four

Once Bryony had rounded out the grip and bound it with hide and twisted gut, her new knife fitted so comfortably in her hand that it might have grown there. Alone in her room, she practiced slashing, stabbing and even throwing the blade, with a sack of dry grass for a target. Soon she felt ready to try it on a real quarry, but Thorn was never far away when they went hunting, and Bryony dared not risk anyone finding out about her visit to the House, not yet. She would just have to wait for a chance to hunt alone.

As autumn faded into winter, however, Thorn became increasingly reluctant to go Outside. Not because of Old Wormwood–there had been no sign of him in weeks–but if the weather was not too cold for hunting, it was too damp, or else too windy. Now most of their lessons took place inside the Oak, as Thorn taught Bryony how to tan hides using the brains of the animals they killed. It was a messy, smelly business and though Bryony had no doubt the knowledge would be useful, it seemed a poor substitute for fresh air and freedom.

By the time the first flakes of snow drifted from the sky, Bryony had lost all interest in tanning, rendering tallow, and the other mundane tasks Thorn was teaching her. She felt restless, ready for a new challenge; more and more her thoughts turned to the House, and the odd creatures who lived in it.

Of course there was no real reason for her to go back there, not now that she had her knife. And yet she was tempted, for the House was so enticingly different from the Oak. The furnishings, the carpets, the draperies – they had all complemented one another in a way that she found strangely satisfying, like a well-cooked meal for her senses. And then of course there were the humans, who had done it all.

How was it that her people knew so little about humans? Before the Sundering took their magical powers, the faeries had freely explored the world beyond the Oak, and taken care to write down everything they learned. The library was full of their observations about every creature imaginable, including the most dangerous predators. How had humans escaped their notice?

Unless–the thought came to her slowly, but with the force of a revelation–there were books about humans somewhere in the Oak, and people had just forgotten where to find them ….

•••

There had been a time, long before Bryony was born, when the library had bustled with activity. The well-worn seats of the chairs that ringed the central table, the creased spines and ragged pages of the books upon the shelves, bore witness to an enthusiasm for learning that was now almost unknown among the Oakenfolk. There was even a tall bookcase designed to show off the latest additions to the collection – though now it held nothing but dust, for there were no authors in the Oak these days, any more than there were painters or musicians. Somehow the faeries’ creativity, like their passion for scholarship, had died.

The Oak’s Librarian was also responsible for the archives and storerooms, so Bryony was not surprised to find her desk empty. Most likely Campion was with the Gatherers, making sure her records of the Oak’s winter stores were accurate, or else polishing up the lanterns and other ancient decorations for the Midwinter Feast. Bryony picked up the mallet and rapped the brass gong upon the desk, sending a deep metallic note reverberating through the room and into the corridor.

When Campion appeared a few moments later she looked harried, with a streak of dirt across one cheek and her beechnut-colored hair in disarray. “You wanted something?” she said.

“I’m looking for books about humans,” said Bryony.

Campion looked wary. “Did the Queen send you?”

“No,” said Bryony. “I just wanted to find out more about them.”

The Librarian relaxed visibly. Stepping behind the desk, she took down her catalogue and began turning pages. “Well, I do have a few volumes in a special collection,” she said. “If you had a particular subject in mind  . . .”

“Special collection? Why aren’t they on the main shelves?”

Again that shrewd look from Campion, as though she were trying to decide what to make of Bryony’s request. “Because they’re  . . . special,” she said. “And rare. I can’t give them to just anyone.”

“Look,” said Bryony, exasperated, “I thought helping people find books was supposed to be your duty, but if you want me to bargain, I will. I have a nice piece of squirrel fur, freshly tanned and just the right size for a bedspread. You can have that, if you like. But then I’ll want to see all the books you’ve got, not just one or two.”

Campion blinked, taken aback by the handsome offer – or perhaps just by Bryony’s boldness. With a furtive glance at the door she said, “Well  . . . all right. But,” she added as she led Bryony toward the back of the library, “this stays between us. You’re a Hunter, so I suppose you have good reason to know, but I don’t think the Queen would be pleased if everyone started reading them.”

At the back of the library, almost invisible in the shadows between the shelves, stood a narrow door. Campion unlocked this with one of the keys at her belt, and let Bryony into a closet where a single chair sat beside a tall case bulging with books.

“There,” she said.

“Which ones?” asked Bryony.

“All of them,” said Campion, with a touch of impatience. “There’s a lamp and a tinderbox on the top shelf. Keep the door closed while you’re reading, and let me know when you’ve had enough. I’m going back to the storeroom.” And with that she disappeared, leaving Bryony staring up at the shelf and wondering where to begin.

