Read Online Summerkin by Sarah Prineas - Free Book Online Page B

eyes. Was it scorn? “Gwynnefar,” the warden said formally, “you are summoned to the nathewyr to prove your claim of Ladyship over the Summerlands. Come!”
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    In his dog shape, Rook trotted behind Fer and the idiot wolf-guard, following them through the twisty passages of the nathe. The warden led them to a grand double door inlaid in silver with a picture of some kind of flower. Fer had studied healing, and she knew about things like herbs and flowers; she’d know what it was. Rook glanced up at her. She looked nervous. As she should be, he thought.
    The double doors swung open. Here it was, the nathewyr, a place that pucks had never been allowed to enter. This was where the High Ones showed themselves to their people, accepted their people’s sworn oaths, and where they would pass their judgments. They’d brought Fer here to decide whether she could be the Lady of the Summerlands or not, which was stupid, since Fer was obviously a Lady and didn’t need to win some competition to prove it.
    He’d come here for another reason altogether. A puck reason.
    The hall had several doorways in the walls—that was the first thing he noticed. Lots of ways out, then. Following Fer and the wolf-guard, he padded farther into the huge room. Along the walls were pillars made of living trees with silvery bark; they grew up from gnarled roots in the polished floor to twine their branches in a high, graceful ceiling. Glowing crystals hung from the tree-pillars’ branches and sat in niches in the walls.
    The nathewyr was crowded. A big hall like this, full of people as it was, should be echoey, but the silence pressed against his ears. To his dog-nose it smelled stuffy and old, just like the forest outside. Time didn’t pass here, it just was .
    Keeping their distance from him and Fer and the wolf-guard were Lords and Ladies of all kinds, some drooping like graceful flowers, others short and green-skinned like mossy stumps, or looming and hairy like broad bears, or blinking at him with wide deer eyes. Beautiful, all of them, with false glamorie, and shimmering with false power. As he passed, they snuck glances at him and Fer, and whispered to one another. Rook bared his fangs and grinned at them. At that, they exclaimed and drew away like salted snails.
    Oh, would they be in for a shock, once he’d done what he’d come here to do.
    Fer stopped and stood five steps ahead with her back to him, straight and slim in her patched jacket. None of the other Lords and Ladies had given her any sign of welcome; they’d only stared. The tips of her ears, Rook noticed, had turned pink. She must be able to hear the loud whispers—“false Lady” and “half human” and “bringing a nasty puck into our midst.”
    The crowd parted, and the golden Arenthiel creature glided up to Fer and bent over her, whispering. The fur on Rook’s neck bristled. He watched as Fer turned to Arenthiel, eyes wide, and nodded. Arenthiel smiled, and Rook saw that even though his smile was beautiful, it was chill and sharp. Fer didn’t have a puck’s vision; she couldn’t see it.
    Arenthiel glanced aside at Rook and gave him a sly wink, as if they shared a secret. He knew that Rook’s puck vision had seen him for what he truly was, Rook realized. He felt a growl grumbling in his chest.
    But wait. He wasn’t here to worry about Fer and her troubles. He was here to make trouble of his own. Trying to ignore Fer and the golden boy, he cast another look around the nathewyr, searching for the thing he’d come to find. There. At the end of the hall was a platform, and on it stood two carved wooden thrones. The High Ones’ seats. The thrones were inlaid with silver that glinted faintly. Next to the thrones—there was the thing he’d come to find.
    It rested on a pedestal, on a pillow made of deep blue velvet. A crown made of silver—silver oak leaves twined