Raven Flight

by Juliet Marillier

  When I said nothing, she went on, “The north isn’t entirely empty. There’s a regional chieftain there, Lannan, sometimes called Lannan Long-Arm, with a number of district chieftains answering to him. Lannan is kin to the leaders in the northern isles. We’ve been told his personal fighting force is substantial.” She hesitated. “Our negotiations with Lannan are at a delicate stage. Of Alban’s eight regional chieftains, this is the most powerful. He hasn’t attended the Gathering for several years; his relationship with the king is less than cordial. Distance is his friend. Keldec’s unlikely to send a war band rushing up there only to see them lost in the mountains.”

  There was a pause.

  “You understand what I’m telling you, Neryn?”

  “That whoever wins Lannan over to their side has a big advantage. Yes?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Does that mean Regan is traveling north himself in spring?”

  Tali shook her head. “No need. We’ve a team talking to Lannan already. There’s more to Regan’s Rebels than this small band at Shadowfell, Neryn. This is the center of the operation, yes; Regan is the beating heart of the rebellion. But we couldn’t do it with so few. We’re spread out in many parts of Alban, in places where a single dissenting voice has grown into a force for change. We do have to be careful. You know what happens when the king gets the merest whiff of disobedience.”

  I knew all too well. I had seen villages burned, the innocent put to the sword, leaders who stood up for justice summarily executed. I had lost my entire family to the Cull, the seasonal sweep of Alban’s villages that weeded out the rebellious and those with canny gifts. Keldec feared magic above all else. And yet he used it for his own ends. His Enthrallers, of whom Flint was one, were able to work an enchantment to turn someone who had displeased the king into a flawlessly loyal subject. Sometimes, though, the charm went wrong, and the victim became a witless husk of his former self. That too I had seen. It had been the worst night of my life.

  “If Regan’s teams are spread out all over Alban,” I asked, “how do they communicate? How can you put a complete strategy in place when the time comes?”

  “We have folk here and there who carry messages. Trusted folk. Believe it or not, there are some of those in Alban still. But, yes, it is a weakness. These things take time.”

  I thought of the boy who had brought messages to Flint, when he and I had spent the long days and nights of my illness in a little hut halfway up the Rush valley. I had wondered about that boy; wondered if he was like my brother, who had died with a spear through his chest when the Enforcers raided our home village, less than four years ago. Only a fool or a hero would dare carry messages for the rebels. Perhaps such folk were both heroes and fools.

  “It’s not a quick process,” Tali said. “Winning the chieftains over, I mean. Those who are prepared to support a rebellion dare not be open about their intentions. In every stronghold there’s someone ready to slip word to the Enforcers for a few pieces of silver. And once they do that, whether their information is true or false, the king’s wrath comes down like an ill-aimed hammer, striking innocent and guilty alike. All of us want the rebellion soon, as soon as possible, before people are too worn down to care anymore. But a word to the wrong ears could wreck the whole endeavor.” She glanced at me sideways, her dark eyes narrowed. “That means no blundering into unknown parts and saying too much, whether it’s a chieftain’s hall or a cave housing an uncanny creature of some kind.”

  “I wasn’t intending to do any blundering. And I’ll be staying away from chieftains’ halls. I’m hoping to avoid human settlements altogether, if I can. But I do need to go, and go as soon as the season allows. If Regan wants my gift as a tool for the rebellion, I must find the Guardians and complete the Caller’s training. Though by the time I get back down the Ladder, I may not be able to walk to my bedchamber, let alone all the way to the western isles.”

  “By springtime,” said Tali, standing and reaching out a strong hand to pull me to my feet, “you’ll be running up and down these steps without a second thought. You’re tougher than you look; must be those years on the road. If you’re heading west first, maybe we should be practicing swimming.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, not mentioning that I could not swim at all. “Where would we be doing that, in some icebound mountain tarn?”

