Arrow (Knife) (33 page)
Authors: R. J. Anderson
Rhosmari’s gaze turned to the horizon, where the stars were beginning to fade. ‘Free?’ she repeated softly, as Timothy put his arm around her shoulders and drew her against him. ‘No, I don’t really think he is.’
‘Regarding the power of true names,’ said Queen Valerian, ‘Lady Arianllys spoke with Campion a little while ago on this matter, and told her something that I think you all should hear. Campion?’
The Oak’s Librarian coloured as all the faeries turned to look at her, but she cleared her throat and spoke up. ‘Yes. It seems that in the most ancient lore of the Children of Rhys, written in the old faery language from which all our true names are taken, there is a passage which tells how thousands of years ago the faeries used to give their names willingly to their rulers as part of their oaths of service.’
‘There is no surprise in that,’ said Broch, ignoring Thorn’s elbow in his side. ‘That was why the Children of Rhys needed the Stone of Naming in the first place, so they could free themselves from that bondage.’
‘But it was never meant to be bondage,’ Campion replied. ‘That’s the surprising part. Originally, the faeries surrendered their names to their rulers – but only so the rulers could then turn around and set them free. Just like Timothy did with Rhosmari tonight. It was never supposed to be about controlling people, or forcing them to do things they didn’t want to. It was meant to be a gesture of trust.’
All the faeries were quiet, considering her words. At last Queen Valerian said, ‘If we want to be certain that no one like Jasmine can ever rise among us again, we may do well to renew that old tradition. But I will not ask my subjects to do anything that I am not willing to do myself. So I ask you all to be my witnesses as I call forward the two I have chosen to hear my name: Wink – and Perianth.’
Peri, who was still sitting on Paul’s lap, got up abruptly. ‘Your Majesty?’ she said.
‘I can think of no one I would rather trust with my name than you,’ replied Valerian. ‘And no one whom I am more certain will never abuse it. You have sacrificed your freedom for ours long enough. Now it is time for you, too, to be free.’ She stretched out her hands, drawing Peri and the misty-eyed Wink to her side; then she cupped a hand to each of their ears in turn, and whispered a few words too softly for anyone else to hear.
‘Oh,’ Wink burst out, gulping with emotion. ‘That’s the most
beautiful
name.’
Peri, however, had more presence of mind. She faced the Queen and said in her brisk, measured voice, ‘Your Majesty, I accept the gift of your true name. And with that name I set you free.’ Then she bent to one knee on the sand and said, ‘My name is Perianth.’
It was a ceremonial gesture, nothing more; they all knew her true name already, since now that she was human it carried no special power. But now that Peri had set the example, the faeries in the crowd began stepping tentatively forward to do likewise. Thorn came first, followed by Linden and Campion; and then, with a visible effort of courage, Rob. One by one they whispered their names in Queen Valerian’s ear, bowed before her, and waited while she spoke the words that would release them; and once the other faeries saw that the Queen was setting them free without hesitation, they quickly joined the queue to do likewise. In the end only Mallow hung back, looking very red in the face, and Rhosmari wondered what would happen if she refused. But Queen Valerian only gave her a slight, compassionate smile, and began to turn away.
‘No,’ said Mallow hoarsely. ‘Wait…Your Majesty.’
As the Chief Cook made her way through the crowd and kneeled before her Queen, Timothy sidled up to Rhosmari and took her hand. ‘I noticed you didn’t give your name to Valerian, either. Does that mean I’m your ruler?’
She flicked his palm lightly with her fingers. ‘No, you tyrant, it does not. It means that if I’m going to be the ambassador to the mainland from the Green Isles, I should probably be giving my allegiance to the Elders instead. If they’ll let me.’
‘What an interesting idea,’ said Timothy. ‘Do you know, when I met Linden, she’d just been appointed as the Oakenfolk’s ambassador to the faeries beyond the Oak. But who’s the ambassador to the faeries from the human world? Do you think there’s an opening for the post?’
Rhosmari smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘If there is,’ she said, ‘I think you’re qualified.’
I am grateful to my lovely and insightful editor, Sarah Lilly, and all the enthusiastic staff at Orchard Books UK; and to my agents, Josh and Tracey Adams (in the US) and Caroline Walsh (in the UK).
My deepest thankfulness and appreciation also go to my brother Pete Anderson and my fellow author Deva Fagan, who faithfully read each chapter of this book as it was written, shared their thoughts on how it was progressing, and gave me the courage to believe that it might actually be a good story; as well as to my second-round critics Saundra Mitchell, Kerrie Mills, Brittany Harrison, Liz Barr, Erin Fitzgerald, and James Bow, who helped me figure out where Rhosmari’s story wasn’t quite right and how to make it better.
As always, there are a million little details of research and inspiration that go into making up a book. Liz de Jager was kind enough to share with me her holiday photos from Wales. Emily advised me on the finer points of Welsh nomenclature, as did Helen Hall and the other helpful members of dysgu_cymraeg on LiveJournal. Claire Margerison helped me find a new name for my fictional pug, and Claudia Gray inspired me to put pugs in my books in the first place. Many kind members of the little_details community counselled me on matters of archery, along with honeysucklebowyer, Markus77 and CraigMBeckett from the Primitive Bows forum on PaleoPlanet. But these are only a few of many who helped me along the way, and I am grateful to you all.
