Debt
As the forest lightens with dawn around us, Heartwood raises her tankard of mead. "To Thistleweft."
Everyone standing in the central square raises their own tankard. "Thistleweft," they chorus. The mead flows smoothly down my throat.
It's been three days since Thistleweft's death. The children and I have been staying with Heartwood in her large, crowded house, for the three days of seclusion following a faerie's death. "You can't stay in the cottage," Heartwood explained to me. "The Tree needs three days too, to mourn Thistleweft." I nodded, unsurprised. I always knew the Great Trees of Faerie had consciousness. And I didn't want to go back anyway, not yet. Not to a house without Thistleweft.
Now I stand in a borrowed black mourning shawl, toasting Thistleweft in a crowd of goblins. The size of the crowd surprises me: I wouldn't have thought so many goblins would turn out for a hob who wasn't a member of the tribe, had no relatives, and wasn't particularly friendly. But a faerie's death is quite an event, even in these dangerous wilds, and, as Heartwood told me, she lived among them a long time. Even the twins are here, unusually solemn.
The children and I are chief mourners, of course. Philomel is too young to understand, but Dogwood's been very miserable and clingy. I've tried to spend as much time with him as possible over these last three days. The bewilderment in his eyes is heartbreaking. He's woken up crying these past three nights, and keeps asking for Thistleweft. I've rocked him and assured him of my love, signed through stories with him. I wish so much there was something I could do to make it right.
Now he clings to my leg, watching it all with wide eyes. Birch stands nearby, leaning against the platform railing while he surreptitiously sips his mead between the three toasts we're giving Thistleweft. I don't think he means to be rude: in his eyes is a terrible shadowed blankness, and he sips mindlessly, on reflex.
At last we finish the final toast and then toss the remains of our mead over the railing to the forest floor. Liquid splashes down among the branches.
"May Thistleweft find peace in the Land of Promise, where all faeries began and where we are all destined to return," Heartwood says into the silence. She kneels down to touch Dogwood's forehead. "Blessings." She touches my forehead, fingers warm and dry. "Blessings." She touches Philomel. "Blessings."
"Blessings," the other faeries chorus, and then most of them start moving off. They've paid all the respect that's owed to a hob weaver who wasn't part of their tribe. Now it's time to get back to work.
Birch stays. He tossed out most of his mead along with everyone else, but he goes over to the rain barrel to scoop up another tankard full of water. He drinks, staring silently out at nothing.
Heartwood pours me another tankard of mead; I can have as much as I want today. She also bends down to give Dogwood some maple sugar candy, which he eats with enthusiasm. "She left you the cottage, Albia," she says, voice both weary and practical. "Before she died, she came and told me that the cottage, and everything in it, were to be left to you, for the rest of your life."
I nod, but feel a stir of anger: why didn't Thistleweft tell me she'd told Heartwood of her premonition? It would have been a lot easier to carry the secret if I'd known. I drink more mead, drowning out the anger. There's no point to it now.
"I understand she also left you custody of Dogwood?" Heartwood continues.
I nod, and put my hand on Dogwood's head. He looks up and nods too. "Wanna stay Alby."
"And so you will," Heartwood smiles down at him. She turns back to me. "Thistleweft may have left you the cottage, Albia," she says seriously, "but you really ought to think about moving into the village proper. It'd be a lot safer than living out there on your own."
I give a little curtsy, but shake my head. Heartwood may be right, but leaving the cottage just feels wrong. I lived in that Tree for over a year. It's home. And I don't care to break faith with a Great Tree.
"Well, give it some thought," Heartwood says. "Don't make any decisions now." She sighs and looks out over the forest canopy. Dawn glows more strongly now, sending gold and green sparkles through the leaves. Dogwood begins to play, jumping on the shifting patches of light on the platform. I'm a bit consoled, seeing him play normally. Maybe he'll get through this.
"You're the only one she ever let in, you know," Heartwood says suddenly. I look at her. "Three hundred years she lived in that cottage," she explains, "and you were the only person, mortal or faerie, she ever allowed inside."
I stare. I know Thistleweft didn't care for guests, and certainly never let anyone in during my time with her, but I didn't realize that I was the only one, ever. Heartwood nods at my surprise. "Oh, yes. You were exceptional, Albia. In more ways than one." She sips more mead; I notice she's poured more for herself as well. My mouth twitches in a smile. "She never made many friends," Heartwood continues. She gives a wry smile. "Of course, that was just Thistleweft. But, really, I think being a slave damaged her badly."
Now I really can't hide my surprise. Thistleweft was a slave?
"She never told you?" Heartwood turns sad red eyes on me.
I shake my head.
"Well, I can't say I'm surprised." Heartwood shrugs. "She never really told me: it's just what I've pieced together, over the centuries. But before she came here to the valley, Thistleweft was a slave in an Unseelie Court. Oh, the king had her working under some so-called contract—but, really, she was a slave. They treated her badly."
I nod slowly. Actual, hardcore, you-are-my-property slavery is technically impossible in Faerie—the immutable laws of debt and recompense prevent it—but there are all sorts of ways to trick a mortal or, more rarely, a faerie, into a coercive situation where they work for no meaningful reward, endure abuse, and have no way out. I feel a shiver of shame—for I never gave much thought to Thistleweft's life, in all the months I lived with her—even as new understanding dawns. No wonder she took me in, was so kind to me. She recognized herself in me: a wounded woman, fleeing a great evil in her past.
"When you first arrived here," Heartwood confirms my thoughts, "you reminded me a lot of Thistleweft when she first came. Something broken in your eyes, flinching away from everyone. She was like that. I don't know how she escaped her contract, but I doubt it was easy for her. It was a long time before she was able to interact. And she didn't really make any friends until you came."
A wash of shame and sorrow swamps me. How little I knew Thistleweft, who was kinder to me, and more of a friend, than all the Court faeries combined. More than my own sisters, even—and I never even told her my real name. I look at her son skipping among the shadows and light, watched dully by Birch. I never learned what was going on between him and Thistleweft. I never even asked about Dogwood's father. And I'll never be able to ask Thistleweft now.
I take another swallow. To you, Thistleweft.
It's even harder than I expected to adjust to life without Thistleweft.
When we get home, the change is immediately obvious. The Tree stands unnaturally still in this gusty day, long boughs drooping. It's so strange to usher the kids into the knothole by myself, without Thistleweft. Then, descending the ladder, we find that the spinners are gone. All the spiders, vanished, leaving barely a trace of web behind.
Dogwood pauses on the rungs. "Alby?" he says. "Where spiders go?"
I can't answer him while holding onto the ladder, but when we get to the floor, I sign, They probably left when they realized Thistleweft was dead. No point staying. I shiver. I never much liked the giant spiders, but their departure is an undeniable admission: Thistleweft is gone, and never coming back.
Dogwood's face crumbles. "Now we leave?"
Okay, didn't expect that one. No. I take him in my arms, his tiny form shuddering. She left us the house. We can stay.
Yes, we can stay: stay in this house where the cook pot remains where she put it down, where her half-finished cloth-of-twilight still hangs on the loom, where the pillow is still imprinted with her head. Everything I see reminds me of my friend, and the fact that she's gone.
But it's not the grief that's the worst.
The responsibility is terrible, too. Suddenly there's no one for me to rely on: everything falls on me. Both children are entirely dependent on me now, and Dogwood is still stricken with grief. Every minute there's a child needing my attention, whether it's one of Dogwood's crying fits or Philomel wailing for food or Dogwood screaming at me not to leave or Philomel's diaper—just every minute, something. Not only that, but my patients start arriving again soon: faeries with injuries, mothers with weak and sickly children, all wanting the Lady Healer's touch. That's not so bad—at least healing is quick and easy—but I have to tell the story of Thistleweft's death over and over.
But that's not the worst either.
More annoying are Thistleweft's old customers, forest faeries showing up to buy cloth. At first I try to sell them her stored fabric—we have shelves full of it—but a few too many of her customers think they can cheat me. After the third faerie tries to trick me into giving her all of Thistleweft's stock (and even trying, impossibly, to weave on my own, with disastrous penalties should I fail, as I inevitably would), I hang a sign outside the house: Healing Only. No More Cloth Sales. Thistleweft's old customers scowl and grumble to see it, but they're hushed by my patients: "Quiet! Do you want her to stop healing us?" It gives me a small pinch of smug pleasure as I set to work.
To put the seal on it (and because we could use the extra room), I sell Thistleweft's loom, though Dogwood's eyes are wide and it feels like a small betrayal. I avoid his accusing gaze as he clutches Thistleweft's spindle and stares while I dismantle the loom and carry it outside to the waiting hob.
She takes the loom with alacrity—hobs need to weave, to work with cloth, it's in their nature. She must have been suffering without her own machine. "Do you think I could have that spindle too? I'll pay extra."
Dogwood clutches it harder. I step in front of him, shaking my head. It's all that's left of his mother. I write it on a miniature notepad the twins brought me from Ironside.
"Ah, well." She shrugs philosophically and give me my payment for the loom.
It's a never-empty vessel: a plain-looking wooden bucket that will never empty of anything we put in it, ever, no matter how much we use. I fill it with clean, pure water. Now we no longer need to fetch water from the river, and we can wash as much as we like, with me throwing buckets on both children as they splash and shriek. Still I feel bad, especially when I meet Dogwood's gaze or see the blank space where the loom should be.
But that's not the worst either.
Birch, I say, next time he comes around, could you do something for me?
"What?" he asks calmly, bouncing the giggling Philomel on his knee. He comes nearly every day, usually in the afternoon, and I feel such gratitude for him. He brings us food and tools and looks after the children, allowing me to get other things done or have a rest. He's been a life saver, as Thistleweft says I was for her, even if he still won't say why, or tell me about the mysterious debt he still says he owes me.
My poisons, I say. I don't like having them outside. But I can't keep them where the children will find them. Could you make me a secure place for them indoors?
He does look up at this, red eyes steady and measuring. "Are you inviting me into the house?"
"House! House!" laughs Philomel. She's starting to talk now, parroting words while she tosses her silky white hair. I smile at her cleverness: she's already learned to say, "Mama!" and "Now!" She even signs while she talks, the way Dogwood does.
Yes, I say, somewhat hesitantly. It feels like a strange betrayal: Thistleweft never let anyone in, and she would have had apoplexy if I let in Birch, of all people. But he has to enter the cottage if he's going to make me what I have in mind. I'll pay you, of course. What do you think would be fair repayment?
"No payment." He stands up, cradling Philomel. "It will be part of my own payment of my debt. What would you like me to make?"
I raise an eyebrow—just what is this debt?—but go to the knothole, Dogwood at my heels, still carrying the spindle. Birch follows us down the ladder, still carrying Philomel.
Once inside, she starts fussing and reaches for me, crawling across Birch's chest, waving her arms. I take her, tucking her close, while watching Birch. His red eyes travel around the room, taking in our pots and pans, our cooking rock, our books, the bed-shelf with its curtain and trailing blankets. He looks so strange standing there. My heart gives an odd pound, and I have to swallow back a moment's irrational panic. Stop it. He's not going to try anything.
Dogwood sidles up to me. "Alby? Is Birch allowed?" He clutches the spindle, staring up at me anxiously.
He's allowed if I say he is, I say, as much for my own reassurance as his. I never liked having the poisons outside, I say to Birch. But I can't leave them where the children can get at them. Dogwood's starting to climb already. I woke up this morning to find him clambering up the shelves like a squirrel, watched by a giggling Philomel. Could you make a secure compartment for them, that they couldn't get into?
Philomel grabs a handful of my hair, yanking painfully. I pull it out of her grasp. "Mommy!" she complains, signing the word: Mommy!
Birch doesn't answer immediately. He paces around, running his hands over the walls, the shelves. Feeling out the Tree. I watch him, torn between fascination and an irrational desire to yank him away.
"I think so," he murmurs at last. "I've never worked with a Great Tree before. But…maybe…This one's friendly to you, at least." He turns back to me. "I'll give it a try, but no promises." He looks around. "Where do you want this compartment, exactly?"
I've already thought of this. I point upward, to a shelf about a quarter of the way up the Tree, next to the ladder. He nods. "Stand back."
I back up, pulling Dogwood with me. He watches, wide-eyed, clutching the spindle. Even Philomel is quiet, looking at Birch curiously while she sucks her thumb.
Birch climbs the ladder, tail trailing behind him, and swings himself out easily among the shelving. Clinging on with his claws, spread-eagled, he holds still a moment, seeming to delve deeper into the Tree, a silent communion. Then he begins to sing.
Woodworking songs are strange, even by faerie standards. It sounds more like the wind through branches than regular music: Birch's voice swishes and soughs, working intricate tunes that I can't quite follow, can't quite ignore. He whistles, he hums, he sighs. And, slowly, the Tree begins to respond.
The wood expands: slowly at first, but then faster, melting under Birch's song, flowing across an empty shelf like treacle. Dogwood lets out a cry of awe, and I shush him hastily, still watching, as the wood closes over the shelf like a lid. Soon there's no sign that there was any shelf there at all, but only a smooth expanse of wood, like a closed eye.
"Wow, Uncle Birch!" Dogwood cheers, and Philomel waves her hands.
