Raven Flight

by Juliet Marillier

  When night was over, we opened the shutters on a sky washed by the storm to a pale, clear blue. All that we needed to say was already said. Before the settlement was fully awake, Flint was gone.

  A few days later, when I was restored to health, I began to learn the wisdom of water.

  TALI KEPT COUNT WITH SCRATCHES ON A STONE outside our cottage door, groups of five, one line with four across it, like little trees. Perhaps she had thought ten days might be sufficient, or twenty, or thirty. The trees became a grove, a wood, a forest. The days grew longer and warmer, and the island sheep got fatter. And still I was learning.

  Tali and I sat on a wall above Hidden Cove, looking out to the south under a sky filled with strange clouds, here a tall tower, here a three-headed monster, here a cruel figure with a flail. Below us, the sea was churned to angry whitecaps. There was not a fishing boat to be seen.

  “Surely she must be able to tell you how much longer,” Tali said. “Ask her, at least. You know how vital it is that we move on soon.”

  “I can’t ask.” It was impossible to explain how wrong that would be. All day, every day I had spent with the Hag, practicing, endlessly practicing. It was not for me to question her on anything. Her power was immense; I wondered, now, that I had ever thought to challenge her.

  Most days we worked in her cavern, which was spacious and earthen-floored with a fine view out to the west. Thus far I had done very little calling. Instead, I had spent a great deal of time standing utterly still with my eyes shut, feeling in my inner self the working of waves and tide, or the subtle movements of fish out there in the ocean. Breathing as they breathed; learning the great rhythms of the sea. Feeling the same patterns in my blood and in my breath, and becoming one with them. This kind of learning could not be rushed. It must happen in its own natural time. I could not explain this to Tali. The Hag’s wisdom was secret; I knew this without being told.

  “We have to be patient. When I’m ready, she’ll let me go.”

  A weighty silence followed. We had both hoped to be back at Shadowfell by midsummer, or at the very least, to be well up the Rush valley before the roads became crowded with folk heading for the Gathering. For even though that celebration had become a testament to Keldec’s cruelty, people still flocked there in the hundreds to watch the games. If any major household did not send representatives, its lord and lady might be seen as suspect at the least, and at the worst openly defiant. The consequences of that could be dire. Folk would begin to move well before midsummer day in order to be sure they did not draw attention by arriving in the Summerfort area late. And even if we took the same route we’d used coming west, we could not avoid the main tracks entirely.

  “I don’t understand why you can’t just ask her. Explain to her that you have to visit the north too before winter.”

  “She knows that. Tali, I can’t press her. What if she rushed things and let me leave before I was ready, and then, when I needed to use my gift for the cause, something went wrong because I’d missed a vital part of the training? I know how urgent it is to move on. But we do have to be patient about this.”

  “It’s not just the risk of being on the tracks when they’re busy. If we’re back at Shadowfell for midsummer, at least some of our folk will be there, and we can talk about progress and make new plans. This enterprise is picking up speed; it’s vital that we keep in touch.”

  I said nothing. I knew she was worried about Regan. I suspected she was only waiting until we returned to Shadowfell to pass the job of guarding me on to someone else and go back to her old job as our leader’s shadow.

  Tali sighed. “It feels wrong to be here so long. This place—it lulls a person into a false sense of peace. And that’s dangerous. Keldec and his forces are still out there maiming and killing, making new laws to torment the people of Alban, grinding the chieftains’ faces into the dirt. People still live every day in fear. And over here, folk go about their lives as if none of that existed. They act as if all that matters is shearing the sheep or hauling in a catch.” She glanced over her shoulder, in the general direction of the settlement. “Not that I grudge them contentment. That’s what we all want. But I need to be out there doing something about it, not wasting my time kicking a ball around with a bunch of children while I wait for you.”

  “Then go,” I said.

  A silence.