Finally, I want to thank the fans who wrote to express their enthusiasm for the previous two faery books and ask if there would be another one – hearing from my readers is always a pleasure, and I’m honoured that you take the time not only to read my books but to let me know how you feel about them. This story is for you, too.
R.J. Anderson, 2011
Rebecca Anderson was born in Uganda, raised in Ontario, went to schoolin New Jersey, and has spent much of her life dreaming of other worlds entirely.
As a child she immersed herself in fairy tales, mythology, and the works of C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien and E. Nesbit; later she discovered more contemporary authors like Ursula LeGuin, Patricia A. McKillip and Robin McKinley, and learned to take as much pleasure from their language as the stories they told.
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 tries to bring a similar sense of humour, adventure, and timeless wonder to the novels she writes for children.
Read on for an exclusive extract of
ULTRAVIOLET…
Once upon a time there was a girl who was special. Her hair gleamed like liquid honey and her eyes were blue as music. She grew up bright and beautiful, with clever hands and a confidence that impressed everyone she met. Her parents adored her, her teachers praised her, and her schoolmates envied her many talents. Even the oddly shaped birthmark on her upper arm seemed like a sign of some great destiny.
This is not her story.
Unless you count the part where I killed her.
When I woke up this morning, I felt like myself again. The fluorescent lights didn’t freeze my skin. People had voices, instead of barks and roars. I washed my face, and brushed the tangles out of my hair. I felt good for a whole ten minutes, and then I remembered.
Dear God, what have I done?
My first glimpse of Pine Hills came through a lattice of evergreen boughs and the orange haze of migraine. The van bumped along the forest road, loose stones popping beneath its tires, while I pressed the side of my face against the window and breathed shallowly. Then something pale flashed at the corner of my vision, and I struggled upright for a better look.
The whiteness turned out to be a sign, with embossed letters that shifted into rainbow hues as I squinted at them: PINE HILLS PSYCHIATRIC TREATMENT CENTRE. A line of complacently looped script beneath read
Bringing Hope to Youth in Crisis.
Beyond the sign, a cluster of institutional buildings sidled into view. At first they looked separate, a peak-roofed longhouse surrounded by cabins; but as we drove closer I saw that they were all connected, like a hydra in the process of budding. In front of the hospital the trees surrendered to grass and asphalt, and behind it the forest recoiled from a clearing enclosed by chain-link fence. As the van edged past I saw a girl pacing around the courtyard, all skinny limbs and hair like a splatter of ink, talking and gesturing wildly with her cigarette.
There was no one with her.
I put a hand to my forehead, flinching as my handcuffs clinked and starbursts filled my vision. This was not happening to me. I didn’t belong here. I wanted to hurl myself at the driver, rattle the bars between us and cry,
There’s been a mistake, you don’t understand, take me home.
But that would only make me look every bit as crazy as everyone thought I was. So I squeezed the panic down inside me, forced the lid back on and snapped it tight.
Calm, Alison. Whatever happens from now on, you have to stay calm.
The van slowed to a stop, and the side door rumbled open. Humid, pine-flavoured air washed over me, to the tune of droning cicadas and the liquid burble of a chickadee. I stepped out into the grip of my police escort, who marched me across the asphalt to a door at the side of the building. It growled open at our approach, and closed behind us with a steely click.
As the officer took out his key and fumbled with the cuffs on my wrists I looked around, shivering a little in the air-conditioned chill. At first glance the room looked like a dentist’s office, with plaque-coloured walls and wintergreen furniture. But the sofa bled stuffing from a gash in its side, while the chairs and table looked as though they’d been flung across the room at least once before anyone thought to bolt them to the floor. The wall beside the reception desk had a dent in it the shape of a size twelve running shoe. I hoped I wasn’t about to meet that shoe’s owner.
My handcuffs snapped open. The constable pocketed them, signed a clipboard handed to him by one of the nurses, then shouldered back out the door. I was left alone with the two women behind the desk, who sized me up as though I were a time bomb. At last the smaller one said, in a cheerful voice soured by insincerity, ‘Alison Jeffries, right?’
I nodded gingerly. The scintillating patterns behind my eyes were shifting from peach to tangerine, and my head felt as though it had been clamped in a vice.
‘OK. I’ve got some forms here we’ll need to fill out…’
Over the next few minutes they took from me my name, my history, and everything I owned except, unfortunately, my headache. I was searched with clinical thoroughness, and my clothing and shoes locked away. Even the scent of the world outside vanished from my skin as I showered and changed into the shapeless pyjamas they’d given me.
Feeling like a damp scarecrow, I shuffled out to be met by the taller nurse, who escorted me down the hallway to an examination room. There a lanky physician looked me over from crown to soles and several humiliating places in between. He took my blood pressure, and looked grave when I told him I had a migraine. He gave me two blue pills and a seat in a darkened corner, and I was still sitting there when the door opened and another white-coat came in. I looked up, into the muddy hazel eyes of the nicest man I would ever learn to hate.
‘Hello, Alison,’ he said. ‘I’m Dr Minta.’
