Spell Hunter fr-1 Page 11

“Why? What difference does it make to you?”

  “I don’t know!” Now it was her turn to shout, and Paul’s to wince. “I don’t know why I dove into that pool after you, or why I grew big, or why I lost my wings and got them back again. I don’t know why I’m still sitting here talking to you when I should be on my way home-I don’t know why I should even care!” She pressed her knuckles against her forehead in frustration, then added in a lower voice, “All I know is that I do.”

  For a moment Paul sat unmoving, his head bent. Then he said quietly, “All right. I’ll tell you.”

  Eleven

  Knife sat down cross-legged on the mattress, waiting for Paul’s answer. He knotted his hands together, then cleared his throat and began to speak:

  “I already told you that I started drawing when I was just a kid, and that I was good. Better than good, even-there were words like genius and prodigy being tossed around. But after a couple of years, my creativity just…dried up. I could still draw, but everything I did seemed ordinary. Lifeless, even. I wasn’t special anymore.

  “I was pretty unhappy, and my parents could tell, but I couldn’t explain it to them. How could I, when I didn’t even understand it myself? In the end they decided there must be something wrong with the art program at the local school, so they sent me to boarding school instead. Which was actually not bad, once I got used to it. My art didn’t get any better, but I made some friends and they got me interested in something I’d never tried before-rowing.”

  “Rowing?” said Knife, but Paul did not seem to hear her.

  “I’d never been much of an athlete, but once I felt those oars in my hands, I just knew. I dropped everything else and threw myself into training, and by the end of the year I was winning competitions.” His face brightened with the memory. “I don’t know if I can describe it to you-the feeling you get when you’ve just finished a race, when you’re all out of breath and your nerves are shredded and every muscle in your body is screaming, but at the same time you feel so incredibly alive.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Knife. That feeling, at least, she understood perfectly.

  “Once I started winning, I couldn’t get enough of it. I’d failed as an artist, but as a rower I just kept getting better, and after a while sculling was the only thing I cared about anymore. I had so many plans-I was going to qualify for the World Championships, maybe even the Olympic team. But then-”

  He hunched forward, his hands sliding up over his face. “It was a Friday night,” he went on thickly, “and I’d gone out with some friends to watch a football game, but I stayed too late… I could see the school gates closing ahead of me, so I started to run. The light hadn’t changed, but the road looked clear, and I was halfway across when this car came around the corner, I didn’t even see it until it hit me, and I felt my spine just snap -”

  Knife bit her lips, appalled. There was a long silence.

  “And now,” said Paul in a whisper, “I’m paralyzed from the waist down. I can’t walk, I can’t row, I can’t even-” He gave a humorless laugh. “Believe me, you don’t want to know about some of the things I can’t do. I’ll never qualify for the Olympics, never row properly again. All my dreams-gone. Just like that.”

  “And that’s why…?” asked Knife, still uncertain. She could imagine how devastated Paul had been: She had felt the same helpless misery when she’d thought she would never fly again. But to give up on life completely…that part she couldn’t understand.

  “No,” said Paul, sounding tired. “I mean, yes, but that’s not the only reason. After the accident, none of my friends knew what to say to me anymore. Oh, they came, and they tried, but it was just pathetic all around, and in the end, nobody came to see me except my parents.

  “My parents,” he repeated bitterly, “didn’t give up, but after a while I wished they had. When they told me they’d fixed up the house for me, and that they were taking me home…it was like the last few years had just been erased from my life. As though I’d never gone away to school, never grown up at all. I’d stopped being the son who was going to make them proud, and had become this sad, crippled little boy.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t angry with them,” said Knife.

  “I wasn’t, not exactly. I knew it wasn’t their fault. It was more like-” He rubbed a hand across his brow. “I didn’t want them to make any more sacrifices for me. I didn’t want them to care. I wanted to stop being their son, and become a thing in a chair that they would get tired of. So when I finally got the chance to kill myself, it’d be a relief for them, too.”

  “So,” Knife said slowly, “you stopped talking to everyone. Except me. Why?”

