R Anderson - Spell Hunter

When Campion appeared a few moments later she looked harried, with a streak of dirt across one cheek and her hair in disarray. “You wanted something?” she said.

“I’m looking for books about humans,” said Bryony.

Campion looked wary. “Did the Queen send you?”

“No,” said Bryony. “I just wanted to find out more about them.”

The Librarian relaxed visibly. Stepping behind the desk, she took down her catalog and began turning pages. “Well, I do have a few volumes in a special collection,” she said. “If you had a particular subject in mind…”

“Special collection? Why aren’t they on the main shelves?”

Again that shrewd look from Campion, as though she was trying to decide what to make of Bryony’s request. “Because they’re…special,” she said. “And rare. I can’t give them to just anyone.”

“Look,” said Bryony, exasperated, “I thought helping people find books was supposed to be your duty, but if you want me to bargain, I will. I have a nice piece of squirrel fur, freshly tanned and just the right size for a bedspread. You can have that, if you like. But then I’ll want to see all the books you’ve got, not just one or two.”

Campion blinked, as though taken aback by the handsome offer-or perhaps just by Bryony’s boldness. With a furtive glance at the door she said, “Well…all right. But,” she added as she led Bryony toward the back of the library, “this stays between us. You’re a Hunter, so I suppose you have good reason to know, but I don’t think the Queen would be pleased if everyone started reading them.”

At the back of the library, almost invisible in the shadows between the shelves, stood a narrow door. Campion unlocked this with one of the keys at her belt, and let Bryony into a closet where a single chair sat beside a tall case bulging with books. “There,” she said.

“Which ones?” asked Bryony.

“All of them,” said Campion with a touch of impatience. “There’s a lamp and a tinderbox on the top shelf. Keep the door closed while you’re reading, and let me know when you’ve had enough. I’m going back to the storeroom.” And with that she disappeared, leaving Bryony staring up at the shelf and wondering where to begin.

It seemed she had found something to do over the winter after all.

After that, Bryony visited the secret closet as often as she could. Campion became accustomed to her presence in the library, and even began leaving the key for her as a matter of course. By Midwinter, Bryony had read every book on the shelves, some of them twice over.

One thing at least had become plain: The Oakenfolk’s attitude to humans had changed drastically since these books had been written. It seemed that before the Sundering, faeries had not only been well informed about the habits of human beings, they took a keen interest in them. Naturally the Oakenfolk would have been bolder when they still had all their magic, but even so, Bryony was amazed, for the books seemed to cover every possible aspect of human life and society.

Among other things, she learned that human beings did not have magic after all. All the marvels she had seen in the House were the work of clever minds and skillful hands, nothing more. Furthermore, humans did not eat faeries, or hunt them for sport-in fact few of them even believed in her people’s existence. All they knew of faeries were ridiculous tales, which Bryony read with mingled amusement and disgust: stories where men tricked faeries into becoming their mates, or where human children were stolen away and replaced by hideous changelings. There was even one about a faery hiring a human midwife to help her give birth-how absurd, when everyone knew that faeries hatched from eggs, and that the Mother would have to die before her egg-daughter could be born!

She also read that human men and women sometimes swore vows to each other, becoming mates for life. This might be why the pair in the House had felt no need to bargain, and had seen nothing unusual about thanking each other. Still, it seemed strange to Bryony that anyone would commit themselves to another person so completely. Surely it was better to be free, and not in debt to anyone?

Learning about humans was fascinating, yet the more Bryony read about them, the more mystified she became. Sundering or not, it didn’t seem to make sense-if her fellow faeries had once been so interested in humans, why were they so ignorant and fearful of them now?

For weeks the Oakenwyld lay brown and barren, while the faeries’ winter stores grew ever more scant and fresh meat harder to come by. Each night Bryony puzzled over the books until her head ached, but she came no closer to answering her question. She considered asking Campion what she thought, but it would be hard to do that without explaining her visit to the House, and she was not sure she could trust the older faery with the secret. Eventually she gave up, handed in the key, and went back to studying the habits of crows instead.

At last spring arrived, heralded first by a scattering of snowdrops, then by the crocuses that raised their golden and purple heads at the base of the Oak. The animals crept out of their winter homes, and the air lightened with bird-song. When the sun came out, Bryony was quick to follow, reveling in the chance to stretch her wings. She had shot a vole and was skinning it by the Queen’s Gate when Thorn stamped up and said:

“I’ve no more to teach you.”

Bryony looked up sharply. “What?”

“I said, I’ve no more to teach you.” Thorn shook back her dark hair with a brusque movement of her head. “You know the work as well as I do now, and the Oak only needs one Hunter, so as far as I’m concerned, you may as well take over.”

Bryony was stunned silent. She had not expected this so soon. Thorn might not love hunting as Bryony did, might even be glad to give it up, but she was a thorough and exacting teacher. If she believed that Bryony was ready…

“You’re good,” said Thorn. “If you ask me, it’s unnatural, and I think you’re mad for actually wanting to do this filthy work. If you end up in a crow’s belly, I won’t be surprised. Still, you’re better at this than I’ll ever be, so-here.” She unstrapped the leather band from her arm and held it out to Bryony.

“Oh,” said Bryony faintly. Her head was whirling, and as her fingers closed around the band she felt very young and small again.

“I’ll be moving out of the Hunter’s quarters this week,” continued Thorn. “I’ll let you know when you can move in.”

Bryony nodded, too distracted to speak.

“The Queen will want to see you, too. She’ll ask if you’d like to take a new common-name. I’ll let her know that I’ve approved you, and she’ll call on you in a day or so.”

There was an awkward pause. “All right,” said Bryony, since Thorn seemed to be waiting for an answer.

Still Thorn remained, looking down at her. “You know,” she said at last, “you’re sitting in almost the same place I found your egg.”

“Oh?” said Bryony.

Thorn cursed, made an abrupt turn, and plunged back into the Oak, slamming the door behind her. Bryony sat back on her heels. What was all that about?

Part of her was tempted to go after the older faery and ask. But the half-skinned vole would attract crows if she left it for long, so after a moment Bryony sighed and picked up her flint again. Thorn could look after herself, and surely would: but Bryony was the Queen’s Hunter now, and she had work to do.

The crescent moon glowed wanly in the cloud-choked sky, and a mist had settled over the Oakenwyld. Bryony slipped out of her window and dropped to the ground, grimacing at the cold slickness of the grass beneath her feet. Not the most pleasant night to be out, but something strange was going on at the House, and she could not resist the temptation to investigate.