The melody died away; this song had no refrain. For a count of ten nobody made a sound. I could swear not one of us took a breath. Then, into the quiet, there came a din of clashing metal and raised voices. Tali was on her feet in an eyeblink and in front of Regan, shielding him with a skill born of long practice. Andra and Killen were up a moment later, moving in on either side, she with her staff, he with an ax. Tali’s knife was at the ready; I had not even seen her draw it from the sheath. Brasal moved into position in front of me and Eva. Five people headed out toward the entry, drawing weapons as they went.
“It’s the middle of winter,” muttered Eva. “Who’d come knocking but an ice trow or a madman?”
I shivered, waiting. It was all very well to joke about trows. I had met a brollachan last autumn, and although the fearsome creature had proved to be a friend, that was only after he had dangled me by the ankle over an abyss and frightened me half out of my wits.
Shouts from the entry; someone exclaiming in astonishment, “Cian! By all that’s holy!”
Regan made toward the door; Tali halted him with a raised hand. She formed a word with her lips, making no sound. Wait.
We did not have to wait long. Big Don and Fingal came back into the chamber supporting a man between them. He was wrapped in thick woolen clothing, a cloak, a cloth around his head and shoulders, mittens that looked heavy with damp. A dusting of snow lay on his head and shoulders. Within the shawl-like wrapping that swathed his head, his eyes were strangely bright against a death mask of a face, gaunt and pale with exhaustion. His boots were cracked and worn. The two brought him to the fireside and sat him down on a bench. All around the chamber, weapons were slid back into their sheaths.
“On his own,” said Big Don succinctly.
Regan crouched before the traveler, gazed up into the drained face. “By sun and moon, Cian, you look like a ghost! Welcome home. No, don’t try to speak. Let’s get you warm first. Milla—”
Milla was already ladling broth from a cook pot into a bowl while one of the men poured mead into a cup and set it by Cian. Plainly this was neither madman nor ill-doer, but one of us.
“Not too much,” Fingal warned as Cian lifted the cup in shaking hands. “A sip at a time. That’s it. Get that cloak off, man. And the boots. Black Crow save us, look at the state you’re in. How far have you walked today?”
“Save the questions for later.” Regan gestured and folk moved back, giving the traveler room. Milla brought the broth; Brasal went out and came back with a blanket, which he wrapped around Cian in place of the cloak and shawl. Under Milla’s direction, Little Don carried in a tub of warm water for the traveler’s feet. Cian’s face regained some color, but bouts of shivering still coursed through his body.
“Who is he?” I whispered to Eva.
“One of ours,” she murmured. “From the north. He’ll have news. He’d never have attempted the journey in winter otherwise. Just hope it’s not bad news.”
After some time Cian’s trembling lessened, though he still looked shattered and weary. Regan sat close by him, murmuring reassuring words, while Fingal checked the traveler’s pulse, looked in his eyes, then sent me to the infirmary to make up a restorative infusion.
“Thank you,” Cian said in a thread of a voice when I returned to set the cup before him. “Who …?”
“Neryn,” Regan said. “A Caller.”
Cian’s eyes widened.
“She came last autumn, with Flint. A long story, which can wait for tomorrow. As can yours, my friend—Fingal should take you off to the infirmary and get you to bed.” Despite these words, there was a question in Regan’s voice.
“No. I must tell you first.” Cian made a visible effort to sit straighter, to gather himself. I did not like the look in his eye. All around us, folk were waiting in silence.
“Good news or ill?” Regan was calm—outwardly, at least.
“Both. It cannot wait for tomorrow.” Cian glanced at me, then over toward the new lads, Ban and Kenal. “Is it safe to speak?”
“It’s safe. Tell us. You come from Lannan Long-Arm. Does this concern the proposed alliance?”
“I have news of that, yes. But … there is something else.” Cian drew a deep breath; there was a rasping sound in his chest. “Three of us set out to bring word to you. Arden and Gova were with me. They are … they are both lost, Regan. We were caught in a storm, heading back over the pass north of the Race. Gova fell; we could not reach her. Arden perished from cold.”