Birch turns to me. "Can you come up here, Albia?" He holds out his hand to me. "I'll need you to finish this."
Fighting a strange reluctance, I set Philomel on the floor (she immediately starts playing with some fallen cushions) and climb the ladder up beside Birch. Dogwood hovers at the ladder's end, saying, "Let me see, let me see!"
Birch and I both ignore him. Up close, he looks tired, more so than I would have expected; I suppose a woodworking song on a Great Tree is hard work. His wild scent—pine and musk—rises off him; so close, I can almost feel his breath. A strange sensation goes through me: something that's almost pleasurable, but that sends bolts of panic through me.
"Place your palm here," he says, and reaches over to take my left wrist.
His hand is warm and tough. It's rough with callouses, hard with muscle. The back of it is lightly dusted with fur, and his dark claws are clean and shiny and elegant. He places my hand against the wood, covering it with his, and I have to gulp back gasps. That sensation is thrilling through me now, making my stomach roil, my breath come fast. The scene blurs in and out of focus.
Birch begins singing again, and I fight to stay focused. His song is horribly distracting, and it's bringing back memories, memories of—
The magic shivers through the living wood, and the wooden cover shrinks away, withdrawing like an eyelid, revealing the hidden shelf.
"Wow!" Dogwood, unbeknownst to us, has climbed up the wall and is clinging to a lower shelf, watching.
I grimace at him, but honestly, I'm grateful for the interruption. It's a distraction from the memories, the horrible, caressing sensations rising through me at the touch of Birch's hand, his arm on mine, his breath—
"And now place your hand on the wall above the shelf." If Birch has noticed that I'm hyperventilating, he doesn't show it.
I do so, reaching up. It's difficult: my hand seems very heavy. Birch repeats the hand-covering and song. The wood flows back, covering the shelf completely. Within seconds, there's a seamless cover, with no way in or out.
"It'll only work for you now, Albia," Birch says. His voice sounds strange, echoing across a great distance. "Only you can open or close this compartment. I've gotten the Tree straight on that, I think…Though I never worked with such a strong, old one before." He gives the Tree a bemused, wondering look. "A singer far greater than I first sang this cottage into being."
I can barely hear him through the ringing in my ears. The scene is blurred, obscured by, by—
—Leaves in my hair, rasped against the ground, the weight of Balekin, stabbing deep inside, the tearing, the pumping, his spikes in my skin, Balekin's grunts and triumphant growl as he comes inside me—
"Albia!" Birch's voice echoes across a depthless chasm, and I barely hear Dogwood's dismayed cry as dizziness overwhelms me and everything goes black.
When I open my eyes, I'm lying on the bed. For a bemused instant, I can't think how I got there. Then I remember what happened, and sit up so quickly I get dizzy. I fall back, bed nook spinning before my eyes.
"You fainted, Alby." Dogwood pops up beside the bed. He peers at me anxiously. "You okay?"
"Yes." Birch steps up, holding a worried-looking Philomel on his hip. "Are you all right?"
I nod shakily, sitting up more slowly. I take Dogwood into my lap. He cuddles up there, and I hold him close, taking comfort from his small, compact form, his child-scent.
Birch still hovers close, holding Philomel. I'm afraid to ask, but I have to. What happened?
"You came over queer," he says. "Got a strange look on your face. Then you fainted. I caught you before you fell, though, and brought you down. You were only unconscious a few minutes." Philomel's making determined efforts to get to me, cooing and waving her arms, and he places her on the bed. "Albia, what's wrong? Do you know why you fainted?"
I gather up Philomel and hold both my children in my arms, cuddling close. I avoid Birch's gaze. I know exactly why I fainted. But I literally can't tell him.
I'm sorry, is all I can say, signing awkwardly around the children.
He lets out a small, exasperated sigh. "I wish you'd just tell me, Albia."
"Tell what?" Dogwood looks up, more anxious than ever.
I just shake my head, tears coming to my eyes. For this is the absolute worst thing since Thistleweft's death, what's been haunting me since the funeral: the memories are returning, and the nightmares. Balekin has started haunting me once again, invading every moment. And now he's come between me and Birch.
Birch lets out another sigh, one of resignation. "Never mind, Dogwood." He turns away, back to the ladder. "That compartment should hold," he says coolly. "It won't open to anyone but you. And I meant it," he adds, looking back over his shoulder at me. "You don't owe me for this, Albia. It's payment for my debt."
And then he's gone, up the ladder and away.
Somehow, I cook dinner. Somehow, I get the children to bed, even Dogwood with his fearful questions, his clinging hands and pleading eyes. I wait until they're asleep. Then I collapse onto the bench, head in hands.
