Raven Flight

by Juliet Marillier

  The cart and its spilled contents were cleared from the track. The Enforcers rode off eastward, and Tali was gone. Taken for the king. Taken for the Gathering. Why didn’t you fight back? I asked her silently, but I knew the answer. Not because one woman against three Enforcers would be ridiculous odds—that wouldn’t have stopped her. She’d reasoned that the less of a scene there was, the more likely I could slip quietly away.

  The crowd followed the riders; I was drawn along with everyone else, heading toward Summerfort. All day I walked, until my back was on fire with pain and my legs were shaking with weariness. There were moments when I might perhaps have made a run for it, headed up a side track without attracting too much attention. But it was never truly safe. Carrying the two bags, I would not be able to climb quickly to the cover of thicker woodland, and if I stopped to repack, folk would notice. There might be someone here who had seen me and Tali walking together earlier. One of those young oafs might think to amuse himself by turning me in as well.

  So I plodded on, stopping briefly to drink and to force down a mouthful or two from our meager rations. When the glittering water of the loch began to darken and a wash of violet-gray spread across the sky, I drifted after a group of folk who were looking for a place to camp, and settled myself on the northern edge of the spot they chose, a narrow strip of level ground between the road and the steep wooded hillside. It was not the most comfortable place, but that was good; with luck, no more would come to join them.

  As the dusk deepened, I unpacked Tali’s bag and transferred the contents to mine. Her knives I rolled in a shawl and stuffed into the bottom; it seemed unlikely I would be using them. I’ll keep them safe for you, I told her. I’ll keep them oiled and polished and ready. I folded her clothing as flat as I could; when she escaped, she would want her trousers, her boy’s tunic, her gauntlets, her wrist braces. In an inside pocket of her bag something small was tucked away. I drew it out, and in the pale light of the rising moon I saw that it was a tiny bird carved from oak wood, a raven, wrapped in a square of soft woolen cloth. You will fly again, I told her, and now I could not hold back my tears; they flowed hot down my cheeks. You’ll fly swift and straight as the raven. Nobody can bring you down. They would take her straight to Summerfort. A fine, strong fighter. If she’d been a man, she’d have made a perfect Enforcer, once they rendered her loyal. But women did not become Enforcers. What would they do to her?

  What comes next, Tali? I asked her. What is the plan now? I knew what she would tell me. On your own, you’ll be safer in the forest. Get off the road and head straight back to Shadowfell.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, tucking the little raven into my own bag. “You’re not just a comrade, you’re my friend. And I’m not leaving you behind.”

  MY FATHER HAD TOLD ME ABOUT THE MIDSUMMER Gathering. Before Keldec’s reign it had been a celebration of all things good in Alban, an opportunity for the chieftains to speak with the king and his councillors, a chance for ordinary folk to show their mettle in games and tests of skill and strength. There had been music, dancing, feasting. The gates to Summerfort’s practice area had been flung open so people could go freely in and out from the great encampment that sprang up on the banks of the Rush, close to the place where it flowed into Deepwater. The Gathering had been held over three days and nights. It had drawn folk from all over Alban, and when it was finished, they had headed home with new heart.

  Some things remained as before: the opening of the gates, the folk camped by the river, the three-day festivities. There were still games. But the nature of those games had changed. For Keldec had seen in this fine old celebration an opportunity to display his power to the chieftains and to anyone else he thought needed a reminder of what loyalty meant. He saw in it a chance to offer entertainment and mete out punishment at the same time. There was strength and skill enough on show. What had vanished was the heart and soul of the old Gathering, where prowess and courage went hand in hand with friendship and honor. Keldec’s Gathering was a travesty.

  Still, I was here, camped along with many other folk in one of the tentlike shelters that had been erected for the purpose on the open ground outside the walls of Summerfort. The fine old willows that had graced the river mouth when I’d passed this way with my father had been felled, leaving only sad stumps.

