R Anderson - Spell Hunter

She flitted from kitchen to dining room, to the top level of the House and down again, amazed and fascinated by the things she glimpsed inside. But nowhere did she see anything like a faery-sized knife. Eventually, however, she found a room that looked more promising. It was dimly lit, but as she peered through the gap in the curtains she could see what appeared to be a study. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and across from her stood a desk with papers stacked upon it. And there, beneath the radiance of the swan-necked lamp, sat an earthenware pot holding a few pens, a ruler, and “Oh,” she whispered reverently.

At first glance it looked like a spear, a pole of gleaming silver just a little shorter than Bryony herself. But instead of the diamond-shaped spearheads that she and Thorn carved, it bore a long, angled blade. The point looked wickedly sharp, and Bryony clapped her hands with excitement. If she could pull that blade free of its shaft, it would make a perfect knife.

The room stood deserted: She had her opportunity, if only she could find a way inside. Bryony crouched, jammed her hands into the crack beneath the window, and yanked upward. For a moment she felt nothing except the sting of scraped knuckles, and she feared that it might be locked. But then came a creak, and the window shifted. It took a few more tooth-gritting efforts, but at last she had made a gap wide enough to squeeze through.

Now was her last chance to turn back. At present she was safe, the humans nowhere in sight, but once she entered the House, anything could happen. If they had magical lights, they might have magical traps as well. Was it worth the risk?

She would just go in a little way at first, she told herself as she lay down upon the sill. That way, she might still have time to escape if anything went wrong. Wriggling through the gap, she clambered to her feet on the far side and waited, every muscle tensed. But nothing happened, and she began to wonder if the humans might not be so magical after all.

Her sensitive wings quivered against her back, eager to taste the air; she hesitated, then spread them wide and glided down to the desk. With both hands she seized the knife on its silver pole, and tugged.

It lifted easily-too easily, for as it came free the whole container tipped over. Scrambling to keep her feet as pens and pencils clattered about her, Bryony did not see the worst of the danger until it was too late: The earthenware pot tumbled off the edge of the desk and crashed to the floor below.

“What was that?” exclaimed the woman’s voice from the other room, and her mate replied, “It sounded like it came from the study.”

Footsteps in the corridor-too fast, too close. There was no time to reach the window. She had to find a place to hide. Bryony ran to the other side of the desk, looking frantically in all directions. Seeing below her a basket half filled with crumpled papers, she hurled the knife into it point-first, then leaped after it. She just had time to crouch down and tug a scrap of paper over her head before she heard a snap, and the room flooded with light.

“What is it, George?” asked the woman.

“Something’s knocked over my pens,” the man called back. “A mouse, I suppose.” He paced around the desk, his shadow darkening the basket, and Bryony cringed.

“Oh, good.” His mate sounded relieved. “As long as that’s all. I’ll put out the traps before we go to bed.”

“Mm,” said the man dubiously, and Bryony heard a scraping noise followed by clinks as he picked up the pot from the floor and dropped his writing tools back into it. Then he put out the lights and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Bryony pressed her face against her knees, swallowing. He had come so very close to her hiding place, so close that she could smell him-but by the Gardener’s mercy he had not scented her. She must get out of the House at once.

Breathing hard, she flung herself from one side of the wastebasket to the other until it tipped over, showering her with crumpled wads of paper. Then she dragged her stolen knife into the moonlight and began to examine it.

The blade was loose, jiggling in its socket. She fiddled with the shaft until she figured out how to twist it apart, and her new knife dropped onto the floor at her feet.

Finally she had the perfect weapon: a slim silver triangle lighter than flint, stronger and more resilient than bone. Its far end bore a slotted tab where it had fit into the barrel-a perfect core for a hilt.

Leaving the two pieces of the barrel lying next to the overturned basket, Bryony crawled out the window and flew back to the Oak, her glittering prize clenched between her teeth.

That night she didn’t sleep at all.

Once Bryony had rounded out the grip and bound it with hide and twisted gut, her new knife fit so comfortably in her hand that it might have grown there. Alone in her room, she practiced slashing, stabbing, and even throwing the blade, with a sack of dry grass for a target. Soon she felt ready to try it on a real quarry, but Thorn was never far away when they went hunting, and Bryony dared not risk anyone finding out about her visit to the House, not yet. She would just have to wait for a chance to hunt alone.

As autumn faded into winter, however, Thorn became increasingly reluctant to go outdoors. Not because of Old Wormwood-there had been no sign of him in weeks-but if the weather was not too cold for hunting, it was too damp, or else too windy. Now most of their lessons took place inside the Oak, as Thorn taught Bryony how to tan hides using the brains of the animals they killed. It was a messy, smelly business, and though Bryony had no doubt the knowledge would be useful, it seemed a poor substitute for fresh air and freedom.

By the time the first flakes of snow drifted from the sky, Bryony had lost all interest in tanning, rendering tallow, and the other mundane tasks Thorn was teaching her. She felt restless, ready for a new challenge; more and more her thoughts turned to the House, and the odd creatures who lived in it.

Of course there was no real reason for her to go back there, not now that she had her knife. And yet she was tempted, for the House was so enticingly different from the Oak. The furnishings, the carpets, the draperies-they had all complemented one another in a way that she found strangely satisfying, like a well-cooked meal for her senses. And then of course there were the humans, who had done it all.

How was it that her people knew so little about humans? Before the Sundering took their magical powers, the faeries had freely explored the world beyond the Oak, and made note of everything they learned. The library was full of their observations about every creature imaginable, including the most dangerous predators. How had humans escaped their notice?

Unless-the thought came to her slowly but with the force of a revelation-there were books about humans somewhere in the Oak, and people had just forgotten where to find them?

There had been a time, long before Bryony was born, when the library had bustled with activity. The well-worn seats of the chairs that ringed the central table, the creased spines and ragged pages of the books upon the shelves, bore witness to an enthusiasm for learning that was now almost unknown among the Oakenfolk. There was even a tall bookcase designed to show off the latest additions to the collection-but now it held nothing but dust, for there were no authors in the Oak these days, any more than there were painters or musicians. Somehow the faeries’ creativity, like their passion for scholarship, had died.

The Oak’s Librarian was also responsible for the archives and storerooms, so Bryony was not surprised to find her desk empty. Most likely Campion was with the Gatherers, making sure her records of the Oak’s winter stores were accurate, or else polishing up the lanterns and other ancient decorations for the Midwinter Feast. Bryony picked up the mallet and rapped the brass gong upon the desk, sending a deep metallic note reverberating through the room and into the corridor.