R Anderson - Spell Hunter

She found Thorn by the Queen’s Gate, near the foot of the Spiral Stair. Together they hauled the heavy door open, climbed the ladder of roots, and emerged from the Oak into a misty gray afternoon. The sunlight filtered dimly through the veil of cloud, and the air smelled of earth and green things. Thorn stalked straight out across the lawn, her bow and quiver dangling at her side; but Bryony lingered, gazing up at the colossal bulk of the Tree. She had never viewed it from this angle before, and the sight of it filled her with awe.

The Oak was at least five centuries old, and in happier days it had sheltered more than two hundred faeries within its hollow heart. Even by human standards it was huge, and Bryony supposed that only Queen Amaryllis’s spells had kept the humans from trying to live there as well. Carriers of the Silence or not, it was almost enough to make her pity them, for how could their House of dead stone compare to the majesty of the living Oak?

“Stop dawdling and move,” snapped Thorn. “We’ve work to do.”

Bryony hurried to catch up with her. Picking their way through the damp earth of the flower beds, they ducked beneath the privet hedge and skidded down the dew-slick incline into the field beyond. The grass grew long here, mingled with weeds and wildflowers, and nearby she could hear the gurgling of the brook from which the Oakenfolk drew their water.

“Right,” said Thorn. “Lesson number one: How not to get killed.” She shielded her eyes with one hand and squinted upward. “The first thing to do when you leave the Oak, always, is to look out for predators. Most birds and animals ignore us, but foxes will eat us if they get the chance, as will cats, owls, and especially crows.” She lowered her hand and turned slowly, scanning the field in all directions as she went on. “There’s one big, ugly crow in particular-Old Wormwood, we call him-that you’ll need to watch out for. He killed Foxglove, the Hunter before me, and he’s been hungering for another taste of faery ever since.”

Bryony glanced apprehensively at her weaponless hands. “So what do we do if we see him?”

Thorn snorted. “You have to ask? We hide, of course. In the Oak, if we can get there quick enough, or down the nearest burrow we can find.”

“Oh,” said Bryony, feeling oddly disappointed.

“Sky’s clear,” said Thorn. “Right, then, follow me.” And with that, she spread her wings and took off.

Inexperienced as she was, Bryony did not falter. She leaped blindly after Thorn, trusting her instincts to take over-and they did. A heart-stopping dip, a few wobbles, and she was airborne. This is it , she thought, terrified and exhilarated all at once. I’m flying!

At first they glided in a straight line, skimming low over the grass toward the nearby wood. Then Thorn banked away from the trees, and Bryony carefully followed her example. When her teacher angled upward, she did likewise, tentative at first but gaining confidence with every wing stroke.

As Thorn led her through a series of simple maneuvers, Bryony’s nervousness melted away as she realized how quickly she could move through the air, how the mere flick of a wingtip could send her veering off in another direction. She could dive, she could roll, she could even hover in place, like the dragonfly her wings resembled. All her life she had yearned to fly, but she had never expected it to be so easy.

No longer content to follow Thorn’s example, Bryony began to zigzag across the field. Distantly she heard Thorn shout, and reminded herself to watch for crows. But when a quick glance showed none in sight, she launched herself skyward again.

Soaring on an updraft, she noticed for the first time a line of tall poles at the southern edge of the field. They were linked by dark ropes-a barrier of some sort? The topmost strand was dotted with sparrows. Curious, she glided closer…

“Stop!” came a cry, and Bryony glanced back to see Thorn speeding through the air toward her. “ Never touch those wires!” she snapped, grabbing Bryony by the arm and wrenching her around. Startled, Bryony dropped like a stone, dragging Thorn down with her. They tumbled into the grass, perilously close to a patch of nettles, and for a few moments they were both too winded to speak.

“Don’t ever go off like that without me again,” said Thorn, panting. She clambered to her feet and began brushing herself off. Still dazed, Bryony stared up at the poles towering above her.

“What…are they?” she asked.

“I don’t know what they’re called, or what they do. They’re human things. All I know is that there’s magic in them, and if you touch them, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”

“But the birds-”

“Is your head made of solid wood?” exploded Thorn. “You’re not a bird! And neither was Henbane. One of those ropes came down in a storm, she went to look, one touch, and zap! There was nothing left of her. Not even an egg.”

“You saw it happen?”

“No, but Foxglove did-my old mentor. What, did you think I was making it all up out of my head?”

Thorn’s tone was sardonic, and Bryony felt her face burn. “No,” she said. “I just wondered how you knew.”

“Valerian keeps a book,” said Thorn. “Every time one of our people dies, it’s written down: the name, and the way she died. And if you don’t want your name to be next, you’d better listen to me when I call you. The first time, d’you hear?”

“I hear you,” said Bryony, wincing as she rose. Her whole body ached, especially the wing muscles.

Thorn glanced up at the sky again. “We’ve been out here long enough,” she said. “Best to head back, before the crows start getting interested.” She stomped off through the grass.

“Have you ever fought one?” asked Bryony, hurrying to keep up with her. “A crow, I mean.”

“If I had,” said Thorn, “I wouldn’t be talking to you now.”

“And what about humans? How do you deal with them?”

“I don’t,” said Thorn flatly. “And neither will you, if you’ve half as much wits as a rabbit. When they’re mucking about in the garden, or cutting the grass with that noisy wagon of theirs, we lie low and wait until they’re gone.” She gave Bryony a sharp look. “Unless you have some other idea?”

Bryony shook her head.

“I didn’t think so. Now if you’re ready to use your wings properly instead of playing the fool with them, it’s time we were flying home.”

From that point on, the weeks blurred together as Bryony spent day after day with Thorn, learning the Hunter’s craft. At her mentor’s command, she ran, climbed, and flew about the Oakenwyld, ever more aware of its dangers, but growing bolder nonetheless. Flying was still her greatest pleasure, but soon she began to enjoy her lessons for other reasons as well: her pride in her growing strength and agility, the excitement of hunting prey, and the bargaining power her new skills gave her. Now at last she could barter with her fellow faeries as an equal and get things like proper candles and whole bars of soap, instead of having to make do with the stubs and scraps she had earned doing chores.

On days when bad weather or human activity kept them inside the Oak, Thorn taught Bryony to make her own weapons, then to use them. Once she had crafted her first bow and arrows she fired at targets until she could hit the center eight times out of ten before moving on to mice, frogs, and flying insects. Her fingers grew calloused, her muscles wiry; her senses of smell, hearing, and vision became acute.

Thorn taught her how to gut a kill and cut it up quickly before the crows could come to investigate. She showed Bryony the best hiding places the Oakenwyld had to offer, and the secret hedge tunnel into the Oak that only the Hunters and Gatherers knew. And as Bryony listened and learned, and practiced her new skills, she felt more and more certain that the Queen’s magical Sight had not deceived her: Of all the tasks in the Oak, this was what she, Bryony, had been meant to do.