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-vaulting chamber was taken up by a semicircular dais. Atop this stood a chair carved 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 Bryony rose awkwardly and walked forward 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,” the Queen said, 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; it was all she could do to keep from falling. “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 outdoors.”
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 gray 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 flower beds, 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 wildflowers, 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 upward. “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 all 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 upward, 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
