Free Summerkin by Sarah Prineas

together with white gemstones shaped into acorns with silver caps, all shining with a cold, clear light. This was the prize that the High Ones would award to the winner of their competition, the new Lord or Lady of the Summerlands.
    This was the thing his puck-brothers had sent him to the nathe to steal.

Ten

    The moment she stepped into the nathewyr, Fer knew she’d made a big mistake.
    It was crowded, and every single Lord or Lady wore a glamorie. They were all so compellingly, glitteringly beautiful, it was like looking into the sun. Dazzled, she wanted to look away, at the floor or anywhere except at the people, but she kept her chin up and walked farther into the nathewyr.
    As she passed, a tall bird-man with sharp black eyes and sleek, speckled feathers for hair wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelled something nasty. A graceful flower-maiden turned away, drooping. Others whispered and looked scornfully down their noses. Without a glamorie to hide her human side, Fer knew that to them she looked like a blot, a drab, plain thing. Not like a Lady at all.
    Her ears burning, she found a place to stand, hardly aware of Fray at her side, or the dog-Rook a few steps behind her. Why hadn’t Arenthiel told her it would be like this?
    And there he was—Arenthiel glided up to her, looking just as gorgeously golden as he had the night before. “My dear girl!” he said, smiling. “You didn’t wear your glamorie or finer clothes?”
    â€œBut—” she stammered. “You said—you made me promise not to wear the glamorie. You said my patch-jacket was right.”
    Arenthiel shook his head, mock-sorrowful. “Oh, dear me, no. You must have misunderstood. That is not what I meant, at all.”
    Fer’s heart pounded. No, she hadn’t misunderstood. He’d tricked her. She opened her mouth to ask him why, when the nathewyr fell suddenly silent. A cool, flower-scented breeze blew through the crowded room, and the doors swung open. The High Ones entered.
    There were two of them, both women, tall and slender as birch trees, with dappled brown skin and hair as bright as braided sunlight. They wore white robes edged with silver and gold, and their feet were bare. The crowd parted and bowed like grasses in the wind as they paced slowly to the platform.
    The High Ones were beautiful, of course—Fer had expected that. But they had power, too. She could feel it humming around her. Their power filled the nathewyr like water filling a cup, making the air thick and hard to breathe. As the High Ones settled gracefully onto their thrones, the weight of the room settled around them, as if they had grown roots down into their land. They had been here always; and they would always be here. They were ageless and terrible, wise and beautiful, all at the same time. Fer found herself bowing, just like all the others in the hall.
    Except for Rook, she noticed, glancing back. He was standing on all four paws, gazing intently at something on the platform. She tried following his gaze, but she couldn’t tell what he was looking at. Fray stood next to him; she’d keep him out of trouble, Fer knew.
    One of the High Ones nodded, and a huge bear-man with bristly brown hair and a beard that grew all the way up to his close-set eyes stepped onto the platform. When he spoke, his deep voice filled the nathewyr. “The High Ones begin the contest.” He pointed to a pedestal that stood next to the thrones. On it, a gleaming silver crown rested on a pillow. “The High Ones offer this crown. Whoever wins it also wins the power to rule the Summerlands as its Lord or Lady. Who would compete for this prize?”
    Determined to be first, Fer started to step forward.
    But another competitor beat her to it. “I will compete for the Summerlands crown!” shouted someone from behind her.
    Fer whirled to look. A girl strode forward and bowed quickly toward the High Ones. She was taller and