This can't go on. I've had horrific nightmares every night for weeks now: running through thickets of thorns with Balekin in pursuit. Balekin slipping into the cottage at night, attacking my children. Balekin eating me: gobbling me from my feet upward, mouth slick with my blood, eating and eating but never getting to the end of me. Not only that, but I can feel him oozing around my every thought, every day. Everything I do—even when I'm playing with the children, or dealing with patients, or asking Birch for a covered shelf—is all like a shallow play, against the backdrop of that. The assault. The rape. It's there, every second. There is no moment when I'm not thinking about it anymore. I can't sleep, I can't eat, and I'm so tired, every minute, plagued by strange aches and pains, mind full of horrors, muscles weak, just when I need to be strong.
And now it's led to this: a humiliating rift between me and one of my only friends, right when he's done me a huge favor.
What's wrong with me? Why is the rape coming back to haunt me now, after two years? I wasn't like this when Thistleweft was alive—
I freeze. Of course. Thistleweft. With her dead, I don't feel safe anymore. I'm vulnerable again—and prey to my memories.
I shudder, burying my face deeper in my hands. What can I do? I can't keep on like this: not only is it damaging my relationship with Birch, but I've got two children to care for. They need me. They need me strong.
Strong. My mouth twists. What a loaded word. Bitterly, I recall Madoc and Jude and their shared obsession with "strength". Like you could "be strong" just like that. Like it was all a matter of willpower, and if you were miserable or fragile or incapable, then you must be "weak" and it was all your fault. I can just imagine the counsel they would likely give me in this situation:
Be strong, says Madoc in my mind. Have I taught you nothing? Take your rage and your pain, and forge them into a weapon you can use against your enemy.
Don't be a weakling, Taryn, sneers Jude. Do you want Balekin to win? Just ignore the pain. If you're strong enough, it'll go away. Now, I've got sword practice to go to.
I roll my eyes. Wow, great advice. How exactly am I supposed to "forge my rage into a weapon against my enemy" when my enemy is a world away and beyond my power besides? And, yes, Madoc, I'd say you taught me precisely nothing. Nothing useful, anyway. I haven't used a single one of the skills my stepfather considered so essential since I left Court, except how to handle knives properly.
As for you, Jude, I've been trying to ignore my emotions. It's not working. It didn't work last time either, if we're being honest. All it did then was send me spiraling into a depression. Ignoring my feelings made me weaker, not stronger. And I can't afford that right now. Not because I want to defeat Balekin, but because I have two babies who need me. That's something Jude and Madoc would never understand: that there might be more important things in life than winning.
What advice would Oriana give?
Sit down, my stepmother's voice says in my head. Sit down, take a deep breath, and think.
I take a deep breath and settle back on the bench. I rake my fingers through my hair, letting out my breath in a long sigh. And I begin to apply logic to the problem, as Oriana would.
Ignoring my emotions does no good. Neither does simmering in rage and plotting a revenge that will never come to pass. So what's left?
I wish I could explain it all to Birch. Even if he can't help me. At least then he'd understand. But the curse won't let me let anyone know, by word or deed—
I freeze. Something about that phrase has caught my attention.
Let anyone know. But one person already does know. Me.
Maybe I can't tell anyone else, by word or deed. But Balekin didn't say I could never express what happened. If no one ever sees but me…
I remember, back at Court, an enchanted human painter. He stood before a blank wall, painting like fury. Literally: rage was in every brushstroke. The wall was enchanted, too, for the paint to fade away: the faster he painted, the more his work disappeared. And his contract was such that he couldn't leave until he'd finished painting the wall. The watching faeries tittered while he painted, sneering at his predicament, and only occasionally did they notice what he painted.
He painted pictures of them. Images of faeries burning alive in an unspeakable holocaust. Faeries in chains, writhing and screaming while the painted flames ate their flesh to the bone. That human was powerless and could never get free. But still, he expressed his contempt for his captors, in a way that no faerie, devoid of imagination or creativity, ever could. He painted his rage.
I'm not a painter. But maybe I too can express my rage.
Moving silently, I climb up the shelves, retrieving a length of black cloth, and an embroidery kit a hob gave me in exchange for healing her hands of iron poisoning. It's a beautifully complete kit: a basket lined with embroidery silks all the colors of the rainbow, with a pincushion, needles and pins, scissors and several embroidery frames of different sizes.
My scissors flash as I cut out a large square of black fabric. I fit it into one of the embroidery frames.
