two

Bryony sat back on her haunches, wiping her brow with her forearm. All morning she’d been scrubbing the floor of the Dining Hall, polishing each cobble until it shone, but she was still nowhere near finished. As usual, Mallow had given Bryony the most grueling chore she could find.

But the window behind her stood open, the sound of gentle rainfall mingling with the fragrance of wet grass and new-turned soil, and Bryony inhaled deeply as she worked. Nearly seven years had passed since she stepped out of the Oak and met the human boy, but she had never forgotten that bittersweet taste of freedom. And though dread of the Silence had kept her from venturing Outside again, she still often found herself thinking about it.

Everything had changed after that day, much of it for the worse: she had been taken away from Wink and given to Valerian, who filled Bryony’s days with work and study and left her no chance to be idle. When she had learned how to read, write and do her duty to the Queen’s satisfaction, she had been moved into a small room of her own near the foot of the Spiral Stair, and told that she must carry out whatever tasks the older faeries gave her, until she was old enough to be given an occupation of her own.

Since then Bryony had done everything from carding rabbit-wool to digging out new privies, but all the while she knew what she really longed for – to be a Gatherer. It was hard work, she knew, with no time for exploration or flight; it was also dangerous, for a faery with a basket on her back was an easy mark for predators if she did not remain alert. But neither of those things would trouble Bryony, she felt sure, if only she could go Outside again.

Gatherers were chosen for their strength and endurance rather than their wits, but Bryony felt confident she had enough of both to be a good candidate. The only question was, would the Queen feel the same? Or would her magical Sight tell her to place Bryony in some other position, and she would simply have to make the best of it?

Until recently Bryony had not troubled herself with such questions, since she was still too young to do a grown faery’s work. But over the winter she had shot up like a sapling, her spindly child’s frame filling out, and now she was a fly’s length taller than anyone else in the Oak. She had also worked hard to prove herself dutiful at all her tasks, no matter how unpleasant. At any time the Queen might summon her to an audience, and Bryony was determined to be ready.

She bent again to her work, wielding the brush with renewed vigor. One more hour, she told herself, and she’d be finished. Then she could have a bath and pick out a book from the library, to reward herself after yet another of Mallow’s miserable chores well done.

“Bryony! Where are you?”

The voice came faintly down the corridor, muffled by echoes. But it sounded like Bluebell, and Bryony snapped her head up to listen. If the Queen’s attendant was looking for her  . . .

“There you are!” exclaimed Bluebell, bustling into the Dining Hall. “What are you doing here? The kitchens are empty and we’ve all been waiting for you this age! Mallow said she gave you my message an hour ago.”

Of course she did, thought Bryony with a spark of anger. No doubt it had pleased the Chief Cook to leave her scrubbing the floor when she should be getting ready for the most important moment of her life. She flung the brush into the bucket and stood up.

“Oh, dear Gardener,” said Bluebell, “you can’t go before the Queen looking like that!” She whisked Bryony around and gave her a little push toward the door. “To the bath, and then off to Wink – hurry!”

There was no time for argument. Bryony took off at a sprint, vaulting tables as she went, and raced down the corridor to the bath-chamber. The water in the great tub was cold, but Bryony gritted her teeth and plunged in, scrubbing at the dirt beneath her fingernails. She soaped and rinsed her hair, then leaped out of the bath again, snatching up a towel to cover herself as she fled. Rushing back along the empty tunnel, she took the Spiral Stair two steps at a time, arriving breathless and dripping at Wink’s door.

She had barely knocked before it flew open, and a pair of fluttering hands tugged her inside. “I thought you’d never get here!” Wink said. “Quick – put these on!” And she thrust a white shift and a length of silky, thistle-colored stuff into Bryony’s arms.

Bryony wormed her way into the petticoat, then the gown. It smelled of dust and rose petals, and the fabric was so fine that it seemed to weigh nothing at all. The sleeves were mere puffs, the neckline low and square, and the skirt fell in soft folds from the bodice to brush against her ankles.

“It’s too short,” fretted Wink, bustling around her and twitching various bits of the dress into place. “I knew it would be, even after I let it out – you can breathe, though, can’t you? Only don’t breathe too much,” she added in haste as Bryony began to inhale, “you’ll split the seams, and Campion will never let me hear the end of it. Whatever took you so long?”

