Torch

  Acclaim for

  TORCH

  “I love R.J. Anderson’s faery books: they’re emotionally rich, morally deep, and hugely fun. If like me you have been hungry for more about Ivy and Martin, I promise Torch will make you very happy.”

  — Erin Bow, Governor General's Literary Award-winning author of Stand on the Sky

  “Poignant, engaging, and masterful—a wholly satisfying conclusion to Ivy’s story.”

  — Joanna Ruth Meyer, author of Echo North and Into the Heartless Wood

  “R.J. Anderson's storytelling sparkles in Torch, a compelling conclusion to The Flight and Flame Trilogy. This tale of piskeys, spriggans, and fairies was delightful from start to finish.”

  — Lindsay A. Franklin, award-winning author of The Story Peddler

  Books by R.J. Anderson

  No Ordinary Fairy Tale Series

  Knife

  Rebel

  Arrow

  Uncommon Magic Series

  A Pocket Full of Murder

  A Little Taste of Poison

  Ultraviolet Series

  Ultraviolet

  Quicksilver

  The Flight and Flame Trilogy

  Swift

  Nomad

  Torch

  Torch

  Copyright © 2021 by R.J. Anderson

  Published by Enclave Publishing, an imprint of Third Day Books, LLC

  Phoenix, Arizona, USA.

  www.enclavepublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, digitally stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from Third Day Books, LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-62184-158-6 (hardback)

  ISBN: 978-1-62184-160-9 (printed softcover)

  ISBN: 978-1-62184-159-3 (ebook)

  Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, www.DogEaredDesign.com

  Typesetting by Jamie Foley, www.JamieFoley.com

  For Deva

  who was there from the start

  and for all the patient readers

  who never lost hope for the ending

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Acclaim for Torch

  Half-Title

  Books by R.J. Anderson

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Available Now!

  She’d only just found him again, and now he was gone.

  Ivy sat on the front step of the house—not her house, a crude human cottage could never be home to a piskey-girl, but right now it was all she had—hugging her knees and staring gloomily into the night. The lights of a delivery van swept the front garden of the farmstead, turning toward the nearby village; on the hedge by the road a rook perched, watching her with a shrewd, glittering eye. Inside the house Mica still raged and stamped about, but Ivy was past caring what her brother did. The pain of losing Martin sat like a lump of cold slag in her chest.

  His face had shone as he’d changed out of owl-shape to greet her, soft with joy and an almost reverent wonder. He’d stepped up to Ivy, reaching for her hand . . .

  “Get away from her, you filthy spriggan!”

  And just like that, she’d lost him. One look at Mica charging toward them, and Martin had vanished like a puff of wind.

  Not that she blamed him. The last time Martin fought her brother, he’d ended up in a dungeon with iron around his ankle. But how could he and Ivy ever be together if he kept deciding the better part of valor was to run away?

  “Well,” said a gruff female voice beside her, “that could have gone better.”

  Ivy rested her chin on her knee, trying not to shiver. She’d been so furious at Mica, she’d stormed outside without a coat.

  Thorn crouched on the corner of the step, rubbing her calloused hands together. “So that’s your brother, is it? Can’t say I regret not having one. How many have you got?”

  “Only Mica,” said Ivy. “But that’s enough.”

  The faery woman snorted. “You said it.” She blew into her cupped hands and stuffed them into her armpits for warmth. “I’m guessing Broch and I won’t be welcome in the house, then. Should we make ourselves scarce until you sort this out?”

  She spoke briskly, but Ivy knew it was no light offer. The two faeries had come to Cornwall as ambassadors from their queen, Valerian of the Oak, and if Ivy couldn’t find room for them they’d have nowhere to go.

  Like everyone else in her life, it seemed.

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” Ivy told her. “Mica can shout all he likes, but you’re my guests and it’s not his house. Besides, our mother’s a faery, so he’s not got a pick to dig with.”

  “Martin’s a faery too, but that didn’t stop your brother chasing him off.”

  Half faery, Ivy almost reminded her, but held her tongue. Thorn knew the secret already, but it was safer to talk as though spriggan was nothing more than the insult Mica had intended, instead of the literal truth.

  “I thought I’d never see him again,” Ivy said, picking a bit of gravel off the step. “When he turned himself over to your queen, he was sure she’d execute him.”

  “Valerian’s not the sort to kill people,” said Thorn. “No matter how much they deserve it.”

  Ivy didn’t protest. She knew Martin’s crimes as well as he did, and he wouldn’t want her to make excuses. “Maybe not, but letting him go? I don’t know your queen well, but that doesn’t seem like her either.”

  Thorn shrugged. “I don’t know and I didn’t ask. All I know is that when Rob dragged Martin in, Queen Valerian sent everyone away and spent half the night talking to him. The next day she called us back and said she’d decided to pardon him, as long as he swore to go straight to Cornwall and never leave it again.”

  An oath he’d taken, obviously. But how had Martin convinced the faery queen to trust him? He’d never lied to Ivy, or at least not about anything that mattered, but he’d deceived nearly everyone else in his life at some point, as many of Valerian’s people could testify.