  “You were different.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You should.” He let his hand drop, and Knife flinched at the anguish in his eyes. “I never expected to meet you again,” he said. “After so many years, I’d given up believing you were real. But there you were, standing by the hedge, looking at me. It took me a long time to get my mind around that. And then, just as I’d almost convinced myself I’d been dreaming, you fell out of the sky and landed in my lap.

  “When I saw you lying there, with that ripped wing, I-I wanted you to live. I wanted to see if you could still fly, or what you would do if you couldn’t. But then you woke up, and you talked to me. Without gentleness, without pity. As if I were-whole.”

  Apprehension prickled up Knife’s spine. She opened her mouth to tell him that he’d said enough, but it was too late. Paul squeezed his eyes shut, and an unfamiliar ache grew inside her as she realized that he was crying.

  “Then you let me sketch you, and it turned out-it was perfect. The best thing I’d done in years. And when we were talking about art, you were so interested in everything I said, it made me think that maybe-”

  “Stop,” pleaded Knife. “You don’t have to go on, I understand.” And she did, for the rest of the story was painfully clear. He had come to think of her as a friend, but then he had lost his temper and frightened her away. The one good thing that had happened to him since his accident, spoiled-and it was his fault. No wonder he had decided to give up.

  Paul gave a shaky laugh and wiped his face on his sleeve. “Spreading it a bit thick, I know. Sorry.”

  “No,” said Knife, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, I was being…” She hesitated. Had she ever used this word before in her life? But it was the truth. “Selfish.”

  “You’re a faery,” said Paul. “Of course you don’t think like a human would. I don’t blame you.”

  Knife looked down at her feet. “I should go. My people-they’ll be wondering where I am.”

  Paul reached up, unlocking the window and sliding it open. “I know it’s not much, considering you saved my life,” he said. “But if you ever want to come and talk about art, or look at my books, or anything…I’ll be here. All right?”

  “All right,” said Knife, a little dazed by the generous offer. With a flick of her wings she leaped to the sill, then paused and looked back at him. “I’ll come,” she said. “I’m not sure when, but-I’ll try.”

  He smiled. “Good.”

  Knife turned and stepped straight out into the air. Wings thrumming, she dropped lightly to land on the old stone path, half buried in mosses and grass. Sunlight warmed her back, and she heard lark song in the distance. She was free.

  “Good-bye, Knife,” said Paul’s voice from above, and she heard his chair creak as he rolled away. Knife stood still, looking up at the empty window. Then she shook herself, squared her shoulders, and set off down the path into the Oakenwyld.

  Skirting the edge of the garden, Knife slipped from shadow to shadow as she made her way back toward the Oak. Halfway through the journey she paused by one of the flower beds, plunged her hands deep into the moist earth, and rubbed them over her face and arms, leaving muddy streaks everywhere. With her fingers she raked her hair into a tangle, crumbling in bits of bark and dead leaves for good measure. Then she wip
ed her palms on her breeches and continued on.

  She had barely set foot inside the Oak before she ran into one of the Gatherers, who turned white and stumbled off down the corridor toward the kitchen, yelling. Within moments Knife found herself at the center of a commotion, goggle-eyed Oakenfolk all quarreling and pushing to get a look at their Hunter, seemingly returned from the grave.

  It was Thorn who finally broke through the crowd and addressed Knife, her scowl doing nothing to hide her obvious relief. “Well,” she said, “you may look like you’ve crawled through a molehill and been worried by a fox, but you seem to be in one piece.”

  Of course she was glad, thought Knife: She must have been dreading the thought of having to become Queen’s Hunter again. “What happened to Linden and Tansy?” she asked. “Did they get back all right?”

  “Linden died soon after she was brought to me.” The quiet response came from above, and Knife looked up to see Valerian rounding the last bend of the Spiral Stair. “But Tansy was unharmed, and we were able to save Linden’s egg. Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” said Knife.