  “Don’t put it past me.” The merest trace of a smile touched Tali’s features. “Now we’re heading back down. Don’t be too cautious, keep the pace steady, and lean back slightly as you go. I’d prefer not to have to catch you. I won’t count, but I want you to imagine there’s a big fellow with a big weapon right on your tail. Dawdle, and he’ll make sure you get to the bottom uncomfortably fast.”

  Once I began training with Tali, my daily routine changed. The Ladder was in heavy use during the day, with everyone at Shadowfell but Milla and Eva required to complete a certain number of ascents and descents to maintain their fitness. I took to rising early and going up and down while everything was quiet. The only ones on the Ladder before me were Tali and her brother Fingal, who fitted in the same combat training as everyone else. People said Shadowfell’s healer had a rare skill with the knife, and not only for surgery. As for Tali, she worked everyone hard, and herself hardest of all.

  When the folk of Shadowfell were not on the Ladder or in the training yard, they were busy with other work: helping Milla and Eva maintain the household, keeping weaponry in top condition, fashioning maps, making plans for the spring’s trips out from Shadowfell. I wondered, sometimes, if Regan had established this routine so there would be less time for arguments. Disputes did tend to break out when a small community was cooped up in a confined space, as we were over the long highland winter. It was rare for anyone to venture outside, apart from their activities in the training yard with its sheltering stone walls. The fells were blanketed with snow; ice made the paths treacherous.

  I learned new skills. Andra, a strapping red-haired fighter of one-and-twenty who could match the best of the men in hand-to-hand combat, trained me to use my staff as a weapon. Muscular, hard-faced Gort, who had once been a chieftain’s master-at-arms, taught me to wield short and long daggers in self-defense. I was not trained alongside the new recruits, who had been given a trial period over the winter to prove themselves. Regan had ordered that my lessons be conducted in private. Knowing how vital it was for me to be ready when spring came, I worked hard and asked no questions.

  Every few days Sage came to the door of the rebel headquarters, and the guards put away their iron weapons, respecting what she was. They would call me, and I would go to talk to my friend in a little chamber set aside for this purpose. Sometimes Red Cap came with her, but not often. His infant was still very small, and it was cold out in the snow, going to and fro. My fey friends did not like to come farther inside our dwelling, for there was iron everywhere, not only weaponry but Milla’s kitchen ladles and tongs, the soup pot, the trivets, and other paraphernalia.

  Sage and Red Cap, with the babe, had followed me all the way from the forests by Silverwater in the west, where I had first encountered them. They had helped me, had stood up for me in the face of their clan’s doubts, and convinced others of their kind to aid me on my journey. Indeed, I’d discovered that Sage had been keeping an eye on me since I was a child, suspecting that my special ability went something beyond the canny gifts—unusually good sight or hearing, a particular talent at music, an exceptional knack with animals—that a scattering of human folk possessed.

  So Sage and Red Cap were here on the mountain, not lodged with the rebels or with the mysterious Folk Below, but in some place unknown to me. Sage had been confident, at first, that the Good Folk of Shadowfell could be persuaded to come out and talk to us, but thus far our efforts to contact them had been fruitless. I had hoped to enlist their help; I had promised Regan I would do my best. Although the Good Folk in general were distrustful of humankind, the Folk Below, with their gifts of food and fuel, had shown go
odwill toward the rebels since Regan and his band had first moved into Shadowfell. I had thought I could ask for their help in finding the Guardians—they should know, at least, where to start looking for the Lord of the North. More than that, I’d thought we could win them over to the cause. If the Good Folk could be persuaded to join the rebellion, we had a much better chance of removing Keldec from the throne. The most famous Caller of the past had united fey and human armies to defeat a common enemy.

  All very well. Thus far I had not even persuaded these folk to open their door to me. And there lay the problem. My gift was powerful. I had used it to turn the tide of a battle last autumn; I had called out a rock being, a stanie mon, to fall on a party of Enforcers and crush them. That deed weighed heavily on my conscience, and not only because one of the rebels had been caught up in it and had sustained an injury from which he’d later died. Regan’s fighters had hailed me as a hero that day. But I did not feel like a hero. Wielding that kind of power horrified me. It made me determined not to use my special talent again until I knew how to do so wisely. I must reach the Folk Below without using my gift; I must not compel them to come out. Sage and her clan had befriended me without my needing to call. Why should not the Folk Below be the same?

