Nomad Page 5

She’d thought the Grey Man hideous at first, and with good reason: he had been wearing the grotesque shape the spriggans used to frighten humans away from their treasure, with a stumpy body and a bulbous head. But when he changed back into his ordinary form, she saw that he was not so different from a faery after all. He spoke kindly to her and healed her wounds, and offered her refuge among his people on two conditions: she must remain invisible at all times, as the spriggan women did, and she must consent to become his wife.

  “I accepted,” she said, “because I saw no other choice. I had disgraced myself in the eyes of my people, and I thought they would never take me back. And to be the wife of a chieftain and the keeper of all his treasure seemed like a noble thing, even if it did mean staying hidden. I never guessed how heavily that promise would weigh upon me.” She gazed down at her bracelet-covered arms. “In more ways than one.”

  The Grey Man had never treated her unkindly, she said. He had even worked spells on the treasure she carried to make it a lighter burden, and every few days he allowed her to lay it aside and make herself visible as long as the two of them were alone. But keeping up the invisibility glamor drained her, and she could not sustain it all day unless she let it down at night. So it wasn’t long before the spriggan-wives who shared her sleeping chamber discovered that the Grey Man’s wife was a faery—and they had been using that knowledge against her ever since.

  “I thought they would treat me more kindly when you were born,” she said. “I thought they would see, then, that I was truly one of them. But it only made them more jealous.”

  The boy was silent, searching her face. He only half understood the story she had told him, but he knew what it was to feel lonely and unwanted. No wonder she had been crying, if this was what her life had become. How many other nights had she wept in the darkness, and he had never known it?

  “And I am never alone,” she murmured. “In my home wyld lived eighty faeries or more, but there was room for all of us. Here there are scarcely twelve of us—yet everywhere I go I am surrounded. If I could cast off this weight of treasure and run free under the open sky, for just one hour…”

  Cast off her treasure? Faery or not, how could his mother dream of such a thing? A wife’s duty was to know her husband’s trove down to the last copper, and hold it safe for him. Even the beauty of the spriggan women was said to be a treasure in itself—and though the boy had sometimes been tempted to doubt that rumor, in his mother’s case he could well believe it.

  “Please,” she whispered, folding his hand between her own. He could feel the weight of the bracelets she wore, the cold bands of her rings pressing into his palm. “Help me.”

  “How?” asked the boy, bewildered. He didn’t have the power to change his people’s laws: he hadn’t even earned a name yet. He might be the Grey Man’s son by birth, but in his own right he was nobody at all.

  “You are my only child.” Her grip tightened, urgent. “Your father’s wealth is as much yours as it is mine. Guard it for me, just a little while, and I will reward you.”

  The boy licked his lips, half in fear and half in longing. “What kind of reward?”

  “Anything that I can give you,” she said. “Food, if you are hungry. Or I could teach you spells, faery spells, that none of the others know… you would like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Yes, he would. Hunger was bad, but being powerless was worse, and to be ignorant was worst of all. “When?” he asked.

  “When I return.” She must have seen the uncertainty in his eyes, but she smiled as though he had already answered. “I knew I could trust you. Help me with these.” She lifted her hair away from her shoulders, exposing the mass of chains about her neck. “Quickly. There isn’t much time…”

  Sunlight crept across Ivy’s eyes, and somewhere close by a thrush was singing. Mumbling annoyance, she rolled away from the window and pulled the covers over her head. She could never get a decent sleep aboveground, no matter how comfortable the bed might be.

  Then it dawned on Ivy that she was lying in a bed, in a room with a window, and that it didn’t hurt to move at all. Startled, she sat up and found Martin sitting in a chair across from her with one ankle propped on the other knee, cleaning his nails with the point of a small silver knife.

  “You,” he said without looking up, “have a positively supernatural gift for getting yourself into trouble. Next time I go to London, I’m taking you with me. By train, if necessary.”