  “But I saw you fall.” The quavering voice was Tansy’s. “I thought the crow had got you for sure, or that human-”

  “If he had, would she be here?” Thorn interrupted scornfully before Knife could reply. “Don’t talk nonsense. She only dove, to throw the crow off her track-it’s an old Hunter’s trick.”

  “That’s as it may be,” said Mallow’s harsh tones from the back of the crowd. “But if there’s nothing wrong with her, where’s she been? We’ve had no meat in two days.”

  “What you mean is, you’ve had no chance to gorge yourself on scraps,” retorted Thorn, “and I don’t see why anyone should shed a tear over that.” She caught Knife by the elbow, steering her through the crowd. “Besides, it’s the Queen’s privilege to talk to Knife before any of you lot, so clear off.”

  Grumbling, the rest of the Oakenfolk dispersed. Thorn let go of Knife and said in a low voice, “But if I were you, I’d have a long soak and a spot of hard scrubbing before you report to the Queen. You stink.”

  “She is certainly dirty,” agreed Valerian mildly from beside them, “although I hadn’t noticed the smell. Come, Knife. I can look you over while you’re having your bath, to save time. We shouldn’t keep Her Majesty waiting.”

  “I believed we had lost you,” said Queen Amaryllis. “For all our sakes, I am glad that I was mistaken. Are you well?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Knife.

  “And yet”-the Queen’s eyes narrowed as they swept over Knife-“you appear…changed.”

  My wings, thought Knife with a flash of panic. She’s noticed my wings. What do I tell her?

  “Bluebell, bring our visitor a chair,” ordered the Queen, and her attendant hurried to obey. Knife did not feel much like sitting, especially with the Queen looking down at her, but when Bluebell nudged the chair against the backs of her knees, she had no choice.

  “Tell me, then,” continued Amaryllis when Knife was seated. “What became of you, after you fought the crow? I sent Thorn out to search for you, but she could find no trace.”

  Was this a trap, or genuine concern? It was impossible to tell. Knife decided to keep her story as close to the truth as she could. “I was flying ahead of Old Wormwood, trying to lead him away from Linden and Tansy,” she began, “when he struck at me and ripped my wing. I fell to the ground unconscious, and when I woke I found myself lying in a dark place, where the crow couldn’t reach me.

  “At first I was weak, and needed to rest. After a while I found food and water, and my strength began to return, but I was still a long way from the Oak. I couldn’t fly, so I started out on foot, but then I met a cat. It could have killed me, but…”

  This was it, the giant leap. She could only pray that the Queen didn’t guess how much of the story she was leaving out. “At the last moment I managed to make myself bigger-even bigger than the cat. I didn’t know how I’d done it, but I knew it had to be magic.” Forcing herself to be bold, she looked straight up at the Queen. “How could that be?”

  “It has happened before,” said Amaryllis. “But rarely, and only at times of great need. The Great Gardener was merciful.”

  Knife nodded. “Anyway, it saved me. When the spell wore off I tried my injured wing again, and it worked-the magic had healed it somehow. So I flew back to the Oak, and here I am.”

  The Queen regarded Knife, one finger crooked thoughtfully against her chin. Then she said, “I confess I am relieved to hear your story. Tansy’s report led me to believe that you had fallen into the garden, not far from the Oak. When Thorn could not find you, I feared that you had been taken by the humans, and that we might all be in danger.”

  An icy hand closed around Knife’s throat. The Queen’s guess had come so perilously close to the truth-did she sense, even now, that Knife was deceiving her? Perhaps it was a test, and this was Knife’s last chance to prove herself a loyal subject. Perhaps she should throw herself on the Queen’s mercy, and tell her everything.

  And yet Knife was no longer sure she could trust Amaryllis. If the Queen had been willing to burn a shelf’s worth of precious books just to keep her people from taking too much interest in humans, what would she do if she found out her Hunter had actually befriended one? Of course she could hardly execute Knife for treason, not with so few faeries left in the Oak. But she might harm Paul, if her magic could reach him-and Knife didn’t like that thought at all.

