Knife Page 5

  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.

  If it had only been idle curiosity on her part, she would have resisted it. But for all her studies she had still not been able to figure out what had gone wrong between her people and the humans, and going back to the House was the only way she could think of to learn more. Whatever had made the Oakenfolk so fearful of human beings, it seemed to have happened around the same time as their other misfortunes—the loss of their magical powers, the fading of their creative abilities, and worst of all the deadly arrival of the Silence. Could all these things be connected?

  It was a complicated question, and she didn’t expect to be able to answer it tonight. But she could at least find out one thing: Why were the humans up so late? They had put out the lights and gone to bed at the usual time, but now the House was lit again, and she could see their shadows moving about inside. Something urgent must have wakened them—but what?

  Landing on the cobbled veranda, Bryony crouched and peered through the door. She was surprised to see the human woman—Beatrice—sitting upon the sofa in her dressing gown, eyes puffy and cheeks wet with tears. Nearby stood her mate, barefoot and disheveled, speaking to an odd-shaped object in his hand:

  “…impossible to tell at this point, yes, I understand. But when can we see him?”

  There came a long pause.

  “I see. All right, then. Good-bye.” The man set the object back on its hook, his face ashen. For a moment he stared at the wall; then he turned to his wife and said, “Apparently it’s…quite serious. We should…they think we’d better come at once.”

  Beatrice made a choking noise, and her shoulders began to shake. The man looked down at her helplessly, then reached out and put his arms around her, holding her as she wept. Bryony watched them, puzzled by this excess of emotion, until the two humans drew apart and walked slowly from the room, putting out the lights as they went. Moments later Bryony heard the front door slam, followed soon afterward by a rumbling and a crunch of gravel, and she realized that they had left the House together.

  As she walked back toward the Oak, Bryony was frowning. What could have happened to upset the humans so much? Something terrible had happened to “him”—their son, Paul, probably—but if the disaster had already taken place, why were they rushing off in the middle of the night? It wasn’t as though they could do anything about it.

  She was still musing over the strange ways of humans when the wind shifted, and a familiar dank odor blew past. Bryony spun around, her hand dropping to the metal knife she carried at her belt. He’s back, she thought—and that was all she had time for before the crow swooped down and knocked her to the ground. She rolled with the blow, leaping up just in time to avoid being pinned; then she ripped her new dagger from its sheath and flung herself at her enemy.

  He flew to meet her, beak snapping, but Bryony dove at the last minute. She ducked beneath his outstretched wing, zooming so low that the wet grass brushed her chest; then she twisted about, and slashed straight across the back of both his legs.

  He shrieked and stumbled, ragged wings beating the ground. Bryony was sure she had crippled him—but then he hopped upright again, and with a croak launched himself into the air. Bryony hesitated, looking up at the black shadow rising above her. Surely he couldn’t be retreating so soon? And even if he were, could she afford to let him go?

  Bryony sprang from the ground and flashed after the crow, wings buzzing furiously. In a heartbeat she had passed him and swung about to hover in the air, waiting to see what he would do.

  She did not have to wait long. With a mad gleam in his eye he turned on her, and she was forced to flee. But even as the crow pursued her, Bryony felt no fear. A crow in full health was a swift and deadly flier, but she had wounded this one, and now he could barely keep up with her.

  Bryony darted across the yard and into the shadow of the Oak, weaving her way easily between its wide-spaced branches. But just before she reached the trunk, she veered aside—while the crow, dazzled with pain and rage, smashed straight into it. She heard an awful crunch, a slithering sound followed by a thump, and then silence.

  A shaft of golden light shot from the Oak as its topmost window burst open. Bryony caught a glimpse of Queen Amaryllis’s fair, furious face and raised a hand in salute before circling back to find out what had become of her enemy.

  Now that the frenzy of their combat had subsided, Bryony was disappointed to see that the crow lying crumpled across the Upper Knot Branch was not Old Wormwood, after all. It was a smaller crow, too young and inexperienced to be a good fighter—no wonder she had defeated him so quickly. Exhilaration fading, she lighted beside him with dagger drawn, ready to stab him the instant he moved. But there was no need, for his eyes had gone dull and his wings hung limp as rags. She prodded him gingerly with one foot, then jumped back as he slid off the branch and tumbled to the ground below. Her enemy was dead.

  Only then did Bryony notice that her arm was bleeding. Light-headed, she folded to her knees as Bluebell exclaimed from the window above her: “Great merciful Gardener! Is that Bryony?”

  “Go and fetch her,” said Queen Amaryllis’s voice. “Bring her to me.”

  A moment later Bryony felt someone tugging her to her feet. “Ugh,” said Bluebell, and the supporting hands were hastily withdrawn. “She’s filthy.”

  That was, unfortunately, true. Crows were dirty creatures at the best of times, and not all the blood on Bryony was her own. She turned her head, discovering at the same moment that her neck ached dreadfully, and saw Bluebell regarding her with wary, almost fearful eyes.

  “One moment,” said the Queen. “What is that weapon she carries?”

  Bluebell bent to inspect the dagger still clutched in Bryony’s hand. “It appears to be made of metal, Your Majesty. A strange sort of knife.”