  Ivy ran her hands through her dark curls, disoriented. She’d been so caught up in her dream about the boy and his mother that she’d never guessed Martin had found her. He’d treated her wounds and carried her to this place—a village inn of some sort. Yet in all that time, she hadn’t wakened once.

  “You put a sleeping spell on me,” she accused. “And healed me again. Without asking.”

  His brows lifted in mild surprise. “You mean you had other plans? A raging blood infection, perhaps, with a touch of hypothermia? In any case, you were asleep already. I just made it easier for you to stay that way.”

  Ivy opened her mouth, then shut it. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful, but she wasn’t quite happy, either. When Martin had saved her life the first time, she’d never imagined that he could heal her wounds and drive the poison from her body with nothing more than his bare hands. Piskey healers worked with herbs and powders and painstakingly brewed potions, not raw magic. So being restored to health so quickly had seemed wonderful to Ivy, until she’d learned how much Martin’s impulsive act had changed her. How in some unsettling way it had made her less like her old piskey self, and more like him.

  “I could have healed on my own,” she said at last. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  He flicked the knife closed and tossed it on the table, where it turned into an ordinary-looking pen. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Now would you care to tell me why I found you lying unconscious miles from where we were supposed to meet, with bloody clothes and claw-marks all over your body?”

  Ivy ran a hand down her side, feeling the newly healed skin through the smooth, clean knit of her sweater. So he’d fixed her clothes with magic, too. She was grateful, but another part of her found his generosity unnerving, especially when she remembered what she’d learned about the Grey Man and his faery bride last night…

  But she couldn’t say that to Martin. She’d tell him about the dream later. “A hobby attacked me,” she said, and went on to explain what had happened, from the time Mattock had hailed her at the Delve to the time she’d fallen bleeding into the heather.

  “The bigger bird sounds like a peregrine,” said Martin, frowning. “And you say it attacked the hobby? That’s unusual. It must have been a female, protecting her nest.”

  “It was beautiful,” said Ivy, and meant it. The two falcons didn’t look that different at first glance—and yet she felt a cold clench in her stomach at the thought of the one, and only admiration for the other.

  “Maybe,” Martin said, “but I’m sure it would have been equally willing to eat you. You were lucky, albeit in a backhanded way. Just enough luck to survive, not enough to keep you from getting hurt in the first place.” He ran a finger thoughtfully over his lower lip. “That’s very interesting.”

  The idea of sharing Martin’s unpredictable spriggan luck was less interesting than disturbing, but Ivy didn’t want to insult him by saying so. “I was careless,” she admitted. “I should have been watching. And I didn’t realize how I’d stand out now that most of the other swifts are gone.”

  “It’s a problem,” agreed Martin. “And it’s only going to get worse as the year goes on. That’s probably why I’ve never met anyone else who takes the shape you do. Swifts are common enough between May and August, but beyond that…”

  “It’s too risky,” said Ivy. She threw back the covers and swung her legs around. “Especially if I want to go back to the Delve. But I don’t know what else to do.”

  “I know. Don’t go back to the Delve.”


  “You don’t understand.” She got up and moved to the window, rubbing her arms distractedly. “I can’t leave all my friends and neighbors to die, just because Betony won’t admit she was wrong. She’s convinced herself that the poison in the mine was all Gillian’s doing, and that she can get rid of it with just a few spells and a bit of patience. But the air in the mine’s not getting any better. If anything, it’s worse.”

  “Why is she so determined to keep her people underground?” asked Martin. “Even if she grew up hearing the same horror stories you did about spriggans roaming the surface, she must know better now she’s seen the upper world for herself.”

  “She does know better,” said Ivy. “When I first went to talk to her about it, Nettle said that nobody in the Delve had seen a spriggan in thirty years, and Betony didn’t even pretend to be surprised.”

  “Then who does she think is going to hurt you? The humans?”

  “No. The Empress.”

  Martin frowned. “But your aunt’s a piskey. How would she have heard of the Empress?”