  “I mean it, go. Between the Hag, the Good Folk, and the islanders I’m perfectly safe here. The place is remote. The Cull doesn’t come to the isles, or hasn’t in two years. If it’s so important to get back to Shadowfell, leave me and go back on your own.”

  She got up and began to pace, every part of her restless. “Don’t be stupid, Neryn, of course I can’t go without you. The mission Regan gave me was to guard you. To keep you safe on your journey. That includes the trip back. The suggestion is ridiculous.”

  “Either you do that, or you exercise patience. I’m sorry you’re unhappy, but we have to wait until she says it’s time.”

  Tali came back to seat herself on the wall beside me. “Sorry,” she muttered. “It’s just … as long as he doesn’t …”

  “As long as he doesn’t what? You mean Regan?”

  “If you knew the story, you’d understand better.”

  “Is that the story you keep saying is not yours to tell? I’ve grasped enough to know that a catastrophe befell his family, that there was nobody else left, that he gave up his claim to the chieftaincy of the isles in order to go to ground and start the movement to dethrone Keldec. Isn’t that all I need to know?”

  “It wasn’t Keldec’s Enforcers who swept down on Regan’s household and kept killing until everyone but him was gone.” There was a look on her face that chilled me. I could only describe it as savage. “It was one of the chieftains of Alban. The king required a demonstration of loyalty; the man had a choice: perform this deed or see something similar happen to his own family and retainers. Keldec delights in such games. So he got his demonstration, and the isles lost a fine chieftain, along with his heirs.”

  “I saw a district chieftain hanged last autumn,” I told her. “Dunchan of Silverwater. The Enforcers put him to death in front of his family. His wife challenged them and they killed her too. That household was lucky to lose no more.”

  “How was it you were there?”

  “I was passing by, in the woods above Dunchan’s stronghold. I watched and moved on. There was nothing I could do.”

  “But there’s something you can do now.”

  “Yes. Too late for Dunchan and his wife. But not too late for all the others Keldec and his forces could destroy if nobody acts to stop it. Tali, where was Regan when his family was killed?”

  She grimaced. “With Flint, on another island. They came back to find … well, you can imagine. The attackers were still on the Cradle, watching things burn. Regan wanted to rush in and exact bloody vengeance, the two of them against hundreds; he was possessed by fury. If Flint had not been with him, he would certainly have got himself killed that day. Instead, the two of them turned their boat around and slipped away into the dusk.” After a little, she added, “The man who carried out that raid believed his forces had accounted for the whole family. That was what he reported to the king. Regan had another name then, you understand, another identity. Nobody knows he’s still alive. Except us. Except the rebels. And not even all of them know who he was before.”

  This was enough to silence me completely. She had just entrusted me with the most powerful and dangerous of secrets. If revealed to the wrong person, this knowledge could be Regan’s death sentence.

  “And now you’re wondering why I would tell you such a thing,” said Tali. “You know as well as I do that this is the kind of information we don’t share unless it’s absolutely necessary for strategic reasons. In its way, this is that kind of reason. The chieftain whom Keldec ordered to carry out that raid was Boran of Wedderburn.”

  “Wedderburn … The territory where we were attacked on the way her
e? Didn’t they say their lord’s name was Keenan?”

  “Keenan is the son; Boran died a few years ago. Keenan’s an unknown quantity. He’s one of the chieftains we haven’t yet approached. The treatment you and I received at the hands of those so-called hunters hardly inspires confidence. When put to the ultimate test, Boran was faultlessly obedient to Keldec. Though, to be fair to the man, that must have cost him dear. It would take great strength of character to refuse such an order.”

  “You believe Boran should have said no and seen his own household put to the sword instead?” An unwelcome thought was in my mind, that it was precisely this kind of manipulation that Tali feared could be carried out on Flint and me, since we had been foolish enough to develop tender feelings for each other. “Didn’t the king ask Boran to carry out the raid because he doubted his loyalty? His son may not be a king’s man through and through.”

