She’s told him. The knowledge was as certain as it was bittersweet. He knows he has the chance to walk again—and that I want him to take it. She met Paul’s gaze, hoping that despite the darkness and the distance between them, he might find reassurance in her face. But his expression remained bleak, and when at last he spoke, his voice was so quiet she could not hear it at all.
Knife felt bruised inside, her heart crushed between hope and misery. She buried her head in her arms, shutting out the world, until she felt the Queen’s hand upon her shoulder.
“I could wish the moon were more full,” said Amaryllis, sounding weary. “Nevertheless, I will do what I can. Go and stand beside your human.”
Mechanically Knife rose and walked across the grass to stand by the wheel of Paul’s chair. It would be worth it, she told herself. It would be worth everything to see him rise to his feet and walk again. The Queen had been right: As a human, she had little to offer Paul. But by remaining a faery for his sake, she would give him a gift he would treasure for the rest of his life.
“Perianth,” whispered Paul. The sound of her true name nearly broke Knife, and she pressed the back of her hand hard against her lips as he went on: “What did she say to you?”
Knife shook her head, wishing he would not speak. It was too late for words now; already Amaryllis had stepped from the Oak’s shadow and opened her arms to the moonlight, the glow of gathering magic swirling about her body.
“What did she say?” Paul demanded. He reached out to her, and in desperation Knife scrambled away, slipped, and fell sprawling on the grass. There was a blinding flash, and a ripple of power passed over her; she heard Paul cry out as though it was hurting him, and she thought dizzily, It’s working.
Though every muscle groaned and her limbs felt as though they were encased in clay, she managed to push herself back up to her feet. She staggered forward a few steps, swaying like a sapling in the wind. Then her legs buckled, and the darkness swooped down and carried her away.
As she swam back into consciousness, the first thing she heard was Wink’s hushed, anxious voice: “Is she dead?”
“No,” replied Valerian, “she has only fainted, and already she is recovering. Look.”
“I can’t see worth a squashed berry,” grumbled Thorn. “That flash was so bright, I thought she’d blown herself up and taken the pair of them with her.”
Knife stirred, wincing at the pounding in her skull. Despite that and a host of other aches, her back felt warm, and a light blanket had been thrown over her. She supposed Wink had done that: It would be like her. She curled her fingers around the soft fabric and opened her eyes.
As she had expected, Wink, Valerian, and Thorn stood nearby, with Linden still nestled against Wink’s shoulder. But they were gathered around Amaryllis’s prone body, not hers—and all of them were tiny.
Slowly Knife tilted her head back to see Paul gazing down at her in wonder. She could feel the quickness of his breathing against her spine, see his wheelchair lying on its side only a couple of crow-lengths away; he must have heaved himself out of the chair when she fell, and flung his own blanket around her. Then, as her numbed senses began to awaken, she realized why he had done so: She was quite naked.
That meant the change was real, not a glamour. That meant it was permanent. “How?” she demanded. “How could this happen?”
“Well, I don’t want to leap to any conclusions,” said Paul gravely, leaning on his elbow, “but I think magic may have been involved.”
Knife gave a shaky laugh. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, you mean how did they get down here?” He nodded toward the faeries gathered around the Queen. “I’m not quite sure myself. I’d just got the blanket around you, and when I looked up, there they were. All I know is that the dark-haired one said she’d stab my eye out if I didn’t take good care of you, and she looked so fierce that I’ve been on my best behavior ever since.” He gave a rueful grin. “After all, I’m not likely to outrun her.”
He spoke lightly, but Knife jolted upright, staring at him. Though his eyes smiled, his face was lined with strain, and he was using both hands for balance—
“Oh,” she whispered as her gaze traveled down his body. “Oh, no.”
“What’s the matter?” said Paul. “I didn’t break one, did I?” He pushed himself into a sitting position and reached down to straighten the legs lying slack upon the grass.
“No!” Knife clutched the blanket about her throat, sick with grief and guilt. “You don’t understand, Paul. This isn’t what I asked for.”
“Perhaps not,” said Queen Amaryllis feebly as Valerian helped her to her feet. “But as I have been so recently reminded, it is wrong to use magic on others against their will. I had your consent to become human. But he refused to let me make him whole.”
“But…” Knife turned to Paul in distress. “You could have had your legs back. Why?”
Paul reached out to touch her face. “Listen,” he said. “There’s a chance that one day the doctors will find a way to help me walk again.” He slid his hand behind her neck, drawing her toward him. “But where else will I find a faery who loves me enough to give me her name?”
“Not here, that’s for certain,” came an irritable voice from below. “And if you two start chewing on each other’s faces, someone’s going to get their eye poked out.”
Paul let go of Knife abruptly as Thorn glared up at them. “I suppose you think being a human is all very wonderful,” she said to Knife, “but this is a fine mess of hedgehog droppings if ever I saw one. Who’s going to drive off the crows now? And I suppose you expect me to do all your hunting, too?”
“Peace, Thorn,” said Amaryllis, leaning heavily on Valerian’s shoulder. “Those matters have already been addressed—and not even you will have reason to complain of the result.” She looked up at Knife. “You have been severely tested this night,” she said. “And I would not blame you if you hated me for it. Yet I could not have let you go with this young man were I not certain that you both understood not only love, but self-sacrifice.”
“We’re not the only ones,” said Knife. “You made a sacrifice, too. I can’t help you find the other faeries, not anymore—even if I could afford to leave the Oak unguarded that long, they’d never talk to a human. So what will you do?”