  “The old Joan knew about her somehow,” said Ivy. “And before she died, she warned Betony not to let the Empress capture even one of our people, or we’d all end up under her power. I tried to tell Betony that the Empress is dead, but as soon as she guessed that I’d heard that news from you…”

  “Ah,” said Martin. “Of course. She thinks I’m the Empress’s spy, trying to trick you—or rather, her—into letting down her guard.” His expression turned rueful. “Clever of her to think of that.”

  “Yes,” replied Ivy, “but the problem is, now she can’t think of anything else. I think deep down she knows the mine isn’t nearly as safe as she pretends, but she still thinks our people are better off dying as free piskeys than living as faery slaves. And she won’t believe there’s any other option.” She thumped her fist on the bedpost. “It’s so frustrating!”

  “Well,” said Martin, studying his steepled fingers, “if you’re determined to keep beating your head against that particular wall, at least you’ll have somewhere decent to stay while you’re doing it. I’ve booked this room for a week.”

  Ivy sank onto the window ledge, her anger fading. “You sold the treasure?”

  “It wasn’t easy to find a human who’d give me a fair price without a lot of tedious paperwork, but yes.” He pulled a cream-colored card from his pocket and squinted at it. “Thom Pendennis, Dealer in Antiquities, London. Not the most attractive human I’ve met, especially since he kept gaping at me like a fish and asking impertinent questions about my family. But his money seems genuine enough.”

  Ivy blinked. “Why would he ask about that? You don’t have any family, do you?”

  “It seems I reminded him of someone. Some old schoolmate or former customer, perhaps: he didn’t say. But he started to sweat and babble apologies when I hinted I might take my business elsewhere, and he all but begged me to come back if I ever had more to sell.” Martin’s gaze turned distant. “It’s an odd thing. Even though I’d barely touched the treasure, it was surprisingly hard to let it go. I’d always wondered why my ancestors didn’t just sell off their hoards and live like kings, but now….”

  “That reminds me,” Ivy began, and her stomach gave a thunderous rumble. She reached for a packet of biscuits, but Martin stopped her hand.

  “We have money now. That means a proper breakfast… assuming you don’t mind turning invisible until we’re away from the hotel.”

  “Invisible?” Ivy asked, trying to sound casual, but it wasn’t easy with the story about the Grey Man and the faery woman fresh in her mind. “Why?”

  “Well, technically speaking, there’s only supposed to be one person in this room. I would have booked us a double, but as you said yourself, you’re a little young to be my wife.”

  Martin’s mouth curled slyly as he spoke, and she knew he expected her to blush. But Ivy was in no mood to be teased. “You don’t look that much older,” she retorted, heaving the window open. Then she willed herself into swift-shape—it’s just for a few seconds, I’ll be safe—and fluttered to the pavement below.

  After several awkward minutes of hiding beneath the shrubbery, Ivy was starting to think she should have turned herself invisible after all. But finally the guest who’d been reading his newspaper on the veranda went inside, and she seized her chance to hop out and change to human shape. She hurried to the front of the hotel, Martin joined her, and the two of them walked down the narrow, sloping road into the village.

  When they came to a bakery, Ivy waited outside while Martin bought breakfast. Only when they were sitting together on the bench beneath the town clock, pastries in hand, did he break the silence.

  “So, I take it my jest was in poor taste?”

  A small harbor was just visible between the white-and-cream buildings, its crescent of wet sand dotted with sailboats. Ivy watched the gulls wheeling above as she answered, “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. But…” She took a bite of the crescent-shaped roll and chewed, giving herself time to think. “Last night I had another dream.”

  “About the spriggans?” Martin sat up, instantly alert. “What was it?”

  Ivy explained how the boy had met his mother in the darkness of the fogou, and the things she’d told him about the Grey Man. “But the dreams are out of order,” she said. “They seem to be going backward in time instead of forward, and I don’t understand why.”

  “I don’t know either,” said Martin. “Except that perhaps you dreamed about the knockers attacking the fogou first because it was such a powerful memory, and because you were sleeping in the place where it happened. And now you’re picking up the rest of the story, one piece at a time.”