  “We don’t know why Keldec asked that of Boran. But yes, when he imposes this kind of task on someone, it’s usually because their loyalty is suspect.”

  “It’s a terrible choice. A man might take his own life rather than obey. Or flee with his family, turn his back on home forever, if he could.”

  “That’s what this is all about: impossible choices, and being brave enough to make them. Yes, even if it means a man’s nearest and dearest are sacrificed for the greater good.”

  “You would stand by and see your own children die in order to prove that point?”

  Tali’s eyes were turned away from me, out toward the sea and the southern isles. Her jaw was set tight. “I have no children. I never will. I have no husband, no lover, no family. Only fellow rebels, others like me. All of them understand how it has to be. Hard. Cruel. Brutal. Full of choices like the one Andra had to face. That makes it all the more vital to keep what we do under strict control. You and Flint—that’s out of control now, or he’d never have come back here when he dreamed you were in trouble. It was unplanned, it was foolish, it was too risky. He knew I was here. He knew I was looking after you. Flint is dedicated to the rebel cause. It’s his life. But he didn’t come back because of that. He came back because he loves you. It’s a weakness. I see in his eyes that if he had Andra’s choice, and if it was you who stood to be sacrificed, he couldn’t do it.”

  At this point I saw Himself on the path, approaching us. His form, on land, was that of a robustly built man; he walked on feet like any other man, and within the layers of his weedy attire he had arms and hands that he used as a man did. He was, all the same, profoundly Other, a creature of deep water and tides, his flattened features and dark bright eyes telling of wonders we human folk could never dream of. Every day, when the Hag was ready for me, he would come up to fetch me. He never spoke. I had never learned his real name, if indeed he had one a human ear could comprehend. But I was always happy to see him. There was no doubt he was kindly disposed to both Tali and me, and I suspected his influence made the Hag somewhat easier on us than she might have been.

  “He’s here,” Tali said. “I’ll be waiting in the usual spot before dusk.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s yourself, then.” This was the Hag’s daily greeting, delivered without emphasis while she examined me closely, as if since yesterday I might have turned into someone else.

  “It is, and I bid you good morning.” I had my staff with me, as well as a waterskin and the remains of last night’s supper in a covered dish. She and I would share this offering at some point during the day’s work. “A fair day.” She’d never told me how I should address her, so I avoided using terms like my lady, which so obviously didn’t fit. I simply made sure I sounded respectful.

  “Aye, it is. And just as well, since we’ll be out on the cliffs. Ready?”

  “As ready as I can be.” We made our way from the cave mouth along a ledge. Far below us, great waves pounded in to smash themselves on the rocks. Above and around us screamed an army of agitated birds.

  “Breathe,” said the Hag. Sure-footed as an island lad collecting eggs, she stepped along the narrow pathway, her back straight, one hand lightly touching the rock wall beside her. I breathed and followed.

  The ledge rose gradually, rounded a headland, became broad enough for two to sit side by side without immediate risk of falling.

  “You can sit down,” she said.

  We sat, gazing out to the west.

  “You’ve made progress.”

  I bowed my head. Her praise warmed me, but I could not assume anything from it.

  “What is your greatest need?” she asked me. “As a Caller, what is it you must be able to do?”

  Before she had begun to teach me, I’d have taken my answer from ancient tales. A Caller’s purpose was to unite Good Folk and humankind in a battle against evil. But now I saw it rather differently.

  “I must be a … a conduit. I must bring the understanding of water, earth, fire, and air to everything I do. I must use that wisdom for healing. Learning. Restoring peace. Mending what is broken.”

  “Words, words,” said the Hag. “Peace. Healing. Mending. But first war, struggle, death. What of your part in that? Your rebels will not win their time of peace without more losses.”

  “I’m expecting it to be difficult,” I said. “Here in the isles we are surrounded by wonder, by beauty, by natural power. In a place like this I can feel the flow, I can feel it working through me. I know it won’t be the same at the end, when we confront the king.”

