Raven Flight (6 page)

“Come in?” It seemed this was an unthinkable notion. “As if it werena enow that your shoutin’ woke every last one o’ us frae the lang winter sleep!”

I looked at Sage; she looked back at me, her gooseberry eyes full of disbelief.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” I said. “I bring an invitation to your clan. And I need your wise advice on a matter of great importance. But I suppose if Northies go to sleep for the winter, like bears or squirrels, you won’t be interested in a midwinter feast, with music and gifts, to thank you for your kindness. And you won’t care whether you’re part of a council to talk about restoring peace and justice to Alban. All you’ll be thinking of is how soon you can go back to bed.”

The being’s expression became, if anything, still more baleful. “A human lassie,” it observed. “And ye’re callin’ us squirrels and bears.”

“That wasn’t what—”

“Seems tae me,” the creature said, “that if it’s good enow for the Big One tae sleep all winter lang, it’s good enow for us sma’ folk.”

The Big One. That was the name the Good Folk used for the Guardians. This was delicate indeed. I must not let this creature slip back into the depths of the mountain; there was knowledge here that could be vital to my journey and to our cause.

“The Lord of the North?” I ventured. “He’s part of this winter sleep as well?”

“We dinna speak o’ that.” The gray-cloaked being set its lantern down on the ground. In the altered light, I saw that its features were those of a wee man, but seamed and cracked like old stone. “ ’Tis too great a sadness to be put in
words. As for the rest o’ us, now ye’ve disturbed our rest wi’ all this callin’, there’ll be nae gettin’ back tae sleep till ye’ve had your say, I reckon. Midwinter, was it?”

“Aye,” said Sage. “What better time for a feast and celebration? Mulled ale, good food, fine singing. And did Neryn mention gifts? Invitations like that don’t come often these days.” She waited for the space of two breaths, then added, “She’s a Caller. Did you grasp that? The lassie’s asking you nicely, out of the goodness of her heart. She’s been down here day after day waiting for you to show your faces, to no avail. Plain discourteous of you, I’d say that was, since I don’t for a moment believe the whole clan was asleep for the winter. Or maybe Northies can walk in their sleep, and carry baskets of food and loads of firewood while they’re dreaming.”

“At dusk, on midwinter eve,” I put in quickly. “That’s when the feast and council will take place. I give you my solemn promise that every scrap of iron at Shadowfell will be wrapped up and set away behind a closed door. I ask that you attend, please, and let us thank you for your help. And I ask that you listen to our leader, Regan. He has something to put to you, something of immense importance.”

“Anythin’ more, while ye’re askin’?”

“I need help in finding the Guardians,” I said. “The Big Ones. Not the Master of Shadows, since he has already come to me, but the three others. If your clan can give me some directions, I will be most grateful.”

A weighty silence. “Ye dinna ask much, do ye?” the
being said. “I tellit ye, the Lord o’ the North is sleepin’. A lang sleep full o’ ill dreams. Wakin’ us is ane thing. Wakin’ him … Ye wouldna wish tae be doin’ that, unless ye were oot o’ your wits.” He stepped back from the opening; the crack began to close.

“Wait, please!”

I could still see one eye, his hand with the lantern, shadows beyond.

The stone halted its movement. “Aye?” came the being’s dour voice.

“Please put it to the others. We will prepare the celebration anyway, in hope of your attendance. Please tell them I am here, and what I’ve said.”

“Ach, they know ye’re here. Havena ye been creepin’ your way into our heads since the moment ye set foot in this place last autumn? How could they not know there was a Caller close at hand? Trouble, that’s what ye are, naethin’ but trouble. Aye, I’ll pass it on.” A pause. “For what it’s worth.” The crack snapped shut; the stone was seamless before us.

“Wretched Northies,” muttered Sage. “Don’t bother yourself, lassie. They’ll be there. They know what you are, and they know they can’t refuse. Gifts, you said? I can’t imagine what manner of gift would please such a sour-faced creature as that.” She gave me a shrewd glance. “You’re weary. That was quite a call; went straight to my bones. You’d best get back up there and warm yourself, and I’ll be off. Red Cap’s only got the wee one for company, and it’s not much of a talker.”

* * *

I reported back to Regan. His eyes showed the same excitement as Tali’s had earlier, filling me with anxiety. So much hung on the success of this council, and Regan could not fully understand how hard it might be to persuade the Good Folk to our cause. Although he was pleased with the news, the overall mood was somber. Folk were not doing their usual work but sitting in the dining area, talking in low voices about the loss of Cian’s two companions, who could not even be offered appropriate burial. I had a word with Eva and Milla on the subject of feasts and gifts, then found myself so weary I could hardly force my eyes to stay open, though it was still day. Tali ordered me to go to the women’s quarters and rest, since I’d be a liability in the training area if I was half-asleep. I did as I was told.

I slept, and dreamed of Flint. Flint standing by a pallet where a solidly built young man lay sleeping; Flint with his hands on either side of the man’s face, singing or chanting. Richly dressed folk seated all around, watching him. Their faces intent, their eyes … avid. When I woke, my stomach was churning. I only just reached the privy before I was violently sick.

I knew Flint was an Enthraller. I understood that he must sometimes—perhaps often—practice his craft under the king’s orders, using it to turn rebellious subjects loyal or to ensure that the canny skills of people like me were used only for Keldec’s purposes. It was said many of the Enforcers were enthralled men, rendered by the process into the
most reliable fighting force a leader could have. Knowing Flint only complied with the king’s orders to keep his true purpose secret did not stop me from being repelled by it to the point of physical sickness.