  Ivy’s pastry had gone cold. She swallowed the last dry bite with difficulty. “You think I’ll have more dreams, then?”

  “Wherever these visions are coming from, they must have a purpose. Maybe there’s some clue in this story that will lead us to the spriggans, or at least tell us what happened to them. We know they didn’t all die out four hundred years ago, so there has to be more to the story.” He gazed thoughtfully into the distance, then rose. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Ivy.

  “I spotted a cave when I was searching for you last night, and I want to check it out.” He set off toward the harbor. Brushing pastry crumbs from her fingers, Ivy followed.

  Together they made their way across the boat-littered sand, onto a winding footpath that rose steeply toward the cliffs. Halfway up a middle-aged couple walking a dog hailed them with smiles, and Ivy smiled back a little awkwardly as she stepped aside to let them pass. But after that she and Martin found themselves alone, and the only sound was the sea washing against the rocks below.

  “There,” said Martin, and pointed to a cove ahead, where a dark gap yawned above a shore scattered with broken rocks and slabs of granite. “We’ll have to fly to it, but—”

  “No.” The word came out before Ivy could stop it, uneven and too loud. “Not after… I can’t.”

  Martin went still, the wind ruffling his pale hair. Then he turned to her, his expression unreadable, and asked, “Why?”

  “I don’t want to take swift-shape,” said Ivy, dashing angrily at the tears that had leapt to her eyes. “Not right now. So—” She jerked her chin toward the cliff. “Go on. I’ll wait here.”

  She thought Martin would be impatient with her, but if anything he looked relieved. “Is that all?” he asked. “Well, there are other ways of flying.” He shifted fluidly into his barn-owl shape, white wings beating the air, and back again. “Make yourself small and climb on my back. I’ll carry you.”

  Once Ivy got used to the strangeness of burying her hands in Martin’s soft feathers and gripping his sides with her knees, the flight down to the cave was exhilarating. But it proved no different from any of the other places they’d explored: if spriggans had ever lived there, they’d moved on without leaving any sign of their presence. She fo
llowed Martin to the mouth of the cave, where he sprang down to a flat-topped boulder and sat watching the ebbing tide. Hesitantly Ivy joined him.

  “Do you think,” she said, picking a bit of seaweed off her shoe, “that I could learn another bird-shape?”

  Martin considered this. “Possibly,” he said. “Most male faeries I know can become a bird and an animal. I’ve mastered three shapes myself, but I’ve never met anyone who could do more.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you need to feel a strong connection to the creature you’re becoming,” said Martin. “Remember how long you had to spend bird-watching before you saw your first swift? And when you saw it…”

  “It felt right.”

  “Exactly. But sometimes, no matter how many birds or animals you look at, that connection isn’t there. And if you’re comfortable in one form, it’s not easy to adjust to another.” He spoke casually, but Ivy sensed the warning behind the words. Don’t get too attached to this idea of yours. It might not work.

  But he’d been wrong about her abilities before; Ivy could only hope he was wrong now. “You say you’ve learned three forms?” she asked. “House martin, barn owl… what’s the other?”

  “My animal-shape is an ermine.” He gave a half-smile. “Only an ermine, mind. Which is even less practical most of the year than your swift-form, seeing as stoats only become ermines in deep winter. But I’m partially color-blind, so when I tried to turn my fur brown I ended up dark green instead. And once Rob and the other faeries stopped laughing, I decided to leave well enough alone.”

  Had he mentioned that name before? Ivy didn’t think so. “Was Rob the one who taught you to change shape?”

  “No,” said Martin. “But Rob and I grew up together, after a fashion. He was the Empress’s adopted son, while I was…” He paused, considering. “I suppose you would call me her protégé. There were a few unusually gifted faeries that she marked out for special attention, all of us young and foolish enough to believe it was an honor. Corbin and Byrne Blackwing were expert trackers, and Veronica…”