  “Indeed not. But you have used your gift on a field of battle.”

  “Used it imperfectly.”

  “Folk will die, Neryn, even if you become the most expert Caller Alban has ever seen. Folk will be cut down. Your folk. My folk. You cannot command the course of a battle without seeing losses.”

  There was a question I had kept back, hoping the answer might come up as part of my training. Now seemed the time to ask it. “Is there a way to protect your folk against cold iron? I have seen its effects and … you speak of losses, and I understand that they are part of any battle. But I can’t expect Good Folk to fight alongside us when the enemy is armed with iron swords and spears. Many of the smaller folk would have no defense against that.”

  She looked at me awhile, her strong features somber. “It is a weighty matter,” she said. “The answer does not lie with me.”

  My heart sank. I said nothing.

  “Some can resist iron,” the Hag went on. “Some it weakens; some it destroys. I can teach you to call one from many; to shape your call to a particular being. But on a field of battle, where all is disturbance and confusion, that may not be enough. I know of no charm that can be thrown over a whole army to shield them. If there were such a spell, only the most potent mage could wield it.”

  Then it lay beyond my reach. I felt something akin to despair.

  “You might ask the Lord of the North, if you can wake him from his sleep. Iron comes from earth. Perhaps he has his own answers.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Fix your mind on the true purpose of your quest,” she said. “What lies beyond the sorrow, beyond the losses, beyond the battle?”

  “Peace. Justice. Freedom.”

  “Aye. Good things, fine things. You must not let these doubts obscure them.”

  I nodded, knowing I must accept her wisdom. We sat on awhile in silence, then she said, “Close your eyes. Go through your cycles of breathing.”

  I did so; the breathing was a discipline she had taught me early, to calm the mind and body and make myself open to the power that must flow through me, power I would use in my call. It took time. Time I would surely not have on the field of battle.

  “Somewhere out in the bay, a hungry seal hunts for fish,” the Hag said. “And somewhere, a school of fish hides from her, wise enough to find the concealment of an underwater reef and wait until she passes. Call the seal toward that hiding place. Then bring one fish out to her. Only one.”

  “But …” Seals? Fish? My gift was not to call creatures, only Good Folk.
<
br />   “No ordinary seal. And among a school of ordinary fish, one that is not quite a fish. You have learned much, Neryn. Find them. Call them.”

  “But then—”

  “There will be death? Do you imagine these gulls feed their young in the nest without the deaths of fish? Do the seals swim from isle to far isle without taking a meal on the way? Do those folk up in the village keep their sheep and chickens for their suppertime conversation?”

  This had nothing to do with seals eating fish or human folk eating chickens. She’d implied those were Good Folk down there, Good Folk in the shape of creatures. I hated this. But if I were eventually to send Good Folk into battle, I must summon the will to do it.

  With eyes closed, I breathed with the ocean. In my mind, I drifted with the gulls on the swell. The waves cradled me, until I dived beneath into a realm of light and shadow, a mysterious place of drifting weed and sudden darting fish. I was one with the water. Its power ran in my veins; my heart beat with its ebb and flow.

  I sought the hungry seal and found her not far from the rocks at the cliff’s base, swimming slowly, sensing the fish nearby but unable to find them. Held her in my mind, her sleek body, her need for sustenance, her knowledge of her young one, waiting for her return. And the fish; there they were, under a rock shelf, in darkness. Safe. Call one fish out to her. One that does not belong.

  They were all the same. Narrow pale bodies, round eyes, delicate fins. Quiet together. I wrapped my mind around them, fluid as water, and felt it: one here was not the fish it appeared to be. Into my open thoughts came a cross little voice, saying Ca’me oot tae me death, would ye, and for naethin’ but a bittie learnin’?

  I nearly stood up and said I wanted none of it then. But I did not. I stayed strong, and called the wee one out from under the reef. The seal took it in one bite.