It seemed she had found something to do over the winter after all.

•••

After that, Bryony visited the secret closet as often as she could. Campion became accustomed to her presence in the library, and even began leaving the key for her as a matter of course. By Midwinter, Bryony had read every book on the shelves, some of them twice over.

One thing at least had become plain: the Oakenfolk’s attitude to humans had changed drastically since these books had been written. It seemed that before the Sundering, faeries had not only been well informed about the habits of human beings, but taken a keen interest in them. Naturally the Oakenfolk would have been bolder when they still had all their magic, but even so Bryony was amazed, for the books seemed to cover every possible aspect of human life and society.

Among other things, she learned that human beings did not have magic after all. All the marvels she had seen in the House were the work of clever minds and skillful hands, nothing more. Furthermore, humans did not eat faeries, or hunt them for sport – in fact few of them even believed in her people’s existence. All they knew of faeries were ridiculous tales, which Bryony read with mingled amusement and disgust: stories where men tricked faeries into becoming their mates, or where human children were stolen away and replaced by hideous changelings. There was even one about a faery hiring a human midwife to help her give birth – how absurd, when everyone knew that faeries hatched from eggs, and that the Mother would have to die before her egg-daughter could be born!

She also read that human men and women sometimes swore vows to each other, becoming mates for life. This might be why the pair in the House had felt no need to bargain, and saw nothing strange about thanking each other. Still, it seemed strange to Bryony that anyone would commit themselves to another person so completely. Surely it was better to be free, and not in debt to anyone?

Learning about humans was fascinating, yet the more Bryony read about them, the more mystified she became. Sundering or not, it didn’t seem to make sense – if her fellow faeries had once been so interested in humans, why were they so ignorant and fearful of them now?

•••

For weeks the Oakenwyld lay brown and barren, while the faeries’ winter stores grew ever more scant, and fresh meat harder to come by. Each night Bryony puzzled over the books until her head ached, but she came no closer to answering her question. She considered asking Campion what she thought, but it would be hard to do that without explaining her visit to the House, and she was not sure she could trust the older faery with the secret. Eventually she gave up, handed in the key, and went back to studying the habits of crows instead.

At last spring arrived, heralded first by a scattering of snowdrops, then by the crocuses that raised their golden and purple heads at the base of the Oak. The animals crept out of their winter homes, and the air lightened with birdsong. When the sun came out Bryony was quick to follow, reveling in the chance to stretch her wings.

She had shot a vole and was skinning it by the Queen’s Gate when Thorn stamped up and said:

“I’ve no more to teach you.”

Bryony looked up sharply. “What?”

“I said, I’ve no more to teach you.” Thorn shook back her dark hair with a brusque movement of her head. “You know the work as well as I do now, and the Oak only needs one Hunter, so as far as I’m concerned you may as well take over.”

Bryony was stunned into silence. She had not expected this so soon. Thorn might not love hunting as Bryony did, might even be glad to give it up, but she was a thorough and exacting teacher. If she believed that Bryony was ready  . . .

“You’re good,” said Thorn. “If you ask me, it’s unnatural, and I think you’re mad for actually wanting to do this filthy work. If you end up in a crow’s belly, I won’t be surprised. Still, you’re better at this than I’ll ever be, so – here.” She unstrapped the leather band from her arm and held it out to Bryony.

“Oh,” said Bryony faintly. Her head was whirling, and as her fingers closed around the band she felt very young and small again.

“I’ll be moving out of the Hunter’s quarters this week,” continued Thorn. “I’ll let you know when you can move in.”

Bryony nodded, too distracted to speak.

“The Queen will want to see you, too. She’ll ask if you’d like to take a new common-name. I’ll let her know that I’ve approved you, and she’ll call on you in a day or so.”

There was an awkward pause. “All right,” said Bryony, since Thorn seemed to be waiting for an answer.

Still Thorn remained, looking down at her. “You know,” she said at last, “you’re sitting in almost the same place I found your egg.”

“Oh?” said Bryony.

Thorn cursed, made an abrupt turn and plunged back into the Oak, slamming the door behind her. Bryony sat back on her heels. What was all that about?

Part of her was tempted to go after the older faery and ask. But the half-skinned vole would attract crows if she left it for long, so after a moment she sighed and picked up her flint again. Thorn could look after herself, and surely would; but Bryony was the Queen’s Hunter now, and she had work to do.

•••

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 arrival of the deadly 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. Goodbye.” 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 afterwards 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 dived 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 garden 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 alighted 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.”

•••

Some time 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 led her along the corridor with lamp in hand, 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 curtsey. 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 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?” murmured the Queen, 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 out hilt-first. “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 curtseyed, 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.”