The Faerie War (11 page)

“Aargh!” Dale’s fist slips from my grasp as an arrow pierces my shoulder. He forces me off him. A moment later I find myself on my back with a knee in my chest and a hand around my neck.

“Just give in now before I have to hurt you,” he says. “You can’t get away. The faerie paths are monitored now. Draven will find you no matter where you run.”

The faerie paths are monitored?

“Not . . . happening,” I gasp. Dale’s observation skills clearly haven’t improved since we were last together, because he hasn’t noticed the knife I now have in one of my hands. I bring it straight down into his thigh, muttering “Sorry” at the same time because even though he’s trying to strangle me, he
is
still my friend.

While Dale yells and grips his bleeding leg, I scramble up, yank the arrow from my shoulder, and remember that one of the weapons in my invisible arsenal is a wooden beam. I haven’t used it much, but now seems like a good time. I reach mentally for it, holding my hands out to grasp the large, glittering thing. I swing it across the legs of an advancing faerie. He falls forward and rolls across the blackened ground. I pull the beam back, then whack Dale over the head with it. He slumps to the ground without another sound.

I stand up, my bow and arrow already in my hands. I aim and let loose, but before the arrow can find its target, the guardian I was aiming at is thrown backward by an invisible force. He drops onto the ground and lies still. Stunned. Another two guardians drop down seconds later. That only leaves—I scan our attackers quickly for sparkling weapons—one other guardian. Easy. I can handle that.

I run to where four Order members are fighting one faerie. “You!” I pull one of them away. “Start gathering power to stun. And you.” I point to someone else leaning against a tree grasping his upper arm where blood gushes from a wound. “Same thing.”

I crouch down, then jump. An extra spurt of magic helps shoot me into the air and onto a branch. Bow and arrow. Aim. Let go.
Thwip
—into the guardian’s arm.
Thwip
—into his side.

With an angry shout, the guardian backs away from the three Order members fighting him—who I hope will be intelligent enough to preserve their magic now and try stunning someone. He makes eye contact with me, then throws his hand forward. Magic shoots out at a remarkable speed. I jump backward and somersault through the air before landing on my feet.

He’s already running at me, the arrows I shot at him removed from his body. I plant my feet on the ground; no way is this guy going to knock me over. The second he reaches me, I turn, arms raised, to let my side take the full force of his blow. Then I strike. Hands and feet, kicking, jabbing, punching. We dance around each other. I spring forward with another punch, then hook my foot behind his knee. He stumbles backward. I spin and kick, and my boot strikes his stomach, throwing him back against a tree.

The wooden beam is in my hands again. As he lurches forward, I swing it. The beam slams into his forehead, knocking him flat on his back. He groans, and I give him one final whack. He lies still.

I stare down at him, at the bleeding gash on his forehead. I hate that I did this to a guardian. Someone I recognize from my very own Guild. We’re supposed to be on the same side. Why was he fighting me?

“Oryn!”

I spin and duck automatically, the beam vanishing from my hands as I spread my arms out for balance. A faerie—not a guardian—slashes at me with a black-bladed knife as she runs past. Ignoring the pain flaring across my cheek, I flick my wrist out. By the time I’ve finished the motion, a shining whip is in my hand, already curving through the air toward the faerie. The whip snaps around her ankle. I yank it back, pulling her onto the ground. She rolls over, raises the knife—and her arm drops to the ground. Eyes closed, her head rolls to the side.

I look up and see Yale, his arms outstretched and his face still screwed up with the effort it must have taken to stun the Unseelie faerie. He lowers his arms, looking around through the semi-darkness and seeing the same thing I see: all our assailants have been stunned or knocked out. “Let’s get out of here,” he pants, reaching for his stylus.

“Don’t open a doorway!” I say. “The paths aren’t safe. That’s how they found us. We have to run.” I grab the fallen faerie at my feet and toss her over my shoulder. We can question her later. A small, furry forms drops onto my shoulder and scurries down my arm into my jacket pocket. I pat the pocket.

Then I run.

*

We don’t stop running for at least an hour. Well, running isn’t quite the word; it’s more like stumbling or hobbling as fast as the injured will allow us to go. The forest is in complete darkness now. Only the orbs produced by those of us who still have energy illuminate the forest floor ahead. When it becomes clear no one is following us, we slow down to check if any wounds need immediate attention. I’m a little concerned about the blood still dripping down one side of my face. The cut should have begun to heal by now.

I lower the unconscious Unseelie faerie onto the ground. I reach for a fallen branch and transform it into a long rope. After looping it around and between her ankles, I pull it tight. I repeat the process on her hands.

“Won’t she be able to break out of those bonds?” Tryce asks from nearby.

“Not these ones.” I wrap my hands around the ropes and reinforce them with magic. Then, dabbing at the blood on my face, I head over to where Yale is standing. “Is the sword safe?” I ask.

“Yes.” After a moment’s pause, he says quietly, “There were guardians in that group that attacked us.”

I nod. “Yes, four of them. They must be under some kind of spell or influence. One was my friend.”

I feel Yale’s gaze on me. “I’m very sorry. Is she the one you brought with us?”

“No. I wanted someone we could question to find out what’s going on. It didn’t matter who, so I took the smallest person.” I wipe my hand clean on my pants—my clothes are already bloodied and dirty—and place it in my jacket pocket. Filigree is still there, curled up in mouse form.

“Who do you think the others were?” Yale asks. “Unseelie faeries?”

“Probably. I think this is all the Unseelie Prince’s doing.” I gesture to the ruined forest around us “Although, my friend did mention someone called Lord Draven. Do you know that name?”

“Oryn, we don’t know anyone. We’ve been isolated for centuries. And I must apologize for something,” he adds. “I said we could fight, but we weren’t prepared for a surprise attack like that.”

“No need to apologize,” I tell him, even though it was clear some members of his group could do with more practice. “Imagine how that fight would have gone down if I’d been on my own.”

“Yes, well, I’d say it’s a good thing I convinced you to stay with us.”

I nod. “Definitely.”

“So, what next, Oryn? I know I’m technically the leader of this group, but you’re the only guardian here. This is more your world than ours. What do you suggest?”

I take a deep breath and look around at our group. “I honestly don’t know. If those guardians were fighting us, then I’m afraid the whole Guild may be ready to do the same thing.” Oh, hell, what if my mother is under the same spell? Would she look me in the eye and try to shoot me, just like Dale did? I push the terrifying thought away. “I suppose the next logical step would be to look for others like us who aren’t under this strange influence. But where would we even start looking?”

“Your guess is better than—”

“Shh.” I hold a hand up and look around.

“Did you hear something?” Yale whispers. He slowly draws a knife from a sheath at his waist.

“Not exactly.” I
felt
something, but Yale wouldn’t understand that. I haven’t shared my secret with him. I haven’t told anyone since I told Violet.

I scan the exhausted group of Order members, but nothing seems to have changed. They look the same: defeated, lost, miserable, angry. But what I felt just now was a spark of hope. A flare of happiness. No one here looks close to feeling anything like that . . . so who was it?

I raise my voice and say, “Whoever you are, show yourself.”

Low rumblings of conversation cease as people look at me. Some grab weapons and jump quietly to their feet, their eyes searching. The silence stretches. I begin to wonder if I imagined the sudden spike of emotion. I try to locate the
something
that was out of place, but all I feel is wariness.

Finally, a voice from somewhere above us calls out, “Don’t shoot, and I’ll be happy to show myself.”

I look up just as a figure drops through the air. He lands in a crouch and straightens immediately. “See,” he says, raising his hands, palms facing us. “I’m unmarked. I won’t harm you.”

“Unmarked?” I take a step toward him. “That means nothing to us.”

The faerie tilts his ginger head to the side. “You don’t know about the mark? It’s what Draven brands people with after he’s brainwashed them. It’s so he knows at a glance who his followers are.”

I think of the circular outline I saw on Dale’s hand. Was that the mark this ginger haired faerie is talking about? I take another step toward him, my fingers ready—but not yet reaching—for a weapon. “You’re a guardian,” I say, noticing the intertwining lines on his wrists. “Normally that means I’d trust you without hesitation. Recent events, however—” I lift my hand and gesture to the gash on my cheek “—suggest guardians are fighting for the wrong side now.”

“Not all of them,” he says. “You’ll be pleased to know that some of us got away.”

“And I should trust you because . . . ?”

He shrugs. “Because you have no other choice. And because I heard you saying you plan to search for others like you who aren’t brainwashed. Well, you need search no further. I can take you right to them.”

He smiles, and it isn’t the kind of smile that’s just for show. It’s the kind that reaches his yellow-gold eyes and lights up his whole face. The kind that’s contagious. It makes me want to smile for the first time in days.

It also makes me highly suspicious.

I fold my arms and ask, “Who exactly are you?”

“I’m Oliver. And this is Em.” He looks to his left as a woman steps out from behind a tree to join him. It’s difficult to tell how old they are by the dim light of our orbs, but I think she’s younger than him. Young enough for it not to have been too long since she graduated. She has a smile to match Oliver’s and the same coloring as Violet’s old mentor, Tora: green eyes the shade of spring grass and green streaking through her blonde hair.

“Hi, I’m Em. London Guild.” She gives a little wave.

“Ryn,” I answer hesitantly. “Creepy Hollow Guild.”

Her smile spreads wider. “I always thought your Guild had such a funny name.”

“Well, at least it’s our own name and not one we pinched from humans.”

She laughs. “I suppose I deserve that kind of comment. And the rest of you are . . . ?” She leans to the side and looks past me. I’ve forgotten there are eighteen people standing behind me. What have they been doing? Simply watching this whole exchange?

“We’re not guardians,” Yale says. “But we’d be honored to fight alongside you when the time comes. I have to ask, though, how you can laugh when surrounded by such destruction.”

Em’s smile dims somewhat, and she looks at Oliver before answering. “Well, it’s either that or let myself be consumed by despair. What’s the point in living if I can’t find some joy in it? And right now, I’m overjoyed to find nineteen free men and women after five days of searching.”

“Five days?” Yale asks.

“Yes, that’s how far away our base is,” Oliver answers. “It’s where we’ll take you now—if you’ve decided to trust us.”

Since, as Oliver says, we have no other choice, and after searching their emotions and finding nothing but genuine delight, I decide to trust Oliver and Em. And since everyone in the Order seems to view me as some great guardian of awesomeness—they’re obviously unaware I’ve only recently graduated—this means they also decide to trust Oliver and Em.

The two strangely cheerful guardians lead us to their base in Fireglass Vale, one of three safe locations the Guild Council built centuries ago in case the Guilds were ever attacked and compromised. I have a vague memory of learning about these safe locations in second or third year—not
where
they were, of course—and thinking they were unnecessary; how could the Guilds ever be compromised? Their protective charms were meant to be impenetrable.