A silence, then; heads were bowed all around the firelit chamber.
“What news could be so urgent that it demanded the sacrifice of two of our finest?” Tali’s voice was tight with what might have been grief or fury. “What news could not wait until the passes were safe to cross?”
“Tali,” said Regan in an undertone. It was a warning; Tali fell silent, though her anger was a presence in the room.
“The news is this.” Cian looked straight at his leader. “Lannan Long-Arm will support the rebel cause. He has promised to bring a substantial force to Summerfort and to stand up beside us when we challenge Keldec.” Then, as the rest of us were about to break out into a chorus of amazed congratulations, he added, “There’s a condition. Lannan believes that if our preparations draw out too long, the king will inevitably get word of what we plan. Should that happen, our cause is lost before we can put the final pieces in play. Our whole strategy depends on keeping the plan from Keldec’s knowledge.”
Regan was frowning. “I understand Lannan’s concerns. We’re working toward putting this in place as soon as we can. Did you offer him the incentives I suggested?”
“That was discussed, yes. Should we succeed in removing Keldec, Lannan wants a position as regent, or coregent, until the heir comes of age. If as coregent, he wants the power to approve whoever shares the position. He suggested a couple of names.”
“He knows, I assume, that Keldec is likely to bring magic into play in any confrontation with us?”
Cian nodded. “He does; and suggested, almost as a jest, that we attempt to harness the support of the Good Folk in order to counter that. At the very least, he said, if our own folk possess canny gifts, we should make use of those. But …” He looked at me.
“But Lannan does not know—cannot know—that we now have a Caller,” said Fingal. “A Caller gives us an immense advantage.”
I cleared my throat, not sure if I should speak. These people had just learned of the deaths of two of their own; it seemed no time for a strategic discussion. “But not yet,” I said to Cian. “I have only recently discovered the nature of my canny gift. I need time to learn its wise use. Two years, maybe three—I won’t know how long until I find the people who can teach me. They are all in different parts of Alban.”
Cian said nothing.
“Out with it.” Regan fixed his gaze on the traveler. “Lannan has set a limit on how long we can rely on his help, yes? Tell us.”
“He knows we plan to confront the king at one of the midsummer Gatherings, when the clans are all together in the one place. His ultimatum is this: if we cannot do it by the summer after next, he’ll withdraw his support for the rebellion, and instead step away from both Keldec’s authority and any alliance with the other chieftains of Alban.”
Horror filled me. The summer after next? How could I possibly be ready in time? There were gasps and murmurs all around the chamber; Brasal uttered an oath.
“You’re saying that if we can’t do this in a year and a half, the north will secede from the kingdom?” Tali’s voice was hushed with shock.
“That’s bold,” said Big Don. “Some might say foolishly so.”
“Lannan has kin in the northern isles,” Milla said. “And his territories are guarded by the mountains; even Keldec’s Enforcers would have trouble sustaining an armed conflict in those parts. Provided his northern kin could supply him, Lannan and his folk could survive without Keldec’s support.”
“Support!” put in Big Don with a
grim smile. “Not the word I’d have used.”
Nobody else was smiling.
“The Gathering after next.” Regan spoke calmly, but his face told another story. “I would say that was impossible. But here at Shadowfell we don’t use that word. Neryn, you understand how much this depends on you. Can you learn the skills you need by the summer after next? Will it be long enough?”
I bit back my first response. Three Guardians to find, all in different corners of Alban; three branches of knowledge to master; and then, the disparate talents of humankind and Good Folk to be brought into an alliance strong enough to stand up against the might of Keldec and his Enforcers … all that in a scant year and a half? When I had thus far failed to exchange even one word with the Folk Below? It was … I must not say impossible. I was one of Regan’s Rebels now, and I must not even think it. “I’ll try my best,” I said.