  Besides, the queen didn’t know Martin like Ivy did. She hadn’t found him chained up at the bottom of a mineshaft, half-crazed with guilt and remorse; she hadn’t saved and been saved by him, or spent weeks tramping about Cornwall in his company. She hadn’t shared Martin’s memories, or learned the secrets of his long-forgotten past. And she certainly didn’t love him, as Ivy had grown to love him.

  So why had Valerian let him go?

  Ivy’s eyes stung, and she rubbed them furiously. Martin would have told her, she was sure of it—if only Mica hadn’t come storming in to interrupt them.

  Thorn cleared her throat. “I was wondering.”

  “About what?”

  “I thought your people lived in that old mine—what’s it called?”

  It hurt even to say it, Ivy missed her home so much. “The Delve.”

  “Right. So where did all the piskeys in the barn come from?”

  So that was where Thorn had slipped
off to while Ivy and Mica were arguing. Though she must have turned invisible first, because if the knockers guarding the barn had spotted a strange faery, they’d have hefted their thunder-axes and gone after her at once.

  “It’s because of my Aunt Betony,” Ivy said. “She was our Joan—what we call our queen—for years. But she was obsessed with keeping our people safe, and she thought making all the women and children stay underground was the best way to do it. Only the mine was poisoned, so we were getting sick.”

  “I know that much,” said Thorn. “I heard you tell Queen Valerian. You tried to warn Betony but she didn’t believe you, and the other piskeys were too scared to go against her. So what changed?”

  “A few days ago, I went back to the Delve and challenged Betony. My best friend stood up for me.” Ivy closed her eyes, remembering Jenny’s face in that moment. She’d never looked more beautiful, or more brave. “And Betony burned her to ashes. In front of everyone.”

  Thorn let out a low whistle.

  Swallowing grief, Ivy went on. “I wanted to kill her. But I—I couldn’t. Her fire went out when Jenny died, and our people were so shocked . . . she was losing them, and she knew it. So she threw herself on my sword.”

  “Killed herself, you mean? Or tried to?”

  “She wanted people to believe I stabbed her on purpose, so they wouldn’t follow me either. And it worked, mostly.” Ivy shifted on the concrete step, cold creeping into her muscles. “Mica and a few others left to join me aboveground. The rest are still in the Delve, waiting for Betony to heal and get her fire back.”

  And maybe her aunt would, eventually. Though it would be nice to believe some unseen judge like the Great Gardener of the faeries or the spriggans’ Shaper had punished Betony by taking her powers away, Ivy feared that was too much to hope. After all, Betony had burned Ivy’s mother nearly to death only two days earlier, but she’d still had enough fire to kill Jenny.

  “But the piskeys who left, they follow you, don’t they?” asked Thorn. “So you’re their Joan.”

  “No!” Ivy burst out, loud enough to make Thorn scowl. She flushed and added more quietly, “The true Joan can make fire at will. That’s why she’s called the Wad in the old language, the torch that lights our people’s way. I can’t do that. I’m just giving them a place to live until we find something better.”

  “Hmph.” Thorn wrinkled her nose. “Maybe it wasn’t the best time for Broch and me to come, then. Not much good trying to make a truce with your people if they can’t even say who’s their leader.”

  Ivy gave a reluctant nod. Much as she owed the faeries for saving her mother, perhaps it would be better if they left. If Thorn and Broch went back to the Oak now, Ivy wouldn’t have to worry what her fellow piskeys would make of them.

  “On the other twig, though . . .” Thorn stood up, rubbing her stomach absently. “We just got here, and I’m not keen on going back without a good reason. I’ll go talk to Broch.” She shook herself, changed to her tiny, winged Oakenfolk form, and flew away.

  Mica must have calmed down or left the house, because Ivy couldn’t hear him ranting anymore. Maybe Cicely, their little sister, had talked some sense into him: she was one of the few people who could crack his tough shell.

  Even so, the thought of going back inside gave Ivy no pleasure. Glad as she was for a place to live, this clumsy box of a house with its patchwork stones was nothing like the cozy tunnels and snug caverns she’d grown up in.

  Yet Ivy had spent months on the surface now, so she’d had a chance to get used to it. The twenty-odd piskeys camping out in the barn had no such advantage. Unlike Ivy and her mother, who could easily pass for human and often did, most of them stuck doggedly to their usual piskey size and refused to wear anything but the old-fashioned clothes they’d brought from the Delve. They’d settled into the barn well enough, but they kept the windows shuttered and seldom went outside unless they had to. And though Ivy had offered to share the house’s comforts with any piskey who needed them, even the oldest aunties preferred to huddle around a fire in the barn corridor than stay in a strange, human place.

  Ivy had hoped to save her people by leading them up to the surface, away from the poison. But until they found a new home where they could dig for gems and refine metal to their hearts’ content, they’d always mourn for the Delve they’d left behind.

  “Ivy! Ivy!” Quartz, Jenny’s imp of a little brother with his bright eyes and mouse-brown hair, came pelting across the darkened yard toward her. Even at human size Ivy was small, but the piskey boy stood only halfway to her knee. Hurriedly she got up and shrank to match him.