Milla came by as I was retching into the privy hole and insisted on wiping my face and sitting me down in the dining area to be fed sips of broth. At supper, Fingal inquired after my health and suggested a peppermint tea with honey, which would be efficacious even though there were no fresh leaves, only dried. He would, he said, have suggested I sleep in the infirmary for the night, only Cian was still there recovering from his long journey. Andra, usually more interested in what was going on in the training yard than domestic matters, offered me one of her blankets for the night, since the cold might keep me awake. Big Don made me sit in his usual spot at table, close to the fire. I thanked everyone. I could not explain that my sickness was of the spirit, not the body. As Regan’s spy at court, Flint had to act as if he were a loyal subject of the king, even if that meant using his gift to ill purpose. The cause must come before matters of conscience for all of us. Already people had died because of me. If I could not come to terms with this, I would weaken the rebels. I would become a liability.

There were eight women at Shadowfell, including me. We were outnumbered four to one by the men. The women’s sleeping quarters accommodated six of us; Milla and Eva shared a tiny chamber off the kitchen. At first I had found
it difficult to be so close to the others, though having shelter and a proper bed was a rare luxury for me. As it turned out, the fighters were usually so tired after the long day’s work that they fell asleep almost as soon as their heads touched the pillow.

That night I lay on my bed with my blankets up to my chin, forming in my mind a letter I would never write. I told Flint how much I missed him, how I worried about his safety, how I hoped he might return in springtime. How, even though I had a mission to accomplish, my pathway felt lonely without him. How I forgave him the things he must do, and hoped the day would soon come when he need no longer bend to Keldec’s will.

Across the chamber Tali was awake too, and restless. She turned from one side to the other, kicked off her blanket then hauled it up again, punched her pillow. I knew better than to ask her what was the matter.

Eventually she said, “Neryn?”

“Mm?”

“Bad dream this afternoon, hmm?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

There was a brief silence. Then, “You dream about him, don’t you? Flint?”

She was too sharp.

“Mm.”

“You miss him.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Tali.” Not to anyone, and especially not to her.

“Regan said he thought your dreams might be useful,
especially if they give you a true picture of what Flint is doing. Since the two of you are close, and Flint is a mind-mender with control over other folk’s dreams, we wondered if that might be so. You should tell us about them.”

I got up on one elbow to look across at her. She was lying flat now, her hair a splash of darkness on the pillow, the rings and twists of her tattoos wreathing her lean body in mystery. I wished I could ask her about those markings, which were extensive, skillfully done, and almost an exact match for her brother’s. Those tattoos told a story, and I’d have liked to know what it was. But folk here seldom spoke of the past. There was little talk of families, of home settlements, of loved ones left behind. At Shadowfell it was all the cause and the future.

“It wouldn’t be useful,” I said. “I only see him in snatches, not long enough to know what is really happening.”

“More than a snatch today, surely, if it made you bolt for the privy to be sick.”

I said nothing.

“Seems to me the dreams might be more curse than blessing, if they bother you so much.”

I hesitated. In the quiet of the chamber, with the other women sleeping around us, it was easier to speak the truth. “Sometimes, yes. But I’d never wish them away. Even if Flint is in trouble or doing something I hate, I’d rather see that than not see him at all. It’s a long time until spring. And chances are he won’t come even then.”

The silence drew out.

“I haven’t forgotten what you said about not getting
close,” I felt obliged to add. “We are friends, he and I. We journeyed a long way together. Dreaming of him gives me hope.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Tali said. “What do you hope for, true love and happy endings? What if your dreams show you Flint being tortured, Flint spilling out secrets to the king, Flint and his Enforcer comrades sweeping down on another village, hacking and burning as the Cull gets under way?”

“Last night, in my dream, I saw him performing an enthrallment, with folk looking on,” I said quietly, though her words had brought angry tears to my eyes. “My grandmother suffered an enthrallment that went wrong. She lost her wits. The dream sickened me. But I still have hope, Tali. I need to believe a happy future is possible for me and Flint; for all of us. If people can’t dream of better times, if they can’t imagine a future in which they might marry and raise their children, dig their vegetable plot, ply their trade without fear, then the goal of freedom becomes meaningless. Don’t you think?”

Tali sat up. “Of course folk want that changed world,” she said, turning her dark eyes on me with some intensity. “Of course they want to live without the constant need to be looking over their shoulder or waiting for a knife in the ribs. But it’s going to be a long, hard fight, and people are going to die. You should know that, Neryn. You saw what happened to Garven. You saw six of our fighters die in that battle. You heard how Gova and Arden perished bringing news from the north. What’s needed here isn’t soft dreams
of true love. It’s anger—the anger that drives a person forward. The fury that keeps them fighting right up to the moment the knife goes in. In our world there’s no place for love.”

“Be quiet!” came a mumbled complaint from Sula, who had the pallet next to Tali’s. “Some of us want to sleep.”

“Good night, Tali,” I made myself say, though her last words had chilled me.

“ ’Night.” A pause. “You put your case well.”

This grudging praise was far more than I expected. “Thanks,” I said.

“Be quiet,” growled Sula again, putting her pillow over her head.

“Sorry.” I closed my eyes.

MIDWINTER MORNING, AND NOBODY ON THE LADDER. The cavern was shadowy; outside, the sun would be struggling up behind heavy clouds. It was hard to believe that only a year ago my father had still been alive and we had spent the cold season on the road. Midwinter had passed us by as we sheltered in some derelict outhouse or under some shallow overhang in the woods. As I began my climb, trying to keep the pace as brisk as Tali would expect, I told myself I would never forget how fortunate I was to have reached Shadowfell.

I came to the top of the steps, breathing hard. Tali liked us to head straight down again if we could, but today I went out onto the ledge. It was barely light. Rain descended in shifting sheets, moved hither and thither by the wind. I was not first here. By the rock wall stood Regan, gazing northward through the watery veils, his hands outstretched in private prayer.