WHETHER SAGE SENSED, SOMEHOW, THAT FINDING the Folk Below was more urgent than ever, there was no telling, but the next day she was at the entry to Shadowfell, asking to see me. Sula had been on guard duty with Gort and came to fetch me from the infirmary. At the entry Gort was wrapping his weaponry and Sula’s in a cloth, and beyond the opening stood the small figure of my fey friend, her hood up against the cold, her worn green cloak covering her to the ankles. She would not come inside until every piece of iron in her path had been shielded. A chill wind blew the highland winter in, setting a shiver deep in my bones.
“We’re clear,” said Gort, tucking the bundle of weaponry away in the alcove near the entry, a place that had not existed within the intricate plan of Shadowfell until the need for it had become clear with the arrival of Sage and Red Cap. It was no wonder the Good Folk referred to the area around Shadowfell as the Folds. The terrain was steeped in earth magic. It seemed to change of itself, bare fell becoming forested hollow, dry stone suddenly shaping itself to hold a mirror-clear mountain tarn, ridge and cliff and cave forming and vanishing in startling defiance of any rules known to humankind. It was a deeply odd place, but one thing about it seemed plain: whoever controlled those changes was not ill-disposed toward Regan and his band. If the land altered, if something appeared where there had been nothing, it always seemed designed to give our band an advantage. The appearance of the storage area near the main entry was one of those useful changes—it allowed not only the temporary concealment of the iron weaponry so feared by the Good Folk, but also ready retrieval of the replacement spears and knives fashioned of other materials, which our guards substituted for their usual armory when Sage and Red Cap came to visit me.
“Come in,” I said, ushering Sage through to the small chamber set aside for our meetings. The two guards rearmed themselves with wooden spears and returned to their positions. All the rebels were accustomed to these visits now. “I need your good counsel.”
As briefly as I could, I told her of Cian’s dramatic arrival and the dilemma that now faced us. I did not know if a year and a half would be sufficient time for Regan’s forces to prepare a successful challenge to the king. It didn’t sound long; but then, Tali had implied that the northern chieftain, Lannan, had a substantial personal army. The most doubtful part of it was my contribution. Even if I could find the Guardians, even if they agreed to teach me, even if I could learn to harness my gift, what about the Good Folk? It simply wasn’t in their nature to cooperate with humankind—Sage and Red Cap were notable exceptions—and I faced the daunting task of persuading them to help us despite the very real likelihood many of them would lose their lives in the process. And all by the summer after next. Regan had made it plain to me that without their aid, the rebellion was unlikely to succeed. The might of Keldec was formidable; fear would keep most of the chieftains loyal to him.
Sage listened quietly as I set it out for her; indeed, she spoke not a word, but rested her chin on her hands and regarded me with grave eyes.
“I don’t really see how I can do it in so short a time,” I said. “It’s perilous to travel anyway, with the king’s men possibly on the lookout for me, or for someone like me. I have no idea where the Guardians are, except west, north, east. I’m hoping I need not seek out the Master of Shadows again; from the way he spoke to me, it sounded as if I might see him from time to time along the way, perhaps when I least expect it, and perhaps that means I don’t have to travel south. But the others … how do I even know where to start looking? I thought I could ask the Folk Below, but they won’t come out. Won’t even open their door to us. Yet I have to do it. Regan believes in me. His plan depends on me. I can’t let him down.”
“There’s one answer within your grasp, at least.” Sage spoke briskly. “You know it full well.”
“You mean I should call them. Use my gift, compel them to open their door to me.”
“Why would you not do that, with time running so short? Since they will not open to you when you wait politely, this seems the only way.”
There was nothing to say to this. The last time I had used my gift as a Caller, men had died horribly. It hadn’t seemed to matter that they were Enforcers, the enemy, and that my action had turned the tide of a battle. Looking at their broken bodies, I had not thought of them as king’s men, but as brothers, fathers, sons, and comrades. To wield such power was monstrous. It was only in the face of Regan’s eloquent arguments that I had agreed to learn the skillful use of my gift and to aid the rebels in their struggle. The fact was, every rebel faced the same kind of dilemma. Freedom could not be won without immense personal cost. But it felt wrong to use my gift here at Shadowfell. I would hardly endear myself to the Folk Below if I forced them out against their will. And what if something went wrong, and I caused more damage?