  What else had Father told me? That all the clans would be represented at the Gathering, each wearing a color or symbol by which their allegiance could be recognized. That if a chieftain was not present in person, he needed a very convincing excuse or he would soon be the target of Keldec’s wrath. Sending a senior member of the household, such as the chieftain’s wife, eldest son, or senior councillor, might suffice if that representative said the right things to Keldec or to Queen Varda. It might just as easily swing the other way, with the person taken hostage against the chieftain’s ongoing loyalty.

  The Gathering also gave king and queen the chance to test the allegiance of their own household, including their fighting forces. For that reason, every troop of Enforcers would be at Summerfort right now, along with many of the men-at-arms of the attending chieftains. The encampment was vast; alongside the shelters for ordinary travelers, there were grander, private pavilions and well-organized horse lines. Smoke curled up from cooking fires. Grooms led animals down to the river to drink; serving folk passed by with bags of feed on their shoulders. With so many folk sharing the shelter, it was not too difficult to avoid undue attention, provided I kept my head down and my mouth shut. Only once, when I was pondering how I would feed myself until the Gathering was over and I could bolt up into the woods and forage, I was startled out of my reverie by a polite little cough. Looking up, I saw the younger of the farmer’s daughters, the one whose sister had been assaulted, standing there, holding out a bread roll. Over her arm she had a basket, in which more rolls nestled in a cloth.

  “Take it,” the girl murmured, glancing one way then the other. Before I could stammer out a surprised thank-you, she thrust the roll into my hand and was gone.

  There were places where foodstuffs could be bought for a copper or two: rolls, bannocks, griddle cakes, fried onions, sometimes fish. I did have a small store of coin, but going up to the food stall seemed too great a risk. That girl’s act of kindness had reminded me how dangerous this was for me. Her family knew I’d been Tali’s companion on the road. It was only one step from that to someone telling the Enforcers.

  I broke the roll into three, ate one piece, and tucked the others away. My own supplies were down to almost nothing. I could not afford to let hunger make me weak and confused. Whatever happened here, I needed my wits about me. If Tali was still alive, I was sure she’d make an attempt to escape. I must be ready to help.

  She would be furious if she knew I’d come here instead of heading straight for Shadowfell. I’d never be able to explain to her why I’d taken such a risk. It was beyond foolish, Neryn. You put the cause in peril. I prayed that I would get the opportunity to hear her lecture me once more. I tried not to dwell on the strong probability that there might be nothing I could do to save her.

  It was the eve of the Gathering. In the morning I’d have to go through those gates and mingle with the crowd inside; there would be Enforcers everywhere. Already they patrolled the perimeter of the encampment, eyes watchful over the half masks that concealed their identity. None of these men was Flint. I knew I would recognize him immediately, even masked and hooded.

  But he would be here somewhere. He might even be in his old place at the king’s right hand. Had he seen Tali brought in? Was there any way he could help her? Tali had told me every rebel would put the cause before a comrade’s life. Flint had proved that wrong when he raced back to the isles after his dream of me alone on the skerry. Our night together had been precious indeed; I could never wish it had not happened. But his action could have led to disaster—he would at the very least have had more difficult explanations to make on his return. Tali had been right. The only way to win this fight wa
s by shutting off our feelings, by making ourselves into weapons for the cause. Feelings weakened us. They created complications and traps. Why, then, was I not on the way to Shadowfell, seizing the chance to get safely up the Rush valley while the eyes of the king’s men were on Summerfort? Why was I still here?

  “A demonstration of loyalty,” the king said. “That is what I require.”

  “Yes, my lord king.” Owen Swift-Sword kept his voice quiet, his breathing steady. What would it be? A fight to the death? An order that he inflict punishment on the innocent before a cheering audience? I am become a travesty of a man, he thought. I sicken myself.

  “Owen,” the king said. His tone was softer now; he spoke not as ruler to subject, but as friend to trusted friend. “You understand the need to go through with these performances, so authority is maintained among the people. There are those who have questioned some of your recent actions. Raised doubts. Doubt breeds unrest. You comprehend how vital it is that everyone close to me is seen as entirely loyal.”

