Shadowfell (13 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I’m too tired and sad to sing the last verse.’

There was a long, long silence, and then the creature raised its lumpy hand and beckoned. ‘Come ye doon under the hill, then. Sit awhile by ma wee fire, and ye can sing it when you’re ready.’

I hesitated. ‘Are you telling me I’m safe? You won’t throw me in the river?’

‘Likely I willna. Meantimes, best we get oot o’ this chill.’

I allowed myself one glance back across the bridge, but on the other side all was shadow. I sent up a silent prayer for friends taken before their time. Then I turned away, following the brollachan between the dim rocks and into a twisting tunnel that wound its way toward the heart of the hill. The light was low. My companion was a darker patch amongst the shadows, its shuffling footsteps moving on ahead. I was beyond finding this strange. For some time now, I had felt as if I were in a waking dream. Only my aching chest and the tears in my eyes told me it was all too real.

I had expected a dank cavern, a bolthole full of spiders and gloom. But the brollachan’s lair proved to be spacious and comfortable, as caves went, and the wee fire it had mentioned was a cheerful blaze, the smoke venting up through a chink in the cavern’s roof.

‘Sit ye doon, then.’ The brollachan set the pookie on a pile of old blankets, and I sank down gratefully beside the little creature. I watched as the brollachan fetched a blackened kettle, which it set on a stone at one side of the fire. The pookie had its eyes fixed on the big creature as it fossicked in a corner, then returned with a meaty mutton bone. This it laid in the coals. There were bones all over the cave, piled in heaps, hanging on the walls, forming a decorative pattern around the central hearth. ‘I’m fond o’ banes,’ the brollachan commented, noticing me looking.

‘I see that.’ My voice was unsteady.

‘Ye thinkin’ I might eat ye up for supper?’

‘That did cross my mind, yes. I seem to remember that, in the tales, brollachans sometimes do that.’

‘Ye canna see yersel’, wee one. There’s hardly a scrap o’ meat on ye. Nae worth the trouble.’

I opened my mouth to say something, but the cough overtook me and I struggled for breath.

‘Ye’re no’ weel,’ observed my companion when the spasm was over. ‘Best ye dinna sing mair, for fear it’ll be the death o’ ye. But the sang needs finishin’, a’ the same.’ It sang the last verse with surprising sweetness, the deep notes of its voice ringing around the cavern. The pookie did not care for it; it curled into a ball again, tail tucked over folded ears.

‘That was beautiful,’ I said when the song was finished.

‘Aye, ’tis a grand auld sang. I like best the third versie, that about the Big Ones, the Lord o’ the North and them.’

‘The Big Ones? You mean the Guardians?’ They were in the ancient tales, figures from a distant past, like powerful, benevolent spirits.

‘Aye, the Four Guardians.’ The brollachan regarded its fingers, as if to be sure of the number. ‘Alban’s heart. Alban’s hope. Dinna forget the sang, and dinna forget the Big Ones. Wi’oot them, this land would be nobbut a big heap o’ rocks.’ Its tone suggested the White Lady and the others were alive and well and living just over the hill.

‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I said with some caution. ‘Those are very old stories, the ones about the Guardians. Are they a symbol of Alban as it was? Or Alban as it should be?’

The brollachan made a noncommittal noise, which I took to mean
maybe yes, maybe no.
The pookie had uncurled and now came to settle by me, not quite touching. Its eyes were on the mutton, which was sizzling on the fire. The kettle was steaming.

‘Ye’ll tak’ a bittie supper?’ the brollachan enquired.

‘Gladly. I have some food to share.’ My pack had survived my near plunge from Brollachan Brig. I fished out Mara’s bread and cheese and set them out on their cloth wrapping.

‘The pookie’s partial tae cheese.’ Indeed, the catlike creature had transferred its interest to my provisions the moment they were uncovered. It was already hunkered down by the cloth, nibbling steadily. The brollachan took the mutton bone out of the fire, heedless of the heat, and split it neatly with its bare hands, offering me half. Fat dripped onto the cavern floor, making my mouth water. It was a long time since I had eaten meat.