No one else is ever going to see this. I tell that to the curse, as hard as I can. No one else. Only I will ever set eyes on this. I'm not telling anyone.
I sit down on the bench, under the lamp. No one else will ever see this. I repeat that, over and over, as I select my first color and thread it onto the needle. Only me. I'm not telling anyone.
Taking a deep breath, I pierce my needle into the cloth and pull the thread through. I'm braced for the curse to cut in, to stop my hands. But nothing happens as I set the first stitch and then start the next.
I keep sewing. The curse doesn't stop me. With a feeling of incredulity—a dawning sense of dizzying freedom—I continue. Stitch after stich I set, and the picture grows beneath my needle: a girl. A girl with red-brown hair, in a blue dress. A girl being led forward by a half-finished male figure.
Me. And Balekin, only half-complete.
I want to continue, but I'm dizzy with exhaustion now. I put my new project back in the basket, and climb up to hide it in the new compartment. The wood seals over at my touch: no one will ever see this. No one but me.
I climb into bed, and, for the first time since Thistleweft's death, sleep without nightmares.
After that, I work on my project every night. I wait until the children have gone to sleep before climbing to the compartment and fetching down the tapestry. I work quickly and quietly, sitting on the bench, in the light of the lamp, while the children sleep. I complete the first depiction without the curse stopping me. Balekin, leading me away from the ball. Then I start work on the next scene.
The emotions this stirs up are terrible. Sometimes I can only set a few stitches before having to put it away, eyes stinging with tears, to tremble and moan silently before putting my project away and getting into bed. But again and again I go back to my tapestry, unable to control my compulsion.
Amazingly, it seems to work. Now I can go for whole hours at a stretch without thinking about Balekin or the assault. Just as long I let myself drown in my emotions, wallow in my memories, every night, while I leach out the poison, stitching it into fabric. My nightmares don't cease all at once, but they become less frequent, less horrific. The strange weakness that plagued me since Thistleweft's death dissipates, and I find I have an appetite again. The odd pains vanish too. I'm stronger, and I find I can focus once again, whether I'm playing with my children or treating patients or sitting talking with Heartwood in the village square.
I'm not well. Not by any means. Sometimes still the memories catch me, pulling at my limbs, sucking at my soul. Sometimes I just have to sit down, squeeze my eyes shut, under a great black wave of pain. But with my tapestry, at least I can manage my affairs. I can conduct the business of my life. If I let my emotions out—if I face my feelings instead of pretending that they don't exist—I can keep going.
"You look a little better," Birch says the next time he stops by.
I look up from playing with Philomel, and I know my face is crimson. I haven't forgotten that humiliating episode in the cottage, and I doubt he has either. I watch him apprehensively, but he doesn't seem angry. Dogwood toddles up to him with a glad cry, and he hugs him briefly.
"Uncle Birch! Uncle Birch!" cries my son.
Philomel waves her arms in my lap. "Birch! Birch!"
"Hello, kids." Birch gives Dogwood another squeeze. "I hear you're almost totally pot-trained now, my boy."
"Yeah!" Dogwood nods happily, climbing up Birch's leg like a squirrel to settle in his arms. "I use pot!" He signs the words out, too, like he always does, and laughs.
He does, too, I confirm. And he talks so well now! If he started using magic, he'd be a real genius.
Birch's smile dies. "He hasn't started using magic yet?"
I shake my head. Dogwood, oblivious, scampers around Birch's shoulders, humming a song and chortling.
"That's odd," Birch frowns. "He should have started, at his age." He pulls Dogwood off his shoulders and sets him on the platform.
I shrug. I'm not that bothered, to be honest. When you're a lone human looking after two faerie children, the last thing you want is those children to start casting spells. It's bad enough now that Dogwood is climbing everything. Like right now—I let out a silent yelp and, hastily putting Philomel down, leap up to grab Dogwood before he plummets off the railing to the forest floor.
"Dogwood!" Birch scolds. "You could have been killed! You should put him on a leash or something," he adds to me.
"I am on a leash, inside," Dogwood whines. "All the time!"
Birch looks at me. "Really?"
I nod, a bit guiltily. I have to, or he climbs right out of the house. I wove Dogwood a harness with a long leash, which I keep tied to one of the floor-hooks Thistleweft used for her loom. He can range around, but he can't climb up too high, and I've moved all the breakables out of his range. He's thrown a few epic tantrums about it, but it's worth it, to prevent him escaping.
