,” fretted Wink, bustling around her and twitching various bits of the dress into place. “I knew it would be, even after I let it out-you can breathe, though, can’t you? Only don’t breathe too much,” she added in haste as Bryony began to inhale. “You’ll split the seams, and Campion will never let me hear the end of it. Whatever took you so long?”

“I didn’t know,” said Bryony.

Wink picked up a comb and set to work on her hair. “You mean-Mallow didn’t tell you? Of all the spiteful things to do! Well, she’ll be sorry when-”

“Is she ready yet?” asked Bluebell from behind them, and Bryony turned to see the Queen’s attendant standing in the doorway, one foot tapping with impatience.

“Oh, I wanted to put her hair up. Well, never mind,” Wink said, and she handed Bryony a pair of slippers.

Bryony bent to put on the shoes. Like the dress, they were too small, but she would have to manage. Already Wink was tugging her toward Bluebell, who looked her up and down and sighed. “I suppose it can’t be helped. Here.” She held out a long, downy-plumed feather.

“What’s this for?” Bryony asked.

“You’re to give it to Her Majesty,” said Bluebell. “It’s part of the ceremony. Now hurry!”

Bryony stopped short at the entrance to the Queen’s Hall, gazing up at the festive tapestries hanging from the rafters. Though worn with age, their colors were a wonder, as were the intricate patterns of birds and flowers they depicted. No faery alive knew how to dye such tints anymore, much less make pictures from them, and the sight of them brought a lump to Bryony’s throat. It seemed so wrong that this marvelous craft, like so many other creative things her people had done in the past, was now lost to the Oak forever.

Bluebell cleared her throat loudly in Bryony’s ear, then announced, “Her gracious Majesty, Queen Amaryllis, invites her subject to approach.”

The far end of the high-vaulting chamber was taken up by a semicircular dais. Atop this stood a chair carved with twining vines, and in it sat the Queen of the Oakenfolk. Her silken gown flowed about her feet, and her hair was the color of honey wine, crowned by a circlet set with emeralds. Her features were lovely, but her eyes held no warmth, and her expression gave nothing away.

“Go on,” whispered Bluebell, poking Bryony in the back.

Until now Bryony had felt strangely calm. After she had kept the Queen waiting for Gardener-only-knew how long and then shown up with damp hair and an ill-fitting gown, there had seemed no way that her situation could be any worse. But then she remembered why she was here, and how badly she wanted to be a Gatherer, and as she took her first step, she stumbled.

Whispers ran up and down the hall, and Bryony’s cheeks glowed with humiliation. Deliberately she squared her shoulders and walked forward, holding the feather before her. Just not the scullery, she prayed silently, anything but the scullery…because no matter how disappointed she might be at not being a Gatherer, it would be far worse to end up apprenticed to Mallow.

She had just reached the end of the carpet when the Queen spoke, her voice chill and remote:

“Kneel.”

Bryony dropped to both knees, wincing as the seam beneath her armpit ripped. She could sense the Queen’s searching gaze upon her; it was not a comfortable feeling.

“Faery,” said Queen Amaryllis, “do you this day give me your service?”

“I do,” said Bryony.

“Give her the feather,” hissed Bluebell, and Bryony rose awkwardly and walked forward to offer her plume to the Queen.

“I accept your service,” said Amaryllis. “And do you give me your honor?”

Bryony wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but it sounded harmless enough. “I do,” she said.

“I accept your honor,” the Queen said, then, in a lower voice, “and do you give me…your name?”

Bryony froze. In addition to the common-name inherited from her egg-mother, each faery was born with a secret name that belonged only to her-and whoever knew that name could command her absolutely. Was this really how the Queen made sure of her subjects’ loyalty? Would it be considered treason to refuse?

In the end she could think of only one answer that was not an outright denial, and her voice shook as she replied: “My name is Bryony, Your Majesty.”

A sigh rippled through the hall, and Amaryllis sat back with an enigmatic smile. “I accept your name. And now I call upon the wisdom of the Sight, that I might declare to you the nature of your service…”

There was a long pause while the Queen’s hyacinth-blue eyes slid out of focus and then sharpened again. “Bryony,” she said, “you are apprenticed to Thorn.”

“What?” yelped a familiar voice from the back of the hall, but it was quickly hushed into silence by the other Oakenfolk. Up on the dais Bryony’s knees buckled, and her head spun like a dropped acorn; it was all she could do to keep from falling. “I…beg your pardon?” she said weakly.

“So the Sight has told me,” said Queen Amaryllis, “and so it shall be. You will be trained as my new Hunter.” She spoke with confidence, but an ember of uncertainty flickered behind her eyes. “May the Gardener protect you and give you success, Bryony of the Oak.”

In her wildest imaginings, Bryony had never anticipated this. The most dangerous task in the Oak-and yet it was also the most free. Gatherers were forced to plod and dig, and hide in burrows for safety; but the Queen’s Hunter flew, protecting herself by speed and skill alone. The task required not only a strong body and a steady hand but sharp eyes and quick wits as well-and best of all, it meant leaving the Oak on a regular basis, not just during the growing season but all year round. Thorn would be a hard mentor, Bryony knew, but right now not even that thought could diminish her joy.

“Your Majesty,” she stammered, bowing deeply to the Queen. “I can hardly tell you-” But Amaryllis only shook her head, averting her gaze to the crowd below.

“You are dismissed,” she told them in a clear voice. “Thorn, come and claim your apprentice.” Then without another word she rose, beckoned Bluebell after her, and swept out of the hall.

Bryony wandered back down the aisle, still dazed. As she neared her fellow Oakenfolk she heard whispers, many of them scornful or pitying; few seemed to think she would succeed in her new position, and some even doubted she would survive. Mallow especially looked smug, as though she thought Bryony’s new occupation a fitting punishment-but her smirk faded as Thorn shoved past her and planted herself by Bryony’s side.

“Well?” she said to the other faeries. “She’s my apprentice, not yours, so off with you.”

Grumbling, the others filed away. Only Wink paused, dabbing at one eye as though she had something in it, before hurrying out after the rest.

“Gardener’s mercy,” muttered Thorn. “What a cuckoo’s egg this day’s turned out to be. All right, girl”-she turned to Bryony-“get out of that frippery you’re wearing and put on some proper clothes. We’re going outdoors.”

Wink wrung her hands when she saw the damage to the gown, but she also lost no time in finding a tunic, waistcoat, and breeches for Bryony to wear. Bryony could only suppose that it must be the privilege of Hunters to have their wardrobe provided without cost, for not only did Wink refuse to bargain with her, she apologized for the ill-fitting clothes and promised to make her better ones soon. This was pleasant. However, Wink also kept sighing and giving her mournful glances, which was not nearly so pleasant, and Bryony was glad to finally get away.