Faery Rebels by R. J. Anderson

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 insalute 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 “Ugh,” said Bluebell, and the supporting hands were hastily withdrawn.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 Bluebellregarding 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 shining head and closed the window.
    “You heard Her Majesty,” said Bluebell. “You had better come with me.”
     
    Sometime later, bandaged from wrist to elbow and freshly dressed in the cleanest tunic and breeches she could find, Bryony followed Bluebell up the last turn of the Spiral Stair to the Queen’s chambers.
    As Bluebell, with lamp in hand, led her along the corridor Bryony stole quick glances into the rooms they passed. The first archway revealed a small audience chamber draped in scarlet curtains; next came a private bath with fixtures of polished stone and a mirror even larger than Wink’s; and last and most interesting, a library littered with open volumes and scribbled sheets of paper, asthough the Queen had been interrupted in the middle of some urgent study. Only one last door remained, and it was closed. Bluebell stopped and gave the brass knocker a respectful tap.
    “Enter,” came the Queen’s voice from within.
    Bluebell opened the door. “Your Majesty, Bryony is here.”
    “Very well. You may leave us.”
    The Queen’s attendant bowed her head and retreated. Bryony was left standing alone in the doorway, gazing about the chamber and thinking how much it reminded her of the House—though the furnishings here were older, and beginning to look a little worn. There was a wide feather bed with a post at each corner, and a table with two chairs upholstered in delicate needlework. The window,