  My health improved. My strength increased, thanks to good food, enough rest, and rigorous training. I became more used to living at close quarters with many folk. That had been hard at first, for it was years since I had lived in the village of Corbie’s Wood, with a family and a community. Father and I had been on our own a long while; and after he died, it had been only me. And then Flint and me. I tried not to think too much of him, for my imagination was all too ready to paint me pictures of Flint at court, Flint in trouble, Flint under suspicion of spying. I dreamed of him sometimes, confusing dreams that I could not interpret. I kept them to myself. He had been my companion in times of trouble, sometimes trusted, sometimes doubted, in the end a friend above all friends. And now he was gone. I must not waste time regretting something that could not be.

  I had not kept count of the days, but others had. It was close to midwinter, and even Ban and Kenal, the two lads most recently arrived at Shadowfell, were starting to look like warriors, thanks to Tali’s training and their own hard work. We sat in the dining chamber, the only place big enough to accommodate our whole community at once, working on various tasks by lamplight after supper had been cleared away. At one end of the chamber, Milla’s cooking fire burned on the broad hearth, filling the place with welcome warmth. Regan and Tali sat together, red head and dark bent over a map spread out on the table before them. They were arguing, though they kept their voices down. Tali had her arms tightly folded. Regan’s handsome features wore an uncharacteristic frown.

  Eva and I were working our way through a basket of mending. Killen, Shadowfell’s most expert archer, had fletching materials laid out on the table before him. Andra was sharpening my knife for me, her eyes narrowed as she worked it against the whetstone. The special sheath I had made, with its protective wards, lay close by. She had not asked me about it, and I had not volunteered any information. I had learned the making of such things from my grandmother, a wise woman. Grandmother’s story was too hard to tell, too raw and painful, even now. She had fallen victim to the Cull in the cruelest way, turned into a witless shell by an enthrallment gone wrong. Destroyed before my twelve-year-old eyes as I hid and watched. I had learned to set the memory away where it would not cripple me, and I did not bring it out for sharing.

  When Flint had told me he was an Enthraller, one of those who performed the same vile magic those men had worked on my grandmother, I had fled in revulsion. The news had made me physically sick. Mind-mending, Flint had called it, a fine old magic that had been warped and perverted under Keldec. In time I had come to accept the truth of this: that mind-mending had indeed once been a force for healing. Still, I did not speak of my grandmother: neither of the time of her wisdom and love, her strength and goodness, nor of the frail, lost thing she became. Her death had been a mercy.

  Big Don was adjusting the binding on a spear. Little Don, a marginally shorter man, was plucking a tune on a three-stringed fiddle and humming under his breath. Others played games—stanies, hop-the-man, or a form of skittles with an elaborate scoring system that seemed to change from night to night. Running totals were marked up on the stone wall with charcoal, and friendly disputes as to their accuracy were common.

  The games, I did not care for. No one at Shadowfell knew I’d first met Flint when he beat my father at stanies and won me as his prize. That night was etched on my memory forever. Not long after the game the Cull had swept down on Darkwater and my father had been burned to death. I had trained myself to be calm when folk brought out the board and pieces. I had taught myself not to start in fright every time they made the call: Spear! Hound! Stag!

  “You should go off to bed,” Eva said, giving me a glance. “You look worn out. Been having bad dreams again?”

  In a place like this, there was no avoiding scrutiny. “I’m all right. Let me finish darning these leggings, at least.”

  “Another pair of Tali’s,” Eva commented. “She wears them out faster than anyone else, and since I’d rather not get my head snapped off, I don’t ask her to do her own mending. It’s not as if she’s ever idle. Does the work of four men, that girl.”