“I didn’t know,” said Bryony.

Wink picked up a comb and set to work on her hair. “You mean Mallow didn’t tell you? Of all the spiteful things to do! Well, she’ll be sorry when—”

“Is she ready yet?” asked Bluebell from behind them, and Bryony turned to see the Queen’s attendant standing in the doorway, one foot tapping with impatience.

“Oh, I wanted to put her hair up,” said Wink. “Well, never mind  . . .” And she handed Bryony a pair of slippers.

Bryony bent to put on the shoes. Like the dress, they were too small, but she would have to manage. Already Wink was tugging her toward Bluebell, who looked her up and down and sighed, “I suppose it can’t be helped. Here.” She held out a long, downy-plumed feather.

“What’s this for?” Bryony asked.

“You’re to give it to Her Majesty,” said Bluebell. “It’s part of the ceremony. Now hurry!”

•••

Bryony stopped short at the entrance to the Queen’s Hall, gazing up at the festive tapestries hanging from the rafters. Though worn with age, their colors were a wonder, as were the intricate patterns of birds and flowers they depicted. No faery alive knew how to dye such tints any more, much less make pictures from them, and the sight of them brought a lump to Bryony’s throat. It seemed so wrong that this marvelous craft, like so many other creative things her people had done in the past, was now lost to the Oak forever.

Bluebell cleared her throat loudly in Bryony’s ear, then announced, “Her gracious Majesty, Queen Amaryllis, invites her subject to approach.”

The far end of the high-vaulted chamber was taken up by a semicircular dais. Atop this stood a chair carved all about with twining vines, and in it sat the Queen of the Oakenfolk. Her silken gown flowed about her feet, and her hair was the color of honey wine, crowned by a circlet set with emeralds. Her features were lovely, but her eyes held no warmth, and her expression gave nothing away.

“Go on,” whispered Bluebell, poking Bryony in the back.

Until now Bryony had felt strangely calm. After she had kept the Queen waiting for Gardener-only-knew how long and then shown up with damp hair and an ill-fitting gown, there had seemed no way that her situation could be any worse. But then she remembered why she was here, and how badly she wanted to be a Gatherer, and as she took her first step, she stumbled.

Whispers ran up and down the hall, and Bryony’s cheeks glowed with humiliation. Deliberately she squared her shoulders and walked forward, holding the feather before her. Just not the scullery, she prayed silently, anything but the scullery  . . . because no matter how disappointed she might be at not being a Gatherer, it would be far worse to end up apprenticed to Mallow.

She had just reached the end of the carpet when the Queen spoke, her voice chill and remote:

“Kneel.”

Bryony dropped to both knees, wincing as the seam beneath her armpit ripped. She could sense the Queen’s searching gaze upon her; it was not a comfortable feeling.

“Faery,” said Queen Amaryllis. “Do you this day give me your service?”

“I do,” said Bryony.

“Give her the feather,” hissed Bluebell, and awkwardly Bryony rose and walked forwards to offer her plume to the Queen.

“I accept your service,” said Amaryllis. “And do you give me your honor?”

Bryony wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but it sounded harmless enough. “I do,” she said.

“I accept your honor,” said the Queen. Then in a lower voice, “And do you give me  . . . your name?”

Bryony froze. In addition to the common name inherited from her egg-mother, each faery was born with a secret name that belonged only to her – and whoever knew that name could command her absolutely. Was this really how the Queen made sure of her subjects’ loyalty? Would it be considered treason to refuse?

In the end she could think of only one answer that was not an outright denial, and her voice shook as she replied: “My name is Bryony, Your Majesty.”

A sigh rippled through the hall, and Amaryllis sat back with an enigmatic smile. “I accept your name. And now I call upon the wisdom of the Sight, that I might declare to you the nature of your service  . . .”

There was a long pause, while the Queen’s hyacinth-blue eyes slid out of focus and then sharpened again. “Bryony,” she said, “you are apprenticed to Thorn.”

“What?” yelped a familiar voice from the back of the hall, but it was quickly hushed into silence by the other Oakenfolk. Up on the dais Bryony’s knees buckled, and her head spun like a dropped acorn. “I  . . . beg your pardon?” she said weakly.

