Shadowfell (40 page)

Sula raised her brows but held her tongue. Dervla was crouched by the heap of clothing, scooping the garments into a linen bag. She glanced over at me.

‘If you want your things washed, throw them over,’ she said.

I took off my shoes. I set them neatly side by side. I unfastened my cloak; unwrapped my shawl. I felt odd, as if I were somewhere far away, watching this happen to a stranger with my face. Somewhere inside me a dam was waiting to burst.

Milla had filled the bath. I saw no sign of steam rising and wondered if these hardy folk bathed in cold water.

Tali rolled down her leggings to reveal a great livid bruise on hip and thigh.

‘You’d best let Fingal have a look at that when you’ve bathed,’ Milla remarked, turning a critical eye on her. ‘You could do with something to bring down the swelling.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Tali said dismissively. ‘That brother of mine is going to be busy enough without tending to my scratches.’

So Fingal was Tali’s brother; that explained the matching tattoos. I cleared my throat. ‘I could dress it for you,’ I said. ‘My grandmother was a healer and she taught me basic skills. If Fingal can give me some materials, I can make a poultice that will relieve the pain and stop your leg from stiffening up. If you like.’

Tali was about to deliver a withering refusal – I could see it in her eyes – but something halted her. ‘Later, maybe. Right now you look too worn out to lift your little finger.’

She stripped off her remaining garment to reveal a lithe body, muscular and rangy. For all its athletic strength, her form was womanly in its curves and hollows. I was staring. I turned my gaze onto the bath, by which Sula now stood, passing her hands over the water in an elaborate pattern. It was almost as if her fingers were dancing. Their intricate movement held all our gazes: Tali, standing like a warrior statue, Andra and Dervla by their pallets, Milla and Eva with buckets in hand.

Sula closed her eyes. She drew in a breath, then let it out in a sigh. There was a sudden stillness in the underground chamber, as if something unseen had drawn breath with her. The fire flickered and flared; abruptly, the room went winter-cold. Before I could reach for my cloak, I saw steam rising from the bath water. Sula opened her eyes, blinked a few times, then reached down to dip a hand in. ‘Just right,’ she said.

The others were looking at me now, as if they expected me to say something – to ask how this had been done, or to express the shock and disgust a loyal subject of Keldec would feel required to show after witnessing such an open demonstration of canny work.

‘That’s a useful talent,’ I said quietly. ‘I had thought perhaps I was to be put to the test with a cold bath. In fact, any kind of bath is a luxury for me, as you can probably see. Since I didn’t earn my place by fighting, I’ll go last.’

‘Good for you,’ said Milla with a grin. ‘Get on with it, girls, supper will be ready before you are at this rate.’ She glanced at me, sizing me up. ‘Eva and I will fetch you some clothing, that’s if we can find anything that won’t swamp you. Slip of a thing, aren’t you? What have you been living on, twigs and leaves?’

‘Thank you,’ I murmured as the two of them went out, taking their buckets with them.

The preternatural chill that had gripped the chamber when Sula worked her charm soon dissipated, allowing the fire’s heat to warm us again. Since I was to be last, I need not finish undressing yet. While the others bathed, I would lie down for a little. I stretched out, my head on the pillow. Somewhere, a long way away, I could hear the other women talking, accompanied by the splash of water and the clank of the bathtub as one got out and the next took her place. My mind drifted, floating away to another realm, a place without blood and fear and hard choices. I slept.

Despatch: To Owen Swift-Sword, Stag Troop Leader (to be passed from hand to hand)

Summerfort or district of Rush Valley

Time of the first snow

The king is aware that your current mission is of some delicacy and requires extended periods of absence from formal duties. You will understand, in your turn, that this approach is open to misinterpretation both amongst the local populace and amongst our retainers at Summerfort
.

The king is concerned by some inconsistencies between the information that has reached us through our observers and the content of certain recent despatches in your hand. He believes this can only be resolved by your personal attendance at court
.

King Keldec anticipates your return to Summerfort before snow closes Three Hags Pass. You will then ride on to Winterfort in company with Boar Troop. On your arrival at court, you will provide a full account of your activities since the Cull began in the west. Your king is a patient man. Do not stretch that patience too thin
.

(signed by King’s scribe) On behalf of Keldec, King of Alban

Owen, come home, curse you! I need you here.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
HE NORTH WIND
harried him forward, whistling in his ears. Too late. Too late. There was no forgiveness, of course; a man who did the things he did could not expect that. But if only she had said something, if only she had let him know with a word, a gesture, a look, that she understood, then he could have left without this heavy stone in his chest, this burden that grew harder to bear with every passing season. If only he could have stayed a little longer, given her another day, two days. If only he could have seen the colour come back to her wan cheeks, and the haunted look leave her as she realised that finally, at Shadowfell, she could be safe. They would not meet again until spring, and only then if Keldec gave him leave to return to the north. By then . . . by then, who knew how many more ill deeds he would have done, how many more orders he would have forced himself to obey, all for a cause that sometimes seemed as remote as the stars in the night sky? He shivered, casting his glance from side to side, eyeing the shadows under the rocks, the dark places where trees huddled close, the many boltholes where an enemy might be concealed, ready to pick him off with an arrow.
Neryn
, he thought. Her name was a charm to hold back the dark.
Neryn, I’m sorry
.

I woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in the dark. Flint. Gone. Gone without a word. But no, I was here in my bed at Shadowfell, with sleeping women all around me, and it had only been a dream. A vivid dream, conjured by my own confusion and the tale he had told me as we climbed the hill. Sorry? There was nothing to be sorry for.

The fire was down to ashes and the chamber was bitterly cold. Someone had piled blankets on me; under their warmth I had slept soundly, until the dream shocked me awake. I had missed both bath and supper. But no, my hair was damp and smelled of herbs, and I felt wonderfully clean, as if I had been scrubbed from head to toe. I was wearing a capacious nightrobe whose sleeves came down over my hands and whose folds were tangled around my legs under the blankets. The others must have bathed and dressed me when I was asleep.

Somewhere beyond the doorway of this chamber I could hear voices. Was it morning? The shutters were closed fast, but lamplight from out in the hallway illuminated the room dimly, showing me the forms of the other women: Sula, curled up neat as a cat under her covers; Andra, sprawled on her back; Dervla, visible only as a tuft of fair hair and a mound of blankets. Tali’s pallet was empty. So perhaps it was almost day. I should seek out Fingal and get the makings of the poultice I had promised. And I must talk to Flint.

A set of clothing lay over a stool beside my bed: woollen leggings, a shift, a plain blue gown, a warm shawl. There was even a comb, though one of the women must have done a thorough job on my filthy, tangled hair last night, for it was not only clean but fastened into a neat braid down my back. I must indeed have been weary.

Evidently they had not managed to feed me any supper. My belly felt hollow and my mouth dry. I scrambled into the clothes, which were only a little too big, slipped my feet into my shoes and ventured out into the hallway.

I followed the voices. A look in the first doorway showed me two men in states of undress and several others sleeping. I averted my eyes and hurried on past. I turned a corner, thinking the place was a little like a rabbit warren, and came to a sudden halt. A set of stone steps spiralled sharply downward, apparently into a bottomless well. A chill draught eddied up from the depths, and I stepped back hurriedly, remembering Odd’s Hole.

‘Careful,’ someone said right behind me, making me start in fright. It was Fingal, fully dressed and carrying a covered bucket. ‘It doesn’t pay to walk about backwards here, there are too many twists and turns. Looking for breakfast? It’s this way.’

‘How is Garven?’ I made myself ask.

‘Still alive.’ With a glance at me, he added, ‘No point in feeling guilty about what happened. It’s war. People get hurt. What you did saved lives. Remember that.’

He led me to a chamber with a broad hearth on which a fire burned. As in the bedchamber, the windows were shuttered. The place housed a long table, benches, shelves holding various platters, bowls and utensils. It all looked surprisingly ordinary. There was Milla with her sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a big iron pot which, it seemed, had just come off the flames, for the contents were steaming. A savoury smell filled the place. Eva was setting out bowls and spoons. Two men sat at the table, talking in low voices. Neither of them was Flint.

‘Ah, you’re up,’ Milla said, giving me a smile. ‘And looking a great deal better, I must say. Now sit down and let me feed you. Nobody expected you to fall asleep quite so suddenly or quite so soundly. No, you don’t,’ she added as I opened my mouth to protest that there were other things I must do first. ‘Sit, eat. Don’t say a word until it’s all gone.’

Hungry as I was, I could not finish the helping she gave me. The food was wonderful, a thick broth with real meat in it, but so rich I knew I would be sick if I ate it all. As I sat there, the table filled up with men, all of them looking somewhat grave, though Milla got a few smiles as she ladled out the food. I remembered that some would have kept vigil over the dead last night, and that today they would be laying their comrades to rest.

Fingal did not sit down with us, but handed Milla his bucket and went off carrying a pile of clean, folded cloths. He looked too busy to be asked about the poultice, or about anything. All of a sudden I felt very much alone.

‘One more mouthful, Neryn,’ Milla said, watching me. ‘Good. That’s enough; I see you won’t get through all of it. Little and often, that’s what you need. Build up your strength slowly. If you need the privy, it’s down there.’ She pointed through yet another doorway. ‘Good idea to knock before you go in. Men greatly outnumber women here.’

I cleared my throat, feeling awkward. ‘Do you know where I might find Flint?’

She shook her head. ‘Can’t tell you. He and Regan were in early for breakfast. If you find one, maybe you’ll find the other.’

‘Is there anywhere I shouldn’t go? I don’t know how this place is laid out or what rules there may be . . .’

Milla smiled. ‘You won’t go anywhere you’re not allowed, because there’ll be someone to stop you. If you want my advice, the best place for you is back in bed. Take things one step at a time.’ After a moment, she added, ‘But I see you won’t do that. Go down that passageway there, turn right, then right again before you reach the men’s sleeping quarters. Our dead have been laid out in the practice area. You might find your man there.’

‘Thank you.’ I felt a flush rise to my cheeks; ridiculous. Everyone seemed to be leaping to the same conclusion about Flint and me.

Last night’s dream clung close around me as I made my way through the hallways. It had been like another person’s dream; clear proof, I might once have believed, that I was an Enthraller’s victim. I had walked in Flint’s shoes. I had thought his tender thoughts. I had felt his hurt and his loneliness as if they were my own.