as well take over.”
Bryony was stunned silent. 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 Bryony 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 deadly arrival of the 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. Good-bye.” 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 afterward 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 dove 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 yard 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 lighted 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