“Hope,” said Amaryllis. “Now that I have others to help me in my studies, perhaps they will make discoveries and see possibilities that I did not. Campion at least will be glad to assist me, I am sure…and perhaps in time, another will arise among us with the will and courage to make the journey.” Her eyes flickered to the sleeping Linden as she spoke. “We have that time, now.”
Knife nodded. Then, clutching the blanket about her shoulders, she leaned close to the Queen and whispered, “I forgive you.”
“My Hunter,” said Amaryllis just as softly, and her gaze touched Knife’s like a salute before she turned away. Valerian paused to give Knife a respectful nod, then hurried to help the Queen back to the Oak.
“Hmph,” Thorn said with a last wary glance at Paul, and moved to follow—but Knife held up her hand. “Wait,” she said, and the faery stopped, wings tensed for flight. “Come closer. Please. And Wink—you too.”
With obvious reluctance Thorn edged toward her, only to be nearly bowled off her feet by Wink, who rushed forward as though she had been waiting for the summons all along. “Oh, Knife,” she said, looking up at her with tear-bright eyes. “I’m going to miss you!”
“You won’t have to,” said Knife. “I’ll be seeing you and Linden—and the others, too—nearly every day. Ask the Queen, when you get back to the Oak; she’ll explain.”
“Speaking of explanations,” began Paul from behind her, but Knife shook her head. “Just a moment,” she told him. “I have one last thing to say to my friends.” Bending as near to Wink and Thorn as she dared, she said softly, “Thank you. I promise you, I will never forget what you have done for me.”
<
br /> Wink hiccupped and flung herself sobbing into Thorn’s arms, nearly squashing Linden in the process. Thorn rolled her eyes and thumped the Seamstress on the back, but it was clear that she, too, was touched. “Remember what I told you, human,” she said gruffly to Paul. “Take care of her—or you’ll answer to me.”
“I hear you,” said Paul. He laid his hands on Knife’s shoulders, and together they watched as the faeries made their way back across the darkened lawn. When they had vanished among the shadows of the Oak, he pulled Knife against him and put his lips to her ear. She closed her eyes, expecting a kiss, but heard instead:
“We have a problem. I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m going to tell my parents.”
“Oh, Great Gardener,” said Knife, twisting around to face him. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t have expected you to, with all the other things on your mind. But somehow I think introducing you at the breakfast table tomorrow is going to be awkward.” He looked down at her, and even in the fading moonlight she could see his color rise. “Particularly as you’ll be wearing my clothes.”
Knife brushed back the pale hair from his eyes, then leaned forward and kissed him. “I’m serious!” he objected, when she let him speak. “What am I supposed to say—‘I found her lying naked on the lawn at midnight, can I keep her?’” He stopped. “You’re shivering. Did I frighten you? Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be all right.”
“I’m just a little cold,” said Knife, pulling the blanket closer about her shoulders.
Paul wrapped his free arm around her. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
“Yes,” said Knife, smiling up at him. “You have.”
Acknowledgments
This story would never have existed without the help of my many friends on the FidoNet Writing echo, including Dennis Havens, who asked all the right questions about faery biology; the late R. Veraa and Joe Chamberlain, who shared their experiences of living with a spinal cord injury; and my mentors, Patricia C. Wrede and Pamela Dean, who taught me what it means to be a professional author and gave me hope that someday I could be one too.
I am also indebted to Jim, Matt, and Angela, whose demand for new chapters kept me writing steadily until the first draft was finished; to Claire Eddy at Tor for taking an early interest in the manuscript; to Cheryl Klein at Arthur A. Levine for broadening my perspective on readership and teaching me invaluable lessons about revision; to my agents, Josh and Tracey Adams, for believing in this book and in me as a writer; to my wonderful editor, Catherine Onder at HarperCollins, for showing me how to take Knife’s story to the next level—and the next—and the next; to Alec Dossetor for tirelessly reading draft after draft and giving me comments on every one; to Liz Barr, Brittany Harrison, Teri Krenek, and Sylvia Thomas, whose steadfast support helped keep me sane; to Emily Bytheway, Erin Fitzgerald, Claudia Gray, Kerrie Mills, Meg Burden, Seema G., Lisa Inman, Jerie Wills, and Paula Berman, who offered shrewd critiques and encouraging praise; to Emily Friedman and Saundra Mitchell for the delightful fan art; to Laurie R. King for fifteen years of kindness, generosity, and Mary Russell; and to my fellow 2009 Debs on LiveJournal, who are truly a never-ending Feast of Awesome.
Finally, I want to thank my husband for being a wonderful partner; my children and my extended family for putting up with my lunacy; and most of all the One who is both Author and Word, the Beginning and the End, my Lord and my God. As the hymnist Josiah Conder wrote:
Alike pervaded by His eye, all parts of His dominion lie;
This world of ours, and worlds unseen, and thin the boundary between.
—R. J. Anderson 2009
About the Author
R. J. ANDERSON was born in Uganda, raised in Ontario, schooled in New Jersey, and has spent much of her life dreaming of other worlds entirely. At the age of twelve she borrowed her parents’ electric typewriter and began hammering out her first fantasy novel. Now married and the mother of three young sons, Rebecca reads to her children the classic works of fantasy and science fiction that enlivened her own childhood, and she tries to bring a similar sense of humor, adventure, and timeless wonder to her own work. FAERY REBELS: SPELL HUNTER is her first published novel.
You can visit her online at www.rj-anderson.com.
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Credits
Jacket art © 2009 by Mélanie Delon
Jacket design by Amy Ryan
Copyright
FAERY REBELS: SPELL HUNTER. Copyright © 2009 by R. J. Anderson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition March 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-185789-8
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R. J. Anderson, Knife
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