  “Metal? What kind of metal?”

  The Queen’s attendant touched the blade gingerly, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “Steel, my lady. Safe, I think.”

  “Bring it, too,” said the Queen. Then she paused and added, “Have her bathe first.” She pulled back her shining head and closed the window.

  “You heard Her Majesty,” said Bluebell. “You had better come with me.”

  Sometime later, bandaged from wrist to elbow and freshly dressed in the cleanest tunic and breeches she could find, Bryony followed Bluebell up the last turn of the Spiral Stair to the Queen’s chambers.

  As Bluebell, with lamp in hand, led her along the corridor Bryony stole quick glances into the rooms they passed. The first archway revealed a small audience chamber draped in scarlet curtains; next came a private bath with fixtures of polished stone and a mirror even larger than Wink’s; and last and most interesting, a library littered with open volumes and scribbled sheets of paper, as though the Queen had been interrupted in the middle of some urgent study. Only one last door remained, and it was closed. Bluebell stopped and gave the brass knocker a respectful tap.

  “Enter,” came the Queen’s voice from within.

  Bluebell opened the door. “Your Majesty, Bryony is here.”

  “Very well. You may leave us.”

  The Queen’s attendant bowed her head and retreated. Bryony was left standing alone in the doorway, gazing about the chamber and thinking how much it reminded her of the House—though the furnishings here were older, and beginning to look a little worn. There was a wide feather bed with a post at each corner, and a table with two chairs upholstered in delicate needlework. The window, twice the size of any other in the Oak, looked straight out at the House—but it was closed now, the curtains drawn.

  On the room’s far side stood a dressing table topped by an oval mirror, and there sat
Amaryllis, combing her hair. She did not look up as Bryony approached and performed the ritual curtsy. Only when she had finished did Amaryllis put down her comb and turn gracefully in her seat, drawing her dressing gown about her.

  “Precisely what did you mean by your reckless behavior?” she inquired.

  Bryony met the Queen’s blue eyes with her own black ones. “To kill a crow, Your Majesty.”

  “And so you did,” replied Amaryllis. “But why were you out so late at night?”

  Bryony opened her mouth and shut it again, her color deepening. How could she explain without admitting that she had been to the House? At last she said, “Your Majesty, I hoped to rid our people of a dangerous enemy. And…I wanted to test my new weapon.”

  “Ah, yes.” Amaryllis held out her hand. “Show me this metal knife of yours.”

  Bryony drew the dagger from its sheath and held it out to the Queen, who took it in her long, white hands. “It appears,” she said dryly, holding the sharp edge up to the light, “to be effective. How did you come by it?”

  Bryony bit the inside of her lip, unsure of how to answer.

  “I asked you a question,” said the Queen. Her tone was mild, but as she spoke her shining wings lifted and spread wide, a wordless reminder of her magical power.

  “I stole it,” said Bryony. “From the House.”

  “Where the humans live.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you intend to make a habit of disobeying my commands and risking your life?”

  Bryony straightened her shoulders. “Your Majesty, I needed a better weapon to fight crows with, and I could see no other way to get it. Yes, I risked my life then, and I risked it again tonight, and I will continue to risk my life as long as you call me your Hunter, because that is my duty.”

  The Queen was silent a moment. Finally she said, “Disobedient you may be, but you are also courageous. I know of no Hunter who has ever killed a crow. Very well, you have my pardon—this time. But beware, child. You are no match for a human, and I do not wish you to enter their House again. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Good.” Amaryllis folded her wings and turned back to the mirror, laying the knife down on the dressing table. “How then shall I reward your bravery?”

  Bryony drew herself up. “Your Majesty…I would like to change my name.”

  “Is that all?” asked the Queen. “But that privilege has always been yours; surely you knew that. Tomorrow, when I confirm you publicly as my new Hunter, you may choose for yourself whichever common-name you please.”

  “But you wouldn’t let me choose just any name,” said Bryony. “Not the one I really want.” She gestured to the blade upon the table.

  The Queen sat back in her chair, regarding Bryony’s reflection with narrowed eyes. “Do I understand you rightly? You must know that none of our people has ever taken such a name.”

  “I know.”

  “You are determined to be different, aren’t you?” the Queen murmured, and then in brisker tones, “Very well. I shall announce your choice to the others tomorrow. But should you die in battle, that name will not pass to your egg-daughter.”

  “That’s all right,” said Bryony. “I wouldn’t want it to. Your Majesty, may I withdraw? I am…tired.”

  “You may.” The Queen picked up the dagger, turned, and held it hilt-first out to her. “Here is your weapon: I give it to you. And if anyone should ask how you came by it, you will tell them so—that you received it as a gift from me.”

  Which would satisfy the other faeries’ curiosity about where the blade had come from, without letting them suspect that their Hunter had visited the House. Looking into Amaryllis’s level eyes, Bryony felt a surge of admiration: No wonder she was the Queen. “I will,” she said, taking the knife with care.

  “Then you are dismissed,” said Amaryllis.