“A year and a half,” murmured Sage. “Not long. Not long at all.”
“There’s no need to keep telling me that!”
“No?” She regarded me with brows raised and a crooked smile on her small features.
“I’ve tried already, Sage, you know that. Every single day I’ve gone down the spiral stair and waited by that stone wall, thinking they’d come out if I gave them enough time. When I met you and the others in the woods above Silverwater, I didn’t have to call. I was by my campfire, and there you were. Later on too—when I needed you, you came.”
“Ah,” said Sage in a weighty tone. “But we’re different.”
“You and Red Cap are my friends, as Sorrel was; but not all of your clan believed in me back then. Silver and her cronies were quite hostile. But they came out too, without my making any sort of call.”
“We’re Westies,” Sage said, as if that should explain everything.
“Westies—you’re talking about belonging to the Watch of the West? What difference does that make?”
She shrugged, as if the distinction should be obvious. “We’re quick, like water. Fluid and adaptable. The Northies—” She lifted her hands in a gesture I took to mean the Northies were almost beyond hope. “They hold fast to their ways. If they choose to, they can make themselves deaf as stone. You’d need something akin to a bolt of lightning to shift them. They’ll be aware of your presence; they’ll be able to feel it even through that wall they’ve put up. But they’ve chosen to ignore you.”
“Isn’t it more likely they don’t know I’m here?”
Sage shook her head of gray-green curls. “You’re a Caller. All the Good Folk feel your presence, like a tune they can’t get out of their heads, or something buzzing around them that can’t be swatted away. It’s a matter of how long they can hold out against it. Could be the Folk Below will hold out a year and a half, or longer. Either you head off on your journey in spring without talking to them, or you use your gift to summon them.”
“But what if—”
“No what if. You need their help. Call them, explain the wee difficulty Regan’s faced with, and ask for their advice.” A pause. “Not that it’s for me to tell you what to do, lassie.”
A plan began to form in my mind, based on what I knew of the Good Folk alread
y. Not that I had ever met a Northie, except perhaps for the owl-like creature that had saved me from dying of cold on the way along the valley to Shadowfell. A being of some power, it had summoned a pack of wolves and turned them small so they could snuggle around me in my makeshift shelter. So perhaps I already owed the Northies a favor.
“We need to offer them something. A meaningful gift, not just the usual offering of food and drink. And it should be Regan who tells them about the rebellion, not me. When he talks, everyone listens; everyone is caught up in his hope and courage. I might only have one chance at this, Sage.”
“If you ask me,” Sage said, “a council would be the thing. A grand council, rebels and Northies, with everything set out for them and a formal request made for their help. Regan could do it, I suppose. But you’d be the one would have to get them up here.”
“Up here? You think they’d come, even if we shielded every scrap of iron in the place?”
“Talk to Regan. Talk to that cook of yours. See what they’re prepared to offer. Then we’ll go down and you can call them out and issue an invitation. The sooner, the better, that’s my thinking on the matter. You’ll have heard what they say about Northies.”
“What?”
“Ask a Northie a question, and you’ll wait a year for an answer. Ask two Northies a question and you’ll wait two years while they talk it over. Ask three Northies and they’ll still be arguing when they’re dead and in the grave.”
While she waited, I went to find Regan. He was in the dining hall with Tali, Big Don, and Andra, deep in discussion. Milla was stirring something on the fire and contributing a suggestion from time to time.
“I know Lannan favors Keenan of Wedderburn,” Tali was saying. “But Wedderburn’s a high risk for us; I don’t need to spell out the reasons why. Any approach to Keenan’s household would have to be made with the utmost caution. There isn’t time for that now, and I don’t believe there’s need. We have Gormal of Glenfalloch. We have Lannan, and his army is the biggest in Alban, after the king’s. Shouldn’t that be enough?”
Raven Flight Page 3