"Hmm." Birch lifts Dogwood up. "You shouldn't do that, okay? Don't climb all over and make your foster mother worry."
"You climb," Dogwood points out sulkily. "All the time."
"I climb trees. I don't climb shelves, and knock things over, and try to escape the house—" Birch breaks off, staring past me. Dogwood stares too, eyes wide.
What— I turn around too, and my hands fall.
It's Philomel. Year-old Philomel, sitting up, with several fallen leaves floating in the air around her. They glow gold—literally glow. My daughter's face is golden in their light, her unicorn hair shimmering. She laughs and claps her hands, and they dance around her, swirling gracefully in the air, into a crown around her head.
We all stare, me and Birch and Dogwood. For this is Philomel's very first act of magic. The first spell she has ever cast. And she has done it before she can even walk.
Philomel crawls over, the leaves still dancing around her like shimmering attendants. She hauls herself up, holding onto my leg, and smiles up at me. "Mommy," she lisps.
Tears sting my eyes, and I don't know if they're tears of pride or fear. Well done, Philomel.
"Yes," agrees Birch, recovering. "That's amazing."
I glance at Dogwood, half-expecting scowls or jealousy, but he's laughing too. "Yay Melly!" he cheers from Birch's arms.
Philomel smiles proudly and holds up her arms to me imperiously. I bend over to pick her up. The leaves dance around us, glittering and gleaming in the light. She's held them up for so long now. I cuddle Philomel close, against my shoulder so she can't see my face. I'm so proud of her in this moment—and so afraid. My daughter has discovered her magic so early. It's likely to be strong magic, too. The kind that gets noticed. Balekin swirls through my thoughts, an evil ghost.
What does this mean for Philomel's future? How do I keep her safe now?
Maybe it's my worry that wakes me up so early the next day. I lie awake for what seems like hours, half-wishing one of the children would wake up and bawl, just so I have an excuse to light the lamp and do something.
Philomel let the leaves fall eventually and didn't perform any further magic yesterday, but it's only a matter of time before she tries another experiment. And it won't always be something as pretty and innocuous as dancing leaves. Not to mention that early magic is traditionally a sign of powerful magic—and that attracts notice, even out here in the sticks. What does this mean for Philomel's future?
And there's Dogwood to consider, too. Birch seems to think his lack of magical awakening is something to worry about. Is he right? Is there something wrong with my son?
I sit up, head still aching with exhaustion. This won't do. Worrying won't solve anything. If I can't get to sleep, I may as well use the time to some purpose. I'll work on my tapestry. I wrinkle my nose at a whiff of excrement. Maybe I'll take the pot out while I'm at it.
Still in my sleeping shift, I take the pot from its covered shelf and head outside, the roses parting for me. The forest is just starting to lighten with dawn, and the birds are singing the dawn chorus: a bright, cheerful choir. A gray twilight filters down through the canopy. The tree trunks look like the submerged stalks of underwater plants; the ferns arch like seaweed. Everywhere is shadow and blue somber light, but the morning is brightening, degree by degree.
I head around the rose bushes to the side of the house with no windows, where we always pour out waste. I dump out the pot's contents. It smells awful, but I know the Tree and the roses will sop it up. It's all part of our relationship: in exchange for shelter and protection, we give them nutrients. Symbiosis. I smile, enjoying the word—and freeze.
It's too quiet suddenly. The dawn chorus has gone silent. Even the trees are still. It's like the forest is holding its breath for fear.
I reach for my knife and salt—and find nothing. Of course—they're back inside. Like a fool, I went outside unarmed. Heart pounding, I take a deep breath and, forcing myself to move slowly, start to head back around the house to the entrance. Calm, calm. I'm only a few steps—
The gleam of red-gold eyes. A gigantic paw, fringed with claws, stepping out of the shadows. A face that is both a woman's and a lioness's. I stand, frozen and helpless, as the manticore paces into the clearing, huge and terrible.
This is it, I think, strangely calm. After everything I've been through, this is how I'm going to die. I'm going to die exactly like Thistleweft did. I hope Birch comes by early today and finds my children before they get too hungry…Tears trickle down my face. My children.
The manticore paces further into the clearing. I brace myself, waiting.
The manticore's great stinger descends, and I flinch, the pot falling to the ground through my nerveless fingers. But she lowers her tail slowly, carefully, and the venomous point doesn't pounce. Instead, the manticore just holds her stinger still, hovering before me.
I stare blindly. The manticore makes a soft, whining noise, and twitches her stinger gently. Please. Pay attention. Look at this.