  Bryony curtsied and backed out of the room. Bluebell met her in the corridor, clucking disapproval at the weapon in her hand. “Really, Bryony—”

  “No.”

  “‘No’? ‘No’ what?”

  “From now on,” said Bryony firmly, “you can call me Knife.”

  Five

  “This will hurt a little,” warned Valerian, her scissors poised above the line of stitches in Knife’s arm.

  “It can’t hurt any worse than it did when you put them in,” said Knife. “Go on.”

  Valerian sighed and set to work, while Knife stared at the wall of the Healer’s room and tried not to flinch. She hadn’t reckoned on this when she became a Hunter. Oh, she had known that the work could be dangerous, and that she was bound to get injured now and then. But after living all her life in the safety of the Oak she’d had very little idea of what being wounded felt like, or how long it would take to recover. Even now, with her first battle scar still livid and tender upon her skin, it was hard to believe how close she had come to death, or how fortunate she was that the injury had not been worse. Skin and muscle would heal, given time, but if it had been her wing…

  Knife repressed a shudder. Best not to even think about that.

  “Do you think,” said Valerian, putting down the scissors and looking at Knife with her searching gray eyes, “that you may have done enough now, at least for a while?”

  “Done enough what?” Knife said, not quite meeting the Healer’s gaze. She hopped off the table and stretched her arm experimentally. The skin pulled a little, but it already felt better without the stitches.

  Valerian wiped her hands on a towel and began untying her apron. “I think you know what I mean, Knife. Not that I mind having new and interesting injuries to treat, but if you wanted everyone in the Oak to know that you’re a good Hunter, I think you have already proven that quite sufficiently.”

  Knife blinked. Was Valerian actually trying to have a conversation with her? The idea was so bizarre, so unfaerylike, that it took her a moment to think of a reply. “I know that,” she said. In fact she had known it for some time, for as soon as the news that she had killed a crow had reached the rest of the Oakenfolk, they had become much more respectful toward her. It had taken them a few days to adjust to her new name, but not even Mallow dared to order her about anymore.

  “Then why,” asked Valerian in a voice edged with impatience, “do you keep taking such terrible risks?”

  There was no easy answer to that question. “Because I have to,” Knife replied, and it was true, although she knew Valerian would never understand. How could she explain to someone who had spent decades quietly holed up in the Oak, content with her books and her surgeon’s kit, that being a heartbeat from death was the only way to truly feel alive?

  “Well,” said Valerian, “try not to do too much with that arm for another week or so. A few stretching exercises each morning and night, and this ointment”—she handed the pot to Knife—“worked well into the skin, should help it heal. But come and see me, if you please, before you do anything too strenuous.”

  Knife nodded.

  “Then I give you good evening,” said Valerian, and let her go.

  Days passed, and the pain in Knife’s arm subsided; Valerian examined the scar and reluctantly pronounced her fit for duty. By then the Oakenfolk were clamoring for meat, tallow, and other necessities, and Knife found herself so busy that she had no time to visit the House or even think about the humans. All her spare moments were spent on exercise and weapons practice, trying to get her weakened muscles back into fighting shape; by the end of the day she was so exhausted that she simply fell into bed and lay there senseless until morning.

  When the workers arrived, however, backing their metal wagons into the House’s front drive and filling the once-quiet Oakenwyld with their appalling mechanical din, it was impossible not to take notice. At first the Oakenfolk were terrified, and it was all the Queen herself could do to reassure them. Then, as the pounding and screeching went on day after day, their fear turned to resignation, and finally to impatience.

  �
�What are they doing in there, anyway?” demanded Campion one night at supper. “Knife, you should know, if anyone does. Have you seen anything?”

  Knife was tempted to ask the Librarian what she was prepared to offer in exchange for the knowledge, but she knew bargaining would be futile when she had so little information to offer. “They’re changing the inside of the House,” she replied shortly, helping herself to a third serving of roasted finch and shoving the empty platter back down the table.

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know.” She had watched the downstairs bathroom being gutted; she had also noticed that the study had been moved to the upper floor. But the humans—her humans—were still away from the House more often than not, so she had no idea why these drastic changes were necessary.

  “So many humans in the Oakenwyld now,” said Linden, one of the Gatherers, with a shudder. “Too many.”

  “They’ll be gone soon enough,” came Thorn’s voice flatly from the end of the table. “And your bleating isn’t going to make them move on any sooner, now, is it?” She pushed back her bench and stalked away.

  “What’s she so angry about?” asked Knife, but her only answer was a series of shrugs. Only Wink looked troubled by Thorn’s outburst, but a moment later she returned to her meal as though nothing had happened, leaving Knife wondering if she had seen that anxious look at all.

  Eventually the commotion in the House subsided, and the workers packed up their wagons and drove away. Over the next few days Knife made a survey of the renovations and found that outside the front step had been replaced by a wooden ramp, while inside the former study now contained a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a double bed. The workers seemed to have done something to the stairs as well, but as no window overlooked the staircase, Knife could not be sure. All that noise, all that fuss—why?

  Fortunately, she did not have to wait long for an answer. That night George and Beatrice returned to the House together, and Knife crouched beside the back door, watchful and listening.