“So the Sight has told me,” said Queen Amaryllis, “and so it shall be. You will be trained as my new Hunter.” She spoke with confidence, but an ember of uncertainty flickered behind her eyes. “May the Gardener protect you and give you success, Bryony of the Oak.”

In her wildest imaginings, Bryony had never anticipated this. The most dangerous task in the Oak – and yet it was also the most free. Gatherers were forced to plod and dig, and hide in burrows for safety; but the Queen’s Hunter flew, protecting herself by speed and skill alone. The task required not only a strong body and a steady hand, but sharp eyes and quick wits as well – and best of all, it meant leaving the Oak on a regular basis, not just during the growing season but all year round. Thorn would be a hard mentor, Bryony knew, but right now not even that thought could diminish her joy.

“Your Majesty,” she stammered, bowing deeply to the Queen. “I can hardly tell you—” But Amaryllis only shook her head, averting her gaze to the crowd below.

“You are dismissed,” she told them in a clear voice. “Thorn, come and claim your apprentice.” Then without another word she rose, beckoned Bluebell after her, and swept out of the hall.

Bryony wandered back down the aisle, still dazed. As she neared her fellow Oakenfolk she heard whispers, many of them scornful or pitying; few seemed to think she would succeed in her new position, and some even doubted she would survive. Mallow especially looked smug, as though she thought Bryony’s new occupation a fitting punishment – but her smirk faded as Thorn shoved past her and planted herself by Bryony’s side.

“Well?” she said to the other faeries. “She’s my apprentice, not yours, so off with you.”

Grumbling, the others filed away. Only Wink paused, dabbing at one eye as though she had something in it, before hurrying out after the rest.

“Gardener’s mercy,” muttered Thorn. “What a cuckoo’s egg this day’s turned out to be. All right, girl–” she turned to Bryony. “Get out of that frippery you’re wearing, and put on some proper clothes. We’re going Outside.”

•••

Wink wrung her hands when she saw the damage to the gown, but she also lost no time in finding a tunic, waistcoat and breeches for Bryony to wear. Bryony could only suppose that it must be the privilege of Hunters to have their wardrobe provided without cost, for not only did Wink refuse to bargain with her, she apologized for the ill-fitting clothes and promised to make her better ones soon. This was pleasant. However, Wink also kept sighing and giving her mournful glances, which was not nearly so pleasant, and Bryony was glad to finally get away.

She found Thorn by the Queen’s Gate, near the foot of the Spiral Stair. Together they hauled the heavy door open, climbed the ladder of roots and emerged from the Oak into a misty grey afternoon. The sunlight filtered dimly through the veil of cloud, and the air smelled of earth and green things. Thorn stalked straight out across the lawn, her bow and quiver dangling at her side; but Bryony lingered, gazing up at the colossal bulk of the tree. She had never viewed it from this angle before, and the sight of it filled her with awe.

The Oak was at least five centuries old, and in happier days it had sheltered more than two hundred faeries within its hollow heart. Even by human standards it was huge, and Bryony supposed that only Queen Amaryllis’s spells had kept the humans from trying to live there as well. Carriers of the Silence or not, it was almost enough to make her pity them, for how could their House of dead stone compare to the majesty of the living Oak?

“Stop dawdling and move,” snapped Thorn. “We’ve work to do.”

Bryony hurried to catch up with her. Picking their way through the damp earth of the flowerbeds, they ducked beneath the privet hedge and skidded down the dew-slick incline into the field beyond. The grass grew long here, mingled with weeds and wild flowers, and nearby she could hear the gurgling of the brook from which the Oakenfolk drew their water.

“Right,” said Thorn. “Lesson number one: how not to get killed.” She shielded her eyes with one hand and squinted upwards. “The first thing to do when you leave the Oak, always, is to look out for predators. Most birds and animals ignore us, but foxes will eat us if they get the chance, as will cats, owls and especially crows.” She lowered her hand and turned slowly, scanning the field in all directions as she went on. “There’s one big, ugly crow in particular – Old Wormwood, we call him – that you’ll need to watch out for. He killed Foxglove, the Hunter before me, and he’s been hungering for another taste of faery ever since.”

Bryony glanced apprehensively at her weaponless hands. “So what do we do, if we see him?”

Thorn snorted. “You have to ask? We hide, of course. In the Oak, if we can get there quick enough, or down the nearest burrow we can find.”

“Oh,” said Bryony, feeling oddly disappointed.

“Sky’s clear,” said Thorn. “Right then, follow me.” And with that she spread her wings and took off.

Inexperienced as she was, Bryony did not falter. She leaped blindly after Thorn, trusting her instincts to take over – and they did. A heart-stopping dip, a few wobbles, and she was airborne. This is it, she thought, terrified and exhilarated at once. I’m flying!

At first they glided in a straight line, skimming low over the grass toward the nearby wood. Then Thorn banked away from the trees, and Bryony carefully followed her example. When her teacher angled upwards, she did likewise, tentative at first but gaining confidence with every wing stroke.

As Thorn led her through a series of simple maneuvers, Bryony’s nervousness melted away as she realized how quickly she could move through the air, how the mere flick of a wing tip could send her veering off in another direction. She could dive, she could roll, she could even hover in place, like the dragonfly her wings made her resemble. All her life she had yearned to fly, but she had never expected it to be so easy.

No longer content to follow Thorn’s example, Bryony began to zigzag across the field. Distantly she heard Thorn shout, and reminded herself to watch for crows; but when a quick glance showed none in sight, she launched herself skywards again.

Soaring on an updraft, she noticed for the first time a line of tall poles at the southern edge of the field. They were linked by dark ropes – a barrier of some sort? The topmost strand was dotted with sparrows. Curious, she glided closer  . . .

“Stop!” came a cry, and Bryony glanced back to see Thorn speeding through the air toward her. “Never touch those!” she snapped, grabbing Bryony by the arm and wrenching her around. Startled, Bryony dropped like a stone, dragging Thorn down with her. They tumbled into the grass, perilously close to a patch of nettles, and for a few moments they were both too winded to speak.

“Don’t ever go off like that without me again,” panted Thorn. She clambered to her feet and began brushing herself off. Still winded, Bryony stared up at the poles towering above her.

“What are they?” she asked.

“I don’t know what they’re called, or what they do. They’re human things. All I know is that there’s magic in them, and if you touch them you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”

“But the birds—”

“Is your head made of solid wood?” exploded Thorn. “You’re not a bird! And neither was Henbane. One of those ropes came down in a storm. She went to look – one touch, and zap! There was nothing left of her. Not even an egg.”

“You saw it happen?”

“No, but Foxglove did – my old mentor. What, did you think I was making it all up in my head?”

Thorn’s tone was sardonic, and Bryony felt her face burn. “No,” she said. “I just wondered how you knew.”

“Valerian keeps a book,” said Thorn. “Every time one of our people dies, it’s written down: the name, and the way she died. And if you don’t want your name to be next, you’d better listen to me when I call you. The first time, d’you hear?”

“I hear you,” said Bryony, wincing as she rose. Her whole body ached, especially the wing muscles.

Thorn glanced up at the sky again. “We’ve been out here long enough,” she said. “Best to head back, before the crows start getting interested.” She stomped off through the grass.

“Have you ever fought one?” asked Bryony, hurrying to keep up with her. “A crow, I mean.”

“If I had,” said Thorn, “I wouldn’t be talking to you now.”

“And what about humans? How do you deal with them?”

“I don’t,” said Thorn flatly. “And neither will you, if you’ve half as much wit as a rabbit. When they’re mucking about in the garden, or cutting the grass with that noisy wagon of theirs, we lie low and wait until they’re gone.” She gave Bryony a sharp look. “Unless you have some other idea?”

Bryony shook her head.

“I didn’t think so. Now if you’re ready to use your wings properly instead of playing the fool with them, it’s time we were flying home.”

•••

From that point on the weeks blurred together, as Bryony spent day after day with Thorn, learning the Hunter’s craft. At her mentor’s command she ran, climbed and flew about the Oakenwyld, ever more aware of its dangers, but growing bolder nonetheless. Flying was still her greatest pleasure, but soon she began to enjoy her lessons for other reasons as well: her pride in her growing strength and agility, the excitement of hunting prey and the bargaining power her new skills gave her. Now at last she could barter with her fellow faeries as an equal and get things like proper candles and whole bars of soap, instead of having to make do with the stubs and scraps she had earned doing chores.