We ate in silence a while. Despite my hunger, I could manage only a few mouthfuls of the rich food. I knew that if I had any more I would be sick. I sat quietly while the brollachan demolished its own meat, my leftovers, the small amount of cheese the pookie had left and half the bread.

‘Neryn,’ the brollachan said eventually. ‘That’s your name, ye said?’

‘It is. I will not ask for yours.’

‘Ye could guess, if ye like.’

‘Is there a penalty if I can’t guess right?’ Let this not be another trial, not when I had begun to feel safe at last.

‘Ach, no, lassie, ’tis for amusement only. The nights get ower lang doon here, wi’ only the pookie tae keep me company. I’ll gie ye a clue. ’Tis a name for a lonely fellow. A deep-down, solitary sort o’ name.’

‘How many guesses do I get?’

‘Three. In the auld tales, it’s all threes.’

Sage.
My heart clenched tight, remembering. ‘If I guess it in three,’ I said, ‘will you do something for me?’

The brollachan stared at me, taken aback.

‘A favour. It shouldn’t be too hard.’

‘Guess first, and then I’ll answer ye.’

‘Deep,’ I suggested.

‘A fine guess,’ the brollachan said, ‘but no, that’s no’ the name.’

I thought of caves, of strength, of the old song ringing from the stones. ‘Echo,’ I said.

‘Ach, that’s grand!’ said my companion, a broad grin revealing his many sharp teeth. ‘I like it weel. But no, that’s no’ the name.’

‘Hollow,’ I said.

There was a little silence. ‘Ye got it,’ the brollachan said. ‘’Tis a good name for a body on his ainsome.’

‘Thank you for letting me know it, Hollow.’ Had it been a lucky guess, or had the natural magic of this place put the right name into my mind? ‘Have you been living here long?’

‘Lang enow. Came here wi’ ma wifie, but she’s gone. Gone to dust.’

There was nothing to say. His loneliness filled the cavern; the warm firelight did nothing to dispel the shadow of it.

‘There’s the pookie, o’ course. Keeps my feet warm o’ a winter night. But that’s no’ the same. No’ the same at a”.

For a little, the only sounds in the cavern were the crackling of the fire and the faint thrum of the pookie purring. Then Hollow stirred himself from his reverie.

‘What was it ye were wantin’ done, lassie?’

‘Will you go back over the bridge and see if my friends are still there? Two of the Good Folk were with me and I’m very much afraid they are both dead. They held back the men who were chasing me. They bid me go on. I don’t like to think of them lying out there all alone and –’

Hollow had lifted his hand. ‘What’s that ye say? Men chasin’ ye? A wee lassie? Why would they do that? Ye should hae callit oot tae me. I would hae made short work o’ them.’

‘I wish I’d known that. All I’d been told was that there was an uncanny presence at the bridge. Hollow, will you do it?’

‘Ye didna gie me an answer, Neryn. Why would men be after ye? Did ye dae some ill?’

I shivered. ‘I couldn’t stop my friends from following me and getting killed. That’s ill enough. As for why the king’s men are pursuing me, I have half an answer, but if I tell you, it could put you in danger.’

Hollow’s wide mouth opened in a toothy grin. ‘Even a king’s man canna best a brollachan. Come on, gie me this half-answer and I’ll cross ower the brig and see what’s what for ye.’

I had to trust him with part of the truth, at least. He had sung the song; he had saved me from falling; despite his perilous games, he seemed a friend. Briefly, I explained my canny gift, and how for years I had seen the Good Folk as I travelled but had done no more than leave offerings for them. ‘But this journey has been different,’ I said. ‘Since my father died, I’ve spoken to several of your folk – not brollachans and the like, but smaller beings. Some were hostile, but three of them became my friends and they protected me at the bridge. They held off the attackers until I could get across. I had warned them not to follow me.’

‘Why would ye dae that, if ye needed them?’

