Shadowfell (15 page)

With Sorrel’s body lying beside us under its blanket, I knew I must refuse, though I’d have welcomed her companionship on the journey. ‘Thank you twice over, then. But I must go on alone.’

Hollow had sat silent a long time, listening. ‘I’d come wi’ ye masel’, lassie,’ he said now, ‘if I could. But I canna leave ma post. There’s naebody else tae guard the brig. Ye understand?’

‘Of course.’ I imagined going up the valley with a brollachan as my companion. He’d make a fine bodyguard, no doubt of that, and good company of an evening. On the other hand, the first glimpse anyone got of him – and he was hard to miss – would bring down the king’s men like a swarm of ants to a honeycomb. It would bring Enforcers with cold iron. ‘I’ll leave at first light.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
HE MOON WAS A
pale half-circle when I bade my companions farewell next morning. The sun had not yet risen. I felt the air’s chill deep in my chest and struggled not to cough. I tied a cloth around my neck and pulled it up to cover my mouth and nose. I would keep my hood up and walk as fast as I could.

I knew the way. Eventually I would come to the spot Sage had referred to as a threading of the needle. There the valley narrowed to a steep defile, river and road passing between sheer rocky walls. The road was barely broad enough to accommodate the wheels of a cart. The defile was close to two miles long. In that place there would be no hiding. Coming the other way a person might, at a pinch, essay the Rush by boat. But not going upstream.

I thought I might reach the defile by midmorning and wondered whether someone could ride there from Summerfort before then. Was it really possible that Keldec’s people knew I might be a Caller? If so, I was in worse danger than I could possibly have believed. A Caller could change the great tide of events; she could draw together humankind and the Good Folk and get them to work side by side. A Caller could be a great asset to the cause of Alban’s freedom. She might also be a truly terrible weapon, if turned to the king’s will.

Imagining what Keldec might do if he acquired the capacity to command the Good Folk, I felt my belly churn with nausea. Maybe I had it in me to be this Caller and maybe I didn’t, but if there was the least chance Sage and Hollow were right about me, I must not allow the king’s men to catch me. I owed it to everyone who had shown faith in me to get to Shadowfell safely. Once there, perhaps I would have time to find out exactly what I was and what I could do.

As for virtues, how could I show them when I had no idea what they were? As I walked, I tried to remember the clues sprinkled through that conversation I had overheard when half-asleep. Something about a hand. The Giving Hand, that was it. Had my sharing of my meagre food supplies been sufficient for me to pass a test of generosity? Unlikely, since one of the Good Folk had scorned my gift, saying I would find it harder to share when I was starving. So I might not have demonstrated even one virtue yet. The Giving Hand. There was something familiar about that expression, but if I had heard it before, it was so long ago I could not recall where.

The sun rose higher. Clouds were massing in the west, heavy and grey, threatening a downpour. My feet were leaden and my head ached. My chest was so tight I was struggling to breathe. I followed the course of the river, delaying the moment when I must step onto the road. In these parts the valley was a barren wilderness, the slopes almost devoid of foliage as their pitch steepened, the level ground beside the Rush home only to low scrubby bushes and tough grasses. There were signs that rabbits had been about. I saw a small flock of goats grazing not far from the riverbank and ducked behind a crumbling dry-stone wall, my heart thumping. Goats could not tell tales, but goatherds could. When I was fairly sure the animals were on their own, I took time to scan the way ahead once more. On the far side of the road a farmhouse stood low and grey against the hillside, smoke threading up from its chimney. And further up the valley, there at last was the entrance to the defile. Dear gods, let there be no guard post.

I leaned back against the low wall, closing my eyes. Now that I had sat down, I could feel the ache in my limbs – not the satisfying pain of a physical task achieved, but a deep-down pain, the kind that is a warning of illness. My head felt hot; my vision was odd too, spots moving before my eyes, obscuring the way ahead. I must not be weak. I could not stop out here in the open, a sitting target. I forced myself to get up. It wasn’t far to the place where the defile began: a mile or two at most. Then two miles through. I could do it. I must. As soon as I reached the other side, I would be able to take shelter in the tracts of forest that grew in the lee of the hills.

I stood there a moment with everything swaying and shifting around me. I fished out my water skin and took a mouthful, forcing it down. Then I gritted my teeth and walked out into the open.

