R Anderson - Spell Hunter

One summer evening Bryony and Thorn were coming home from a successful hunt, their packs heavy with squirrel meat, when Bryony spotted a dark shape perched at the top of a nearby tree. It was a crow, a big one-and its yellow eyes were fixed hungrily on them.

“It’s him,” hissed Thorn. “Old Wormwood. Run!”

She and Bryony leaped toward the shelter of the hedge, but the crow swooped down to block their path, croaking. One black wing knocked Bryony off her feet, and by the time she struggled upright Thorn was trapped beneath the crow’s scaly talon, yelling as its beak stabbed at her. A moment later Old Wormwood tossed his head back and swallowed, and Bryony felt sick; then she realized that Thorn had managed to shove her pack in front of her, and the crow was gobbling up their store of meat instead.

There was no time to think, only to act. Bryony flung her pack aside, snatched the bone knife from her belt, and launched herself at the crow. As she dropped astride his back, the reek of dust and carnage made her head reel; her knees skidded across his slick feathers, and she tumbled off before she could even strike a blow. But she landed on her feet, and when Old Wormwood flapped about to face her, Bryony was ready for him. With all her strength she drove her dagger into his shoulder, and the great crow shrieked.

The next few heartbeats passed in a frenzy of black feathers and thrashing wings. Bryony’s bone knife snapped, and she staggered back with the useless hilt still in her hand. Her leg stung like fire, but she ignored the pain as she scooped up a pebble and hurled it at the crow’s head. It glanced off his skull, and with a squawk Old Wormwood leaped into the air, wings beating.

Thorn clawed her way up the slope and disappeared among the roots of the hedge, leaving her pack behind. Bryony threw another stone to keep the crow at bay, then darted after her. Exhausted, they lay together in the darkness, watching Old Wormwood peck at their abandoned packs. When nothing remained but a few shreds of leather, he gave a querulous caw and flapped away.

Thorn was the first to crawl through to the far side of the hedge. She moved stiffly, one hand pressed to her bruised ribs. “You midge-wit. You could have been killed!”

Bryony limped out to join her. Her leg still bled where the crow’s talon had scratched it, but fortunately the wound was not deep. “I know,” she said.

“You attacked him. A full-grown crow.” Thorn shook her head in disbelief. “Why didn’t you run?”

“I don’t know,” said Bryony. “It just-it seemed like the only thing to do.”

“You,” said Thorn shortly, “are mad.” She shouldered her quiver and began walking toward the Oak. Bryony followed, but they had only gone a few paces before Thorn stopped. She bowed her head, and purple tinged her cheeks as she muttered, “And I suppose…I owe you my life.”

“Oh,” Bryony said, and then, “well,” but she couldn’t think of any other reply.

“Just never do anything as flea-brained as that again!” snapped Thorn, and stomped away.

“I wounded him, though,” said Bryony, catching up to her. “He’ll be stiff in that shoulder from now on.”

Thorn gave an incredulous snort and kept walking.

“If we fight together,” Bryony continued, “we might even be able to kill him.”

Her teacher whirled on her, seized her by both shoulders, and shook her so hard, her ears rang. “Don’t you ever think about that again. It’s impossible, even for you. Do you hear me?”

Bryony heard the words, but the warning in them scarcely registered. Only one phrase echoed in her mind: even for you. Her head felt light; coming from Thorn, that could be no idle flattery. Impossible, even for you.

Not impossible, she thought as she watched the older faery stalk away. All I need is a better knife.

“You’re making that edge too thin,” said Thorn.

Bryony scarcely heard her, all her concentration focused on chipping her new knife into shape. This was her latest of several attempts at crafting a fighting blade, but deep down she knew it would fail like all the others. The more she honed the edges, the sooner they crumbled; the sharper the point, the more readily it would snap.

“This is useless,” she said at last, throwing the flint down. “Why don’t we have any real weapons?”

“Made of metal, you mean?” asked Thorn, brushing a curl of wood from the stake she was whittling. It was raining, so there was little for either of them to do but sit in the East Root and wait for the clouds to move on. “Why should we?”

“Why shouldn’t we? There are metal things in the Oak.”

“Only what’s left over from the Days of Magic. Lanterns, bits of jewelry, a few tools. But most of that’s brass or copper, too soft for weapons. Anyway, the Queen doesn’t like too much metal around: You never know what it might be made of.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cold iron,” said Thorn impatiently, and when Bryony still looked blank she went on: “It stops magic-if it’s pure, that is. But there isn’t much iron around here anymore; these days you mostly find steel.”

“Steel,” said Bryony. “That’s iron mixed with…?”

“Gardener knows,” said Thorn. “All I know is that if I happen to bump into some, I can still fly afterward, and that’s good enough for me.”

It had never before occurred to Bryony to think of flying as magical, but now she realized that it must be. “So we still have some magic after all.”

“Well, it isn’t much use, since we can’t control it,” said Thorn. “Now and then one of us manages to cast a spell by accident-I saw Foxglove change size once, trying to get down a mouse hole. But it always wears off in an hour or two.” She gave a little snort and added, “You can’t use it to kill Old Wormwood, if that’s what you were thinking.”

Bryony pushed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “There has to be some metal we could use,” she said.

“Not in the Oak,” said Thorn. “Unless you’d like to march up to the House and ask the humans for it?”

Bryony’s mouth flattened as she picked up a new flint and bent once more to her work. Much as she had learned to respect Thorn, there were times when the older faery’s black humor went too far.

But then a thought struck her: Did either of them really know that humans carried the Silence? After all, Bryony herself ought to be dead by now, if getting close to a human was all it took. What if Thorn had been wrong, and the disease came from some other source? In which case going to the House for metal might not be such a bad idea after all…

I need to talk to Valerian, Bryony decided. The Healer had treated several cases of the Silence by now: If anyone knew how the illness worked, she would.

“What would you ask of me?” said Valerian. Her manner was formal but courteous, and she seemed only mildly surprised to find Bryony at her door.

“Knowledge,” said Bryony.

“And what have you to offer in return?”

“Herbs, any kind you like.” It would be easy enough to pick them the next time she and Thorn went hunting, and no doubt Valerian would appreciate not having to wait for the Gatherers to get around to it.

Valerian’s brows rose. “Agreed. I’d like chervil, if you can find some; if not, I can always use more comfrey or willow bark. Your question?”

“Is there any way to protect yourself against the Silence?”

“None that I know,” said Valerian. Then, at the look of disappointment on Bryony’s face, she added, “Why do you ask? It’s been years since Sorrel died, and you shouldn’t be in any danger, not at your age.”

“At my age?” Bryony was startled. “You mean you have to be older?”