  “Yes, my lord king.”

  “Owen. Look at me.”

  He lifted his head, looking up from where he knelt on the hard stone floor at Keldec’s feet. They were alone in the small council chamber, while beyond bolted door and shuttered window the household worked late into the night, preparing for tomorrow. The king did not care for surprises. Every element of the Gathering would be under tight control.

  Keldec’s expression was benign. His narrow features were softened by a half smile; there was a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye. “You know I would prefer not to go through with this,” he said. “You know I want to trust you. Even now. Even after this.”

  “Yes, my lord king.”

  “Owen. We are friends, are we not?”

  “We are, my lord king.”

  “You were not the only Enforcer to stray beyond the boundaries of acceptable behavior this year. You must be seen to face appropriate punishment, as the others will. I could require you to do battle with another of your kind. That would provide fine entertainment; my people enjoy a display of strength and skill, and nothing surpasses a fight to the death between peerless warriors.” A pause, carefully judged. “Or I could require you to excel in a feat of endurance or a test of will.” A longer pause. “But I have devised something special for you: something that will remind my people what power this court can wield. I want that message to be clear to my chieftains. You understand the importance of that.”

  “I will be ready, my lord king.”

  I had seen Keldec’s forces at work before. I had seen my village burned, my brother killed, my grandmother destroyed. I had watched as the Cull swept down on Darkwater; I had seen a boat go up in flames with my father aboard, along with other innocent men. I had been on the hillside above Silverwater looking on, the day a good chieftain and his wife were slain before their entire household. I should have been prepared. But nothing could prepare me for this.

  Within the stone wall that encircled Summerfort’s practice area, a second barrier had been erected, a waist-high fence of woven wattles to keep the crowd from the area where games and contests would be held. Folk poured into the section behind the wattle fence and I went with them, carrying my belongings. Not what Tali would want me to do; surely not where Flint would want me to be. But I knew in my bones that Tali would be part of today’s so-called games. If she had a chance to make a break for it, somehow to slip from her captors’ clutches, I must be here to help her. Foolish; ridiculous; unlikely: yes, it was all those and more. But she was my friend, and I could not abandon her.

  With such a press of folk, it was impossible for a short person like me to see much other than the backs of those in front. People kept saying Move over! and Sit down! but nobody was listening.

  I stood there with my bag and staff, wondering if I would spend all day trying to guess what was happening out in the open area. Then a burly young man standing near me leaned over with a smile.

  “Little thing, aren’t you? You should be up in the front. Move, you fellows, let the lassie through!” He elbowed forward, clearing a path for me all the way to the wattle barrier, and there I was, like it or not, with the best view anyone could hope for, and him right behind me. I’d be visible to anyone who might remember I was Tali’s companion on the road; visible to Flint, if he made an appearance. Still, it was a big crowd and the distance across the practice area was two hundred paces, at least. There would be plenty to hold people’s attention.

  A blare of trumpets, and the crowd fell silent. Then the trumpets sounded again, and now through the open gates of the fortress came a long procession of folk. Blocks of color—a group dressed in red, another in blue and white, a third in brown and yellow—suggested these were the households of Alban’s eight chieftains, though I counted only six groups. I guessed Lannan Long-Arm was not here; another too had chosen to risk the king’s ire by staying away.

  Behind the richly clad chieftains, their families and councillors, came men-at-arms wearing the same hues. The noble folk moved to the raised seating and their warriors stationed themselves around it. My mind went to next midsummer and the challenge. This was a formidable array of fighting men. There were Enforcers all around the open area too, standing guard, watching the crowd, ready for anything. And now from the fortress came the rest of them in their uniform black, but with one difference: today they wore tunics bearing their troop emblems in silver on the breast: Bull, Hound, Eagle, Horse, Wolf, Seal. And there was Flint, marching at the head of Stag Troop. Masked, like the others, but unmistakable. I made myself look away. I felt his presence so strongly that it seemed I must draw his eyes to me; I realized the full enormity of my being here, at Summerfort, on my own within the walls. If Tali was brought out, if against the odds she had a chance to get away, what could I possibly do? Step up, and I would identify myself as a troublemaker at the very least. Use my gift, and the rebellion would be in jeopardy. And I might endanger Flint. Too late now; the crowd was in and though the gates out to the encampment still stood open, they were guarded.