  “What’s going—” She broke off with a gasp as Quartz flung his arms around her and squeezed. He was only twelve, barely older than Cicely, but he had a knocker’s blood and the strength to go with it.

  “Good news!” he exclaimed. “Come and hear!”

  Bewildered, Ivy let Quartz tug her across the cobbles to the barn. Inside, the first box stall was taken up by Dodger, a shaggy bay pony who’d been there longer than any of them, while the next two were full of slumbering piskey families. But at the end of the corridor a small peat fire burned in a stone brazier, and Gem and Feldspar sat with hands cupped around bowls of a late and apparently well-earned dinner. The smell of roast rabbit mingled with the earthy scent of the pipe Hew was smoking on the other side of the stall. Ivy gave the old knocker a respectful nod, which he returned gravely, as Quartz dragged her over to the other men.

  “Tell her,” he urged. “About the mine.”

  Feldspar cleared his throat. “We checked it out tonight, Gem and me, and it doesn’t look bad. Usual mix of killas and granite, a few decent pockets of ore. The shafts were mostly flooded, but if we dug a few more adits for drainage, like . . .” He looked up at Ivy, his broad, earnest face creased with hope. “We can show you, if you want to take a geek.”

  She couldn’t blame the piskey-men for being excited. They didn’t know what she’d found out days ago, that all the nearby shafts were tainted with the same poison as the Delve, and no amount of pumping or digging could make them safe again. “Is it the one in the wood?” Ivy asked. “By the fork in the bridle path?”

  Gem’s face fell. “You know it, then.” He nudged Feldspar with an elbow. “That means it’s no good.”

  “Ayes,” said Feldspar glumly, and the two of them went back to eating.

  Even if they both owed their lives to her—and they did—it made Ivy’s head whirl to be treated with so much respect. Especially by two of the Delve’s best hunters, grown men with children only a few years younger than herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re still too close to the Delve here. But I’m always looking for mine shafts, wherever I . . . fly.”

  It was hard not to stammer on that last word, knowing how her people felt about shape-changing. But after growing up wingless, Ivy could never regret learning to take bird-shape, no matter how unusual it might be. “Don’t worry,” she went on more firmly. “I won’t give up until I find us a safe new home.”

  “We know that, me lover.” Hew took his pipe out of his mouth and grinned at her, displaying several missing teeth. The poison had aged him, like it had so many other piskeys, and he looked decades older than he should. “You’re not your aunt, with her stubbornness and haughty ways. Your father was a fine knocker, a hero—”

  “Rest his spirit,” said Feldspar, raising his bowl solemnly.

  “—and you’re Flint’s daughter, through and through.” Hew tapped the ashes out of his pipe and stamped on them. “All you need’s a good fellow to be your Jack, and you’ll make us a fine Joan some day.”

  Heat rushed into Ivy’s face. Mica had told her there was a rumor that she was the next Joan, but she’d never imagined any but the youngest piskeys would take it seriously. “But I can’t . . .”

  “O’course you can,” said Feldspar. “The power’ll come to you, we’ve no doubt of it.”

  “As soon as you’ve got rid of Betony,”
Quartz chimed in with relish, and the older men nodded, as though this were common knowledge.

  Ivy took a step back, shaken. “Good night,” she stammered, and vanished.

  Cicely didn’t jump when Ivy landed in their shared bedroom; she was used to her older sister appearing out of nowhere. But she sat up sharply at the sight of Ivy’s face. “Did Mica go after you? I told him—”

  “Not Mica.” Ivy sank onto her side of the bed, pulling a pillow against her chest. Martin wasn’t here, and she needed to hold on to something. “The others. Cicely, they think the only reason I can’t make fire is because Aunt Betony’s still alive. And I think . . . I think they expect me to kill her.”

  Cicely looked horrified, and Ivy felt a rush of gratitude; at least one person understood how she felt about killing Betony. Once, in an agony of grief, she had tried—but only because she’d given up hope and cared for nothing but vengeance. She was no longer that bitter, despairing girl, and she never wanted to be again.

  “I know,” Ivy said. “I won’t do it. Aunt Betony may be evil, but . . .” She hugged the pillow tighter. “I’ve seen what murder does to people. There has to be a better way.”

  “But do you think they’re right?” her little sister asked, twisting her braids with anxiety. “Not about killing her, but the fire thing?”

  Ivy had never heard of anyone inheriting the Joan’s power without the Joan’s consent. But then she’d never heard of a Joan losing her fire the way Betony had, either. She gave a helpless shrug.

  “Have you tried it?” Cicely persisted. “Lately?”

  There was a red mark on Ivy’s palm, still tender, from two nights ago. She’d lit the biggest candle she could find in the house, the one with three wicks, and tried to cup its flame—but the pain had stung tears to her eyes, and she’d snatched her hand away. She couldn’t even touch fire, let alone summon it. “I’ve tried. Nothing happens.”

  And worse, Ivy didn’t know anyone else who could make fire either. When the last Joan was dying all the older piskey-women had failed the test except Betony, and the few who remained were too young, too timid, or too busy with their own families to even consider it. The only one who’d seemed fit to become the next Joan was Jenny, but she was gone.