how quickly she could move through the air, how the mere flick of a wingtip 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 resembled. 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 skyward 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 wires!” 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,” said Thorn, panting. She clambered to her feet and began brushing herself off. Still dazed, 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 out of 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 wits 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 senses of smell, hearing, and vision became acute.
Thorn taught her how to gut a kill and cut it up quickly before the crows could come to investigate. She showed Bryony 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, had been 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; 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, leaving her pack behind. 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,” Bryony said, 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 fight together,” Bryony continued, “we might even be able to kill him.”
Her teacher whirled on her, 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.