On days when bad weather or human activity kept them inside the Oak, Thorn taught Bryony to make her own weapons, then to use them. Once she had crafted her first bow and arrows she fired at targets until she could hit the center eight times out of ten, before moving on to mice, frogs and flying insects. Her fingers grew calloused, her muscles wiry; her smell, hearing and vision became acute.

Thorn taught Bryony how to gut a kill and cut it up quickly, before the crows could come to investigate. She showed her the best hiding places the Oakenwyld had to offer, and the secret hedge tunnel into the Oak that only the Hunters and Gatherers knew. And as Bryony listened and learned, and practiced her new skills, she felt more and more certain that the Queen’s magical Sight had not deceived her: of all the tasks in the Oak, this was what she, Bryony, was meant to do.

One summer evening Bryony and Thorn were coming home from a successful hunt, their packs heavy with squirrel meat, when Bryony spotted a dark shape perched at the top of a nearby tree. It was a crow–a big one–and its yellow eyes were fixed hungrily on them.

“It’s him,” hissed Thorn. “Old Wormwood. Run!”

She and Bryony leaped toward the shelter of the hedge, but the crow swooped down to block their path, croaking. One black wing knocked Bryony off her feet, and by the time she struggled upright Thorn was trapped beneath the crow’s scaly talon, yelling as its beak stabbed at her. A moment later Old Wormwood tossed his head back and swallowed, and Bryony felt sick; but then she realized that Thorn had managed to shove her pack in front of her, and the crow was gobbling up their store of meat instead.

There was no time to think, only to act. Bryony flung her pack aside, snatched the bone knife from her belt and launched herself at the crow. As she dropped astride his back, the reek of dust and carnage made her head reel; her knees skidded across his slick feathers and she tumbled off before she could even strike a blow. But she landed on her feet, and when Old Wormwood flapped about to face her, Bryony was ready for him. With all her strength she drove her dagger into his shoulder, and the great crow shrieked.

The next few heartbeats passed in a frenzy of black feathers and thrashing wings. Bryony’s bone knife snapped, and she staggered back with the useless hilt still in her hand. Her leg stung like fire, but she ignored the pain as she scooped up a pebble and hurled it at the crow’s head. It glanced off his skull, and with a squawk Old Wormwood leaped into the air, wings beating.

Thorn clawed her way up the slope and disappeared among the roots of the hedge. Bryony threw another stone to keep the crow at bay, then darted after her. Exhausted, they lay together in the darkness, watching Old Wormwood peck at their abandoned packs. When nothing remained but a few shreds of leather, he gave a querulous caw and flapped away.

Thorn was the first to crawl through to the far side of the hedge. She moved stiffly, one hand pressed to her bruised ribs. “You midge-wit. You could have been killed!”

Bryony limped out to join her. Her leg still bled where the crow’s talon had scratched it, but fortunately the wound was not deep. “I know,” she said.

“You attacked him. A full-grown crow.” Thorn shook her head in disbelief. “Why didn’t you run?”

“I don’t know,” said Bryony. “It just – it seemed like the only thing to do.”

“You,” said Thorn shortly, “are mad.” She shouldered her quiver and began walking toward the Oak. Bryony followed, but they had only gone a few paces before Thorn stopped. She bowed her head, and purple tinged her cheeks as she muttered, “And I suppose  . . . I owe you my life.”

“Oh,” said Bryony, and then, “Well,” but she couldn’t think of any other reply.

“Just never do anything as flea-brained as that again!” snapped Thorn, and stomped away.

“I wounded him, though,” said Bryony, catching up to her. “He’ll be stiff in that shoulder from now on.”

Thorn gave an incredulous snort and kept walking.

“If we fought together,” Bryony continued, “we might even be able to kill him.”

Her teacher whirled round, seized her by both shoulders and shook her so hard her ears rang. “Don’t you ever think about that again. It’s impossible, even for you. Do you hear me?”

Bryony heard the words, but the warning in them scarcely registered. Only one phrase echoed in her mind: even for you. Her head felt light; coming from Thorn, that could be no idle flattery. Impossible, even for you.

Not impossible, she thought as she watched the older faery stalk away. All I need is a better knife.