  The Enforcers stationed themselves around the circle, blocks of black amid the color. I willed Stag Troop not to come close to me, and they did not, but placed themselves directly in front of the raised seating. And now, as the trumpets sounded again, along with a rattle of drums, the royal party came out from the fortress.

  In my imagination, King Keldec had long been a kind of monster, a man eaten away by his fears and weighed down by years of cruel acts. I had not been able to see him as human. But the man who moved with leisurely pace to seat himself in the center front of the raised area was nothing remarkable to look at. He’d come to the throne at the age of twenty; that made him six-and-thirty. He looked younger. His hair was brown, his face thin; his features held an expression of surprising mildness. He wore a richer version of his warriors’ black garb. It startled me that a man who wielded such power and authorized such evil acts could appear so … ordinary.

  Queen Varda was beside her husband. She was small, about my own height: a pale woman in a red gown, with her dark hair swept up high. She reminded me of a bird of prey, perhaps a merlin. There was an unnerving intensity about her features, as if she were only waiting to spot her quarry and strike. The last empty places filled up with folk who must be the king’s inner circle: councillors, advisers, courtiers. Perhaps Enthrallers and other canny folk.

  A court official with a booming voice made a short speech of welcome; then the king rose to his feet. The crowd, hushed already, grew quieter still.

  “Welcome, good people of Alban, to my fifteenth midsummer Gathering!” Keldec’s voice was strong, ringing out across the open area. “This is a time of celebration, a time for our subjects to show their strength and skill, a time for all who live in our fair realm to demonstrate their loyalty. Our chieftains will renew their promises of service for the coming year. There will be displays of prowess and endurance, contests in which both men-at-arms and ordinary folk will participate.
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br />   “You know, my people, that the Gathering also provides an opportunity for reward and punishment. Not all of you have pleased your king since last we met in this arena. Not all have acted with perfect loyalty. At this Gathering, those who have offended me will receive their just deserts. And those who have pleased me well will be generously rewarded. Prepare for three days of matchless entertainment, three days of challenge, three days unparalleled in the year. You have traveled far to be at Summerfort. In recognition of that effort, when each day’s events are over, my household will provide roast meat enough to feed you all, and a cup of ale apiece.”

  Applause from the crowd, along with some cautious shouts of acclaim.

  “Let us proceed,” Keldec said. “My people, show me the best of Alban!”

  The day’s events began with quite ordinary contests of strength—bouts of wrestling, a tug-of-war, a race in which men carried sacks of grain—and I began to wonder if Father had been wrong about the dark side of the Gathering. The court official announced each event in turn. It soon became plain that the onlookers were required to demonstrate their enthusiasm with shouts, whistles, and screams—encouragement or abuse seemed equally acceptable. Folk who were too quiet found themselves singled out by armed men, pulled from the crowd, and subjected to what looked like uncomfortably intense questioning. One or two were taken away and did not return. Very soon everyone around me was yelling.

  And then things began to change. Feats of strength, such as an active young farmer or fisherman or a man-at-arms might be expected to excel in, became feats of impossible endurance. The tug-of-war was run again, this time with a different rope, crafted from something that made the competitors’ hands bleed. Anyone who let go was dragged out of the way by two Enforcers and pelted with missiles by the crowd—someone had provided a supply of rotting vegetables, and when that ran out, folk threw stones. A hardy or desperate few saw out the contest to the end, their faces white with pain, their bloody hands slipping on the rope. Queen Varda laughed. At least, at the end of that display, both winners and losers were allowed to return to their places. I could not pretend enjoyment; I failed even to mime shouts of enthusiasm. I hoped the folk around me were making enough noise to cover my silence.