‘If I’m caught, anyone who is with me is likely to be caught too. They’d be punished for helping me evade capture, or for any reason the Enforcers took it into their heads to invent.’

‘But ye’re nobbut a wee lassie.’

‘I come from a place called Corbie’s Wood.’ I saw in Hollow’s eyes that, isolated as he was, this name meant something to him. ‘You’ll know, maybe, that it was one of the villages destroyed by the Cull. We stayed on awhile. My grandmother could not be moved. When she died, we got a whispered warning. Someone had told the king’s men about me, hinted that I was . . . unusual. What folk call smirched. We’ve been on the run ever since, slipping from place to place, trying not to attract notice.’ That had not been easy toward the end, with Father unable to tell reality from fantasy. He had truly believed he could win that final wager. ‘Father’s gone now, too,’ I added.

‘So ye’re a’ on yer ainsome, just like me.’

I nodded, unable to speak.

‘I did wonder,’ Hollow said, ‘how it was ye stood up tae me, when I could hae knocked ye off the brig wi’ ane push o’ ma wee finger. As for your gift, there might be mair tae it than ye think, lassie. We’ll talk o’ that, but first I’ll keep my side o’ the agreement.’ He rose to his feet. His head almost touched the cave roof. ‘Bide ye here awhile. Dinna be afeart o’ the shadows, they canna harm ye. Sit quiet; ye look weary tae the bane. I willna be lang.’

The shadows cast by the fire did indeed move oddly, making shapes on the stone walls that suggested all manner of creatures: a bat, a heron, a newt, a running fox. I sat quietly as I had been bid, stroking the sleeping pookie as it purred deep in its throat. I considered all the folk who had been kind to me, both human and uncanny, and knew how lucky I was. Kindness was in short supply in Keldec’s Alban. Reaching out the hand of friendship was perilous when any passing stranger might be a spy. But Mara had not alerted anyone to my presence, I was sure of that. It was her neighbour who had done it. I had seen something of myself in Mara, and I knew I would never betray someone to the king’s men, not unless they ripped the truth out of me with their instruments of torture. I hoped that even then I would have the strength to keep silent.

Through the aperture above the hearth a faint moonlight showed. I prayed that if my friends had perished out there, their deaths had been quick and clean. I cursed myself for not running back, for not trying to protect them, for not standing up to my pursuers, for making the impossible choice: to save myself at the expense of the Good Folk. I prayed that none of them had been taken prisoner. They could escape human snares and traps easily, using earth magic. But if a man had cold iron, he could bend them to his will. Did every Enforcer carry a chain on his person? Or had they expected that I might have fey help and come specially prepared?

After some time I heard Hollow’s deep voice from the tunnel. ‘Mind yon corner. Go slow, slow . . . Aye, that’s the way.’ My heart leapt. Someone was with him. Someone had survived.

They emerged into the firelight and I jumped to my feet, hope and horror warring in me. Hollow bore a limp form in his arms. Sorrel’s leafy pelt was all broken stems and patches of red, raw skin. And now, behind Hollow, came the figure of Sage, her face ashen, her eyes swollen, her mouth a grim line. Against the grey pallor of her skin her nose looked more beak-like than ever. She still carried her oak staff, but it was in two pieces. Her cloak was scorched and ripped.

‘He’s awa’ hame,’ Hollow said, coming to lay Sorrel down on the blankets. ‘Couldna dae mair than bear him ower. I’ll mak’ ye a brew.’ He glanced at Sage, who was standing by the fire now, staring into the flames as if she hardly knew where she was. ‘Neryn, talk to yon wee wumman. Show her a’s well wi’ ye. I’ll say this, ye hae braw friends.’

I said nothing at all, simply went over to Sage, knelt down beside her and took her in my arms. She stood rigid a moment, then collapsed, her knees buckling, her small body racked with sobs. I held her, blinking back my own tears. This was my fault. Her friend was dead; but for me he would have lived. Her staff was broken. She had seemed so strong and now she looked defeated.