Raven Flight

by Juliet Marillier

  They left the chamber with Tali in their midst. I picked up my mending, but my mind was on the Lord of the North with his open, empty eyes and his noble features clean of expression. I felt the weight of expectation from this household of loyal folk, all of them hoping I would be the one to do what their lord had forbidden them: wake him from his deathlike sleep. A sleep he had imposed upon himself. What could drive a Guardian to do such a thing?

  “ ’Twas long ago,” Flow said. The two of us sat with the mending basket between us. Tali had not returned; I decided to take that as a good sign. “A sad tale, simple enough. In the old days there was a Lady here, his wife. They had a wee daughter, just the one. Our folk, ye understand, live lang, but dinna often bear children, so this lassie was rare and precious. Everybody loved Gