Spells
Page 4
“There are…thousands of them,” Laurel said, not quite realizing she had spoken aloud.
“Of course,” Jamison said, mirth coloring his voice. “Almost the entire species lives here. We number more than eighty thousand now.” He paused. “That probably sounds small to you.”
“No,” Laurel said quickly. “I mean, I know there are more humans than that, but…I never imagined so many faeries all in one place.” It was strange; it made her feel both normal and very insignificant. She’d met other faeries, of course—Jamison, Tamani, Shar, the sentries she glimpsed from time to time—but the thought of thousands upon thousands of faeries was almost overwhelming.
Jamison’s hand touched the small of her back. “There will be time for sightseeing another day,” he said softly. “We must take you to the Academy.”
Laurel followed Jamison down the perimeter of the stone wall. When they rounded the side of the enclosure, Laurel looked uphill and her breath caught in her throat again. About a quarter mile up the gentle slope an enormous tower rose against the skyline, jutting from the center of a sprawling building straight out of Jane Eyre. It didn’t look like a castle so much as a grand library, all square, gray stones and steeply pitched roofs. Massive windows dotted every wall, and skylights glittered among slate shingles like caches of faceted prisms. Every surface was veined with creepers, framed by flowers, glimpsed through foliage, or otherwise host to plants of innumerable variety.
Jamison’s words answered the question Laurel was too amazed to ask. He gestured toward the structure with one arm as he spoke. “The Academy of Avalon.”
TWO
AS THEY WALKED TOWARD THE ACADEMY, LAUREL glimpsed another building through breaks in the forest. At the very top of the tall hill, just a bit higher than the towering Academy, sat the crumbling ruins of a castle. Laurel blinked and squinted; perhaps crumbling was not the right word. It was definitely falling to pieces, but ropes of green snaked through the white marble as if sewing the walls together, and the canopy of an enormous tree spread out above it, shading half the structure beneath its leaves. “What’s that building?” Laurel asked the next time it came into view.
“That is the Winter Palace,” Jamison said. “I live there.”
“Is it safe?” Laurel asked dubiously.
“Of course not,” Jamison replied. “It is one of the most dangerous places in all of Avalon. But I am safe there, as are its other occupants.”
“Is it going to fall down?” Laurel asked, eyeing one corner that was done up like a corset with viridian laces.
“No, indeed,” Jamison replied. “We Winter faeries have been caring for this palace for more than three thousand years. The roots of that redwood grow with the castle now, as much a part of the structure as the original marble. She would never let it fall.”
“Why don’t you just build a new one?”
Jamison was silent for a few moments, and Laurel worried that her question had offended him. But when he responded, he didn’t sound upset. “The castle is not only a home, Laurel. It also safeguards many things—things we cannot risk moving simply for convenience or for satisfying our vanity with a fancy new structure.” He gestured back at their stony gray destination with a smile. “We have the Academy for that.”
Laurel looked back up at the castle with new eyes. Instead of the haphazard loops of green she had seen at first glance, she could now pick out the order and method in the latticework stripes. Careful braces on the corners, a web of roots supporting large expanses of wall—the tree really had become part of the castle. Or perhaps the castle had become a part of the tree. The whole structure seemed to lounge contentedly in the embrace of its sprawling roots.
Around the next bend they came upon what Laurel first thought was a wrought-iron fence. A closer look revealed that it was actually a living wall. Branches wound and curved and wrapped about one another in complicated curlicues, like an impossibly complex bonsai tree. Two guards, one male, one female, stood at a gate, both in ceremonial armor of a vibrant blue, complete with shiny, plumed helmets. They both bowed low to Jamison and reached for their side of the gate.
“Come,” Jamison said, beckoning Laurel forward when she hesitated. “They are waiting for you.”
The grounds of the Academy were bustling with life. Dozens of faeries were at work around the yard. Some were dressed in fine, flowing dresses or light silken pants and had books in their hands. Others were clad in more homespun cottons and busied themselves digging and pruning. Still others were picking flowers, searching the many heavy-laden bushes for perfect specimens. As Jamison and Laurel passed, most of the faeries paused in their work and bowed at the waist. But everyone at least inclined their heads respectfully.
“Are…” Laurel felt silly asking. “Are they bowing to me?”
“It’s possible,” Jamison replied. “But I suspect they are mostly bowing to me.”
His casual tone caught Laurel off guard. But clearly being bowed to was commonplace for Jamison. He did not even stop to acknowledge it. “Should I have bowed when you came to the gate?” Laurel asked, her voice a little unsteady.
“Oh, no,” Jamison said readily. “You are a Fall faerie. You bow only to the Queen. A slight nod of respect is more than enough from you.”
Laurel walked in silent confusion as they passed several more faeries. She watched the few who only inclined their heads. They caught her eye as she passed and she wasn’t sure quite how to take their expressions. Some seemed curious; others glared. Many were simply unreadable. Ducking her head timidly, Laurel hurried forward to keep pace with Jamison.
“Of course,” Jamison said, mirth coloring his voice. “Almost the entire species lives here. We number more than eighty thousand now.” He paused. “That probably sounds small to you.”
“No,” Laurel said quickly. “I mean, I know there are more humans than that, but…I never imagined so many faeries all in one place.” It was strange; it made her feel both normal and very insignificant. She’d met other faeries, of course—Jamison, Tamani, Shar, the sentries she glimpsed from time to time—but the thought of thousands upon thousands of faeries was almost overwhelming.
Jamison’s hand touched the small of her back. “There will be time for sightseeing another day,” he said softly. “We must take you to the Academy.”
Laurel followed Jamison down the perimeter of the stone wall. When they rounded the side of the enclosure, Laurel looked uphill and her breath caught in her throat again. About a quarter mile up the gentle slope an enormous tower rose against the skyline, jutting from the center of a sprawling building straight out of Jane Eyre. It didn’t look like a castle so much as a grand library, all square, gray stones and steeply pitched roofs. Massive windows dotted every wall, and skylights glittered among slate shingles like caches of faceted prisms. Every surface was veined with creepers, framed by flowers, glimpsed through foliage, or otherwise host to plants of innumerable variety.
Jamison’s words answered the question Laurel was too amazed to ask. He gestured toward the structure with one arm as he spoke. “The Academy of Avalon.”
TWO
AS THEY WALKED TOWARD THE ACADEMY, LAUREL glimpsed another building through breaks in the forest. At the very top of the tall hill, just a bit higher than the towering Academy, sat the crumbling ruins of a castle. Laurel blinked and squinted; perhaps crumbling was not the right word. It was definitely falling to pieces, but ropes of green snaked through the white marble as if sewing the walls together, and the canopy of an enormous tree spread out above it, shading half the structure beneath its leaves. “What’s that building?” Laurel asked the next time it came into view.
“That is the Winter Palace,” Jamison said. “I live there.”
“Is it safe?” Laurel asked dubiously.
“Of course not,” Jamison replied. “It is one of the most dangerous places in all of Avalon. But I am safe there, as are its other occupants.”
“Is it going to fall down?” Laurel asked, eyeing one corner that was done up like a corset with viridian laces.
“No, indeed,” Jamison replied. “We Winter faeries have been caring for this palace for more than three thousand years. The roots of that redwood grow with the castle now, as much a part of the structure as the original marble. She would never let it fall.”
“Why don’t you just build a new one?”
Jamison was silent for a few moments, and Laurel worried that her question had offended him. But when he responded, he didn’t sound upset. “The castle is not only a home, Laurel. It also safeguards many things—things we cannot risk moving simply for convenience or for satisfying our vanity with a fancy new structure.” He gestured back at their stony gray destination with a smile. “We have the Academy for that.”
Laurel looked back up at the castle with new eyes. Instead of the haphazard loops of green she had seen at first glance, she could now pick out the order and method in the latticework stripes. Careful braces on the corners, a web of roots supporting large expanses of wall—the tree really had become part of the castle. Or perhaps the castle had become a part of the tree. The whole structure seemed to lounge contentedly in the embrace of its sprawling roots.
Around the next bend they came upon what Laurel first thought was a wrought-iron fence. A closer look revealed that it was actually a living wall. Branches wound and curved and wrapped about one another in complicated curlicues, like an impossibly complex bonsai tree. Two guards, one male, one female, stood at a gate, both in ceremonial armor of a vibrant blue, complete with shiny, plumed helmets. They both bowed low to Jamison and reached for their side of the gate.
“Come,” Jamison said, beckoning Laurel forward when she hesitated. “They are waiting for you.”
The grounds of the Academy were bustling with life. Dozens of faeries were at work around the yard. Some were dressed in fine, flowing dresses or light silken pants and had books in their hands. Others were clad in more homespun cottons and busied themselves digging and pruning. Still others were picking flowers, searching the many heavy-laden bushes for perfect specimens. As Jamison and Laurel passed, most of the faeries paused in their work and bowed at the waist. But everyone at least inclined their heads respectfully.
“Are…” Laurel felt silly asking. “Are they bowing to me?”
“It’s possible,” Jamison replied. “But I suspect they are mostly bowing to me.”
His casual tone caught Laurel off guard. But clearly being bowed to was commonplace for Jamison. He did not even stop to acknowledge it. “Should I have bowed when you came to the gate?” Laurel asked, her voice a little unsteady.
“Oh, no,” Jamison said readily. “You are a Fall faerie. You bow only to the Queen. A slight nod of respect is more than enough from you.”
Laurel walked in silent confusion as they passed several more faeries. She watched the few who only inclined their heads. They caught her eye as she passed and she wasn’t sure quite how to take their expressions. Some seemed curious; others glared. Many were simply unreadable. Ducking her head timidly, Laurel hurried forward to keep pace with Jamison.