Something was wrong with me. The simple act of walking felt almost beyond me, as if I were dragging my legs through heavy mud. I fixed my gaze on the point where the valley walls closed in on each other, casting a heavy shadow on the ground beneath and throwing the river into darkness. I would keep going. I would reach that place and walk through to safety.

By the time I reached the entry to the defile, the sun was almost at its midpoint. If that man had alerted the Enforcers at Summerfort and people had ridden up the road in search of me, surely they would be here by now. There was no sign of anyone. Anyone human, that was. There were Good Folk everywhere: up on those steep slopes, under the rocks, in the chinks and cracks. Without even looking, I felt their presence. There would be no speaking to them here. The last thing I wanted was to put anyone else in danger.

I drew in a deep shuddering breath and let it out again.
Here I am
, I thought. Sick and weary as I was, it felt like a battle cry. I stepped onto the king’s road.

I had walked perhaps a hundred paces into the shadows of the defile when I heard the clop of horses’ hooves and the squeak of cartwheels on the road ahead of me, approaching steadily. I pulled the cloak around me and kept going. What was that story again? I struggled to remember it. Calla. A drowning. Relatives in the north. The place . . . was it Stillwater?

The cart came into view, a looming shape in the shadows of the deep vale. A solid farm horse, a man sitting on the bench with a sack around his shoulders for warmth, his shoulders hunched. As the cart neared me I shrank back against the rock wall, for there was barely room for the vehicle to pass me safely. The man narrowed his eyes at me but did not stop.

Sucking in a breath, I hitched up my bag and walked on. Two miles to a precarious kind of safety. Two miles to a place where I could find cover. There were farms higher up the valley, of course, but at least I would not be walking over open ground, exposed to every eye. Tomorrow, or the day after, I would reach the Three Hags. Once over the pass, I would be close to Corbie’s Wood. The chill fingers of memory clutched at my heart. Going home would be the hardest thing of all.

At last I saw a brightness up ahead, as if the high walls of the defile were leaning back, opening up. Nearly there. My head was spinning. My feet refused to walk in a straight line.

A sound from behind me. Hoof beats on the road. Horses, two, three, more, moving at a canter. No time to think. No time to make a plan. Nowhere to hide. My heart banged like a drum; my skin was all cold sweat. I could not run fast enough to outpace them. I pressed myself against the rock wall, knowing I was in plain view. One look and I would be taken.

Hard stone was against my cheek, against my body. Within it I sensed a long slow beat, a grave answer to the panicky thudding of my heart. There was a presence here, huge, old, wise beyond count of years. Crazily, a snatch of rhyme ran through my head, part of a childhood game almost forgotten.
Stanie Mon, Stanie Mon, nod yer heid, Stanie Mon, Stanie Mon, fa’ doon deid!
A stanie mon was a being of stone, a creature Farral and I had used to frighten each other with at bedtime. A story. A fantasy.

The deep heartbeat filled my body with its rhythm. It was strong beyond any human strength. It felt entirely real.

A rider came into view on the road: a tall, cloaked figure on a formidable horse. Behind him were others, riding two abreast. The first man gave a sharp call, pointing toward me.

I shut my eyes and pressed my face against the rock wall. If I truly was a Caller, if such a gift existed, let it work for me now. ‘Stanie Mon, Stanie Mon, wake frae sleep,’ I whispered through chattering teeth. If this did not work, I would be facing a mind-scraper before sunset. I would be lost. ‘Stanie Mon, Stanie Mon, hide me deep.’

In an instant everything went dark. Stone was all around me, trapping me within its bulk. I could not move so much as my little finger. I was blind, deaf, paralysed. I could not breathe. I managed a squeak of terror, and sensed a response, as if the heaviness that surrounded me relaxed a little. I sucked in a terrified breath. Had I just worked a charm that would kill me? Oh gods, oh gods, it was so dark; not the darkness of a moonless night or a house with the lamps quenched, but a profound and terrifying absence of light. It was as if the world had been sucked away, leaving me in a place where I was the only living, breathing creature. ‘Stanie Mon,’ I whispered into the faceless black. ‘When it’s safe, please let me go.’

Nothing changed. Nothing moved. I strained my eyes for the least dim flicker of light. My body was a mass of tightly knotted pieces; my heart juddered in my chest. There was nothing I could do, nothing. Nobody knew I was here. I might remain here until I was no more than a walled-up set of bones. How long had I been here already? How long would those riders linger, once it became plain that the figure they had seen standing against the rock wall was no longer there? With the heavy darkness pressing on me, with the stones a finger’s breadth from my body, time no longer made any sense.

Not much of a choice
, said a little voice inside me.
One: you get buried alive. Two: an Enthraller turns you into a weapon for evil. Seems to me you’ll be doing Alban a favour if you give up the struggle right now. Why fight when you can’t win? There’s no rhyme or reason to that
.

Rhyme. That last time, I had not spoken in verse. Could it be as simple as that? I took a few long breaths, forcing my trapped body to a semblance of calm. My mind cast wildly for rhyming words. ‘Stanie Mon, Stanie Mon, when the way’s clear,’ my voice came in a shaking whisper, ‘Stanie Mon, Stanie Mon, free me frae here.’

Darkness was absolute; the rocks hugged me as close as a shroud. The silence drew on. Then, in its own time, came a vibration from the rocks, like deep, slow laughter. And then light. I squeezed my eyes shut, momentarily dazzled. The stones released me and I sprawled helplessly onto the hard-packed earth of the road, bruising hip, knee and hand. There was a shifting sound. By the time I gathered myself and looked up, there was nothing to be seen but a blank stone wall. I scrambled to my feet, looking one way then the other along the road. The riders were gone. I was safe. Safe for now.

Every instinct screamed,
Run!
But I could not run. My legs were like jelly and my chest had a band around it, squeezing ever tighter. Which way had my pursuers gone, on up the valley or back toward Summerfort? There was a confusion of marks on the road, the prints of hooves and of boots. But I was used to reading such signs. Someone had paused to dismount here; someone had taken a good look at the place where I had stood within the rock only an arm’s length from capture. And then, when they couldn’t see me, they’d split up. Four sets of hoof prints headed back toward Summerfort. One went on.

By the time I emerged from the defile my legs would barely carry me. I must find shelter; I must find a place to hide. Here the valley broadened again, though it was not the open flatland of the river mouth, but a ribbon of farmland beside the Rush, lying between wooded hillsides. Elder and willow clothed the lower slopes, and above them stretched a band of oaks. Higher still, the rise became bare rocky fell. An eagle passed overhead, its wings catching sun between clouds, flashing gold-brown. Leaves lay in heavy drifts beneath the bare-limbed trees; the forest would not hide me as well as I had hoped.

I was cold. I was cold deep in the bone, my whole body shivering, my joints aching. As I scanned the terrain, trying to spot a place that might conceal a cave, a hollow, an overhang, anywhere I might creep in and shelter, it began to rain, at first a scattering of droplets, then a steady, soaking fall.

No outcrops close at hand, no thicker growth of trees, no place to hold a desperate wayfarer. I swayed, knowing I was close to fainting. I had no chance of reaching the deeper parts of the forest today.

If my head had not been so muddled with fever, I might not have taken such a risk. As it was, I saw a farm not far away, its back against the forest, its face toward the road. I would not approach the homestead. Smoke was rising: it was tenanted. I would not go near those walled inner fields, where pigs rooted about and a house cow stood in patient silence. I would not seek shelter in the small outhouses that stood near the dwelling, sheds in which I might stumble on chickens or geese or pigs. But there was a barn standing at some distance from the other buildings, its big doors closed, its yard empty. Halfway along the side there was a low opening, perhaps designed for stock to go in and out. I crept closer, sidling from wall to shed, from hawthorn bush to outhouse to wood pile. I bit my lip, expecting the sudden barking of a watchdog or a shout of challenge. Nothing. Nobody came out. The cow turned her head to look at me but kept her silence. A rag-tag flock of chickens was crouched in the lee of the barn, huddled against the rain. A scrawny cockerel perched on a wall nearby, keeping watch. He eyed me; I willed him not to sound an alarm.

The ground on this side of the barn was a quagmire, the smell of pigs overwhelming. My feet slipped and slid; I was in danger of falling headlong. I crept forward. Here was the opening, with animal tracks going through. I slipped under, came up inside. It was quiet in the barn, dim, dry. Sacks of something, a cart, harnesses on the wall, scythes and pitchforks neatly stowed at one end. Pigeons maintaining a quiet conversation somewhere up above. And at the other end, a deep, luxurious heap of straw. I stumbled over, dug out a shallow nest and collapsed into it. Wrapped in my damp cloak, I sank into exhausted sleep.