I force myself to focus. The stinger is ugly, a great bulbous ball at the end of the manticore's segmented tail. It's also been wounded. A long, horrible slash breaks across the shiny surface, oozing vile fluid. The flesh around it is red, cracked and enflamed.
My mind races. This looks very much like an iron-poisoned wound, though I didn't think the manticore ever went hunting Ironside. Still, perhaps she encountered a human knight associated with a Court, who had a death metal weapon—or even ran into that rare faerie who carries cold iron. I marvel; whoever she tried to attack got very lucky.
The manticore makes a soft, plaintive noise. Up close, in the growing light, I can see that she's not in good shape. Her coat is ragged, her ribs showing. Her human-lion face is strained, and her eyes stare pleadingly into mine. Please, she seems to say in that same silent, wordless way of the unicorn. Help me.
I hesitate. Why should I help the manticore? She's a monster, a terror of this forest. She took Thistleweft from me. My friend and mistress and protector. Dogwood's mother. She killed and ate Thistleweft, leaving me bereft and Dogwood orphaned.
The manticore makes another miserable noise. More awful fluid leaks out of the wound, trickling across the stinger.
I look at her again. That ragged coat, those bones. She hasn't been able to hunt with this wound, and she must be starving. The manticore may be a monster, but she's also a creature in pain. A creature in need. And if she killed Thistleweft and hurt me, she didn't do it out of some twisted, perverse notion of honor, like Madoc. Nor for the bullying fun of it, like the Court faeries. And certainly not from malice and evil lust, like Balekin.
No, the manticore killed and ate my friend because that's her nature. She's an ambush predator. So why be surprised when she acts like one? Why be angry? She's an innocent beast. And she needs my help.
Slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves, I raise my hands and place them gently on her stinger. The carapace is smooth beneath my fingers, and flushed with an unhealthy heat. The wound's been infected for sure. I summon my power, the unicorn's gift, and the white light flashes. The carapace moves slightly under my hands as the wound's lips seal closed, erased without a scar or trace, in an instant.
The manticore lets out a long sigh of relief. She lifts her tail, stinger soaring up into the air, and I back away, fear crowding back into my throat. The manticore doesn't need me anymore—and, as I noted earlier, she's an innocent beast. A hungry beast. What's to stop her attacking me now?
The roses part for me in a rustle, and I place my hand on the Tree's trunk. There—I'm touching it, so I'm under its protection. The manticore can't attack me now. But still I watch her apprehensively.
She makes no move to attack. Instead, she looks at me for a long moment before bending her front legs and lowering her head in an unmistakable bow. The manticore. Bowing to me.
Straightening, she looks into my eyes. Already she looks stronger, healthier, the strain leaving her face, her muscles rippling back to life. Slowly, communication trickles from her mind into mine.
Use your trueborn voice to call on me, she says, and I will come, whatever the distance, and do your bidding, just once, before I leave in peace.
I gape at her, too astonished to parse this through. Then, when she continues to stare at me expectantly, I give my own, hasty bow of acknowledgement.
This seems to satisfy her. She gives a lovely long stretch, pushing her forelegs out and pulling her spine, tail going almost straight, before she bounces back to her feet. Turning, she paces away without a backward glance, disappearing into the forest.
Slowly, the birds begin to sing again.
When I can move, I walk over and bend down to pick up the earthenware pot. It's smooth and heavy in my hands. Its ordinariness, its solidity, are wonderful. It makes me feel grounded, when all my thoughts are whirling and I'm still shaking from the encounter. Slowly, I make my way back to the ground-level door and sink down onto the lintel. My legs won't hold me any longer.
Use your trueborn voice to call on me, and I will come, whatever the distance, and do your bidding, just once, before I leave in peace.
I guess Faerie's laws of repayment apply to manticores too. I will do your bidding…The manticore gave me a favor, in return for saving her life. A debt, to be called in later, with my trueborn voice. I guess that means I have to use my real voice to call in the manticore's debt. If I want her to do my bidding, just that once, before she leaves without violence, then I have to call for her aloud.
My mouth twists. Typical faerie favor: the possibility of great rewards, just out of reach. I'm never getting my true voice back. Nothing and nobody can remove Balekin's curse. I'll be mute until the day I die, and the manticore's debt will go unpaid.
Some repayment. Still, there's a certain amount of relief. After all, do I really want to see the manticore again?
Behind the closed door, I hear Philomel start to wail, soon joined by Dogwood. Breathing a sigh of relief, I stand up and go inside, to start what I profoundly hope will be an ordinary day.