  Plying my bone needle and hoping Tali would not complain about my uneven stitchery, I allowed my thoughts to wander back to Flint, for it was a dream of him that had disturbed my sleep last night. It was hard to say exactly what we were to each other. Not lovers. Not sweethearts. What lay between us was too deep and too complicated for such words. I feared for him. Despite what he was, despite what he did, I longed for his return. But only if coming back did not place him in still greater danger. I yearned for the time when we could be together in a world without fear. I hoped that time would come before we were too old and tired to care anymore.

  “What are you dreaming of, Neryn?”

  I managed a smile. “Better times. Opportunities. Good things.”

  “Ah, well. We all dream of those.”

  “Even Tali? I wonder what she would do if Alban were at peace.”

  Tali’s dispute with Regan had intensified; she smacked her hand on the table for emphasis.

  “I don’t see peace coming in a hurry,” Eva said. “Even if it does, folk will still need guards, protectors, sentries. There’s always work for fighters.”

  “Tali as a sentry? Give her a day or two and she’d be running the whole army.” I realized halfway through this comment that the chamber had fallen quiet and my voice had carried clearly to both Tali and Regan. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, glancing over. “I meant no offense.”

  “A song!” put in Big Don before Tali could say a word. “What better for a winter night? Who’ll oblige us? Brasal, how about you?”

  Brasal was Fingal’s other infirmary assistant, a young man of brawny build who could lift a patient with ease. His strong hands were useful for bone-setting. He also had a deep, true singing voice.

  “Come on!” Little Don plucked the start of a tune on his fiddle, then reached for the bow. “Something cheerful, none of those forlorn ballads of lost loves and misfortunes.”

  “I’ll sing if Regan sings with me. And the rest of you join in the refrain, even you, Tali.”

  “Me?” Tali’s dark brows lifted. “You know I’ve got a singing voice like a crow’s, Brasal. I’ll leave it to the rest of you.” After a moment she added, “Sing that thing about catching geese, I like that one.”

  The goose song was lengthy and became sillier as it progressed. Regan added a higher counterpoint to Brasal’s melody, and we all joined in the refrain with good will. This made a change from the pattern of hard work that filled our days, and it pleased me to see people smiling. Eva and I sewed as we sang, and Killen’s big hands stayed busy with his arrows. When the goose song was done, requests came from all over the room and the singers
obliged. Regan’s singing voice was lighter than Brasal’s, clear and sweet in tone. The fiddle added an anchoring drone and sometimes inserted its own line of melody. The fire crackled; the mead jug was passed around; the mood was mellow.

  “Regan.” Milla spoke into the silence after a song. “Do you remember that old tune for midwinter, ‘Out of Darkness Comes the Light’? I’ve always loved that.” She glanced at me. “My man used to sing it, back in the early days. Back when we needed every scrap of hope we could find.”

  I nodded understanding. At two-and-thirty, Milla was the oldest person at Shadowfell. She and her husband had been with Regan from the first, along with Flint. Fingal and Tali had joined them not long after. Those six had been the sum of the rebellion then, the tiny flame from which a great fire of hope had flared. Milla’s man had died for the cause. Exactly how, I did not know and did not ask. Folk only shared their stories if they chose to; it was an unspoken rule that one did not pry. Likely every person at Shadowfell had a tale of loss and heartbreak in their past, just as I did.

  “I remember it,” Regan said. “Brasal?”

  Brasal shook his head. “I don’t know it. You start, I’ll try to pick up the tune.”

  Regan lifted his voice, unaccompanied in the quiet of the chamber. The firelight played on the strong bones of his face; his deep blue eyes shone with feeling. And while his singing voice was pleasant rather than exceptional, suddenly everyone’s gaze was on him. Fingers stilled in mid-stitch; playing pieces were set quietly down.

  Out of darkness comes the light,

  Out of night comes morning,

  Out of sorrow rises joy,

  In the new day’s dawning.

  Courage, wanderer! May the sun

  Cast its light upon us,

  Showing us the path ahead

  Into springtime’s promise.

  Rise up, weary traveler, rise!

  Hope’s bright beacon lights the skies.