  “In any case,” the Queen went on in a brisker tone, “you showed great courage in rescuing Linden from the crow, especially at such risk to yourself. It is evident that you have been through a grave ordeal, and it is to your credit that you returned to the Oak as quickly as you did. Valerian, you have examined her and found her well?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” came a quiet voice from the back of the room, and Knife started. She had forgotten the Healer was there. “All she needs is a chance to rest.”

  “Then I relieve you of your duties until tomorrow,” said the Queen to Knife. “You are dismissed.”

  Knife stumbled into her room and threw herself down on the sofa, exhausted. After her interview with the Queen she felt as though all her bones had been taken out one by one and examined, but she seemed to have made it through all right.

  So why did she still have the disquieting feeling that Amaryllis had not believed her?

  She swung her legs around and sat up. After spending so long in the House, her room now seemed more cramped than ever, with naked walls and furnishings so crude it hurt to look at them. She longed for a few pictures to brighten up the place-but no, that was impossible. Nearly everything beautiful the Oak had to offer had been sent to the archives; even the Queen’s walls were bare. Art was too rare and precious now to be entrusted to a single person.

  But why should it be that way? Before the Sundering the Oak had been full of artists and writers and craftswomen of all kinds. What had happened to their creativity? And was there any way of getting it back?

  She might find some clues in Heather’s diary, if it had not gone missing in her absence-ah, there it was. Knife lit a candle, sat down on the bed, and eased the book open at the place she had last marked. Jasmine’s temper has improved greatly since the others stopped slighting her, and I am glad to see that my words on her behalf did not go unheeded. She has certainly begun to greet me with more warmth, especially once she saw the work I did on her gown, which I flatter myself was as subtle a mending as I have ever effected. One would hardly know that it had arrived in such poor state, and she looks very well in it…

  Several entries of little interest followed, but a few pages later Knife found this: If my own dear friend Lavender had not brought me the news herself, I should hardly have believed it: The Queen has appointed Jasmine to her Council! It is a great honor, to be sure, and for Jasmine’s sake I am glad. Still, I cannot be fully at ease about the Queen’s decision. I have no doubt of Jasmine’s clev
erness, but she has a passionate nature, and is sometimes too quick to act when wiser heads would urge caution.

  Which was all very well if you were interested in politics, thought Knife, but she was tired of hearing about life in the Oak. When would Heather stop talking about Jasmine and tell her something that really mattered? Impatient, she began flipping pages, until finally- I was taking tea with Lavender this morning when the news came that Queen Snowdrop wished me to attend her. With so many other able faeries in the Oak, I scarcely dared hope that she would choose me; but my prayers were not in vain, Great Gardener be blest. In six months’ time I shall pass the title of Seamstress to my apprentice, Bryony, and take up a greater commission. I must prepare myself carefully for the task ahead, and I know it will not be easy, for I still have much to learn. Yet at this moment I can find no room in my heart for worry, or dread, or anything but glorious anticipation-I shall go Outside, among the wondrous folk of humanity!

  Knife started, and the book tumbled from her fingers to land facedown upon the floor. She picked it up and smoothed out the crumpled pages, reading the last line of Heather’s entry again, and again, and again, while the bedside candle sputtered in its puddle of wax.

  Twelve

  Outside Knife’s window the stars were beginning to fade, the first light of dawn creeping up over the horizon; the table beside her was littered with candle stubs, and scribbled notes lay everywhere. She had been reading all night, and her eyes were so blurred with exhaustion that she could hardly see the page-but still she could not bring herself to put Heather’s diary down…I have chosen the name of Miss Harriet Oakwood, a young woman lately arrived from the Continent, which I hope shall help to explain any oddities in my speech and manner. I shall be attended on my journey by Lily, a faery of maturity and good sense, who is to accompany me in the guise of a spinster aunt, and act as my chaperone. She knows much of the human world, and I will be glad of her guidance. Still, I could wish that Lavender might come with me as well; it pains us both to part, knowing that it may be years before we meet again. Nevertheless, she is too loyal a friend to grieve me by begging me to stay. I only wish I could say as much for Jasmine…