Summerkin by Sarah Prineas Page B

has returned,” said the warden blandly, and shoved Rook into the room. The warden left, slamming the door behind him.
    Rook panted as if he’d been running, his black hair was a mass of tangles, and he had a long, bloody scratch on his leg.
    Fer dropped the roll and set down her teacup with a clatter. “Rook!” She jumped to her feet. “Are you all right?”
    â€œI am, yes,” Rook answered, catching his breath. His eyes went to the table. “Is that breakfast?”
    Not for the first time in their friendship, she wanted to strangle him. “Where have you been?” she asked. He opened his mouth to answer, and she interrupted. “And don’t say ‘none of your business.’ It is my business. If you get into trouble, then I get into trouble.” She waited for him to explain himself, but he didn’t speak, just stood scowling at the floor. Okay. Fine. She still had plenty of healing herbs in her box. “I’ll put some medicine on that scrape so it doesn’t get infected.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” he said, his voice rough, and brushed past her to the table, where he crouched and tore into the food like a ravenous dog.
    No more Oh, Rook . She was starting to get mad. She spun on her heel and stalked into her room to get ready.
    When she had dressed—her jeans and patch-jacket were still a little damp from the day before—and Twig had finished braiding her hair, Fer picked up her bow and slung the quiver of arrows over her shoulder and went back into the main room. The bee was on the table, leaving tiny footprints in the butter from breakfast. Rook was sprawled awkwardly across two of the pillows, sound asleep.
    She stood looking down at him. Rook was ragged and grubby, and he was, for sure, keeping dark secrets from her. “You were right, Fray,” she admitted. “I shouldn’t have let him come with us,”
    â€œIt’s all right, Lady,” Fray said gruffly from over by the door. “I’ll keep a closer eye on him. He won’t slip away again, not if I can help it.”
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    After Fer had checked on Phouka, she headed out to the green lawn before the nathe, where the archery contest was set to begin. Like the day before, tents had been set up, but now they were there to protect the Lords and Ladies and the High Ones from the sun, which blazed down from a brilliant blue-glass sky.
    As she stepped out onto the lawn, gripping her bow, Lord Artos loomed up before her.
    â€œGwynnefar,” he rumbled. “The High Ones wish to speak with you before this morning’s competition begins.”
    Fer felt a twist of worry in her chest. “Okay,” she answered, and followed Artos to the tent. The air beneath it was cool and shadowed. The two High Ones, dressed in white, their braided sunlight hair like crowns on their heads, sat apart from the other Lords and Ladies. Artos led her to them and then stepped aside, leaving Fer standing on the grass before them.
    For a long moment, the two High Ones looked her over, and Fer felt the heaviness of their gazes. Their power was rooted so deeply; it made her shiver, standing this close.
    â€œGwynnefar,” one of them said, and Fer almost jumped, the voice was so unexpected. It was cool and clear, like water flowing over smooth rocks.
    She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. Bow, maybe? Kneel? Part of her wanted to kneel before such power. But she didn’t; she just tried to stand straighter.
    â€œWe ask you, Gwynnefar,” the other High One said. “Are you content with the outcome of yesterday’s contest?”
    â€œNot really,” Fer answered.
    â€œBut you saved your fellow competitor’s life,” the High One said smoothly. “Does that not content you?”
    â€œWell, yes. It does,” Fer said. “But I lost the race.”
    The dappled faces of the High Ones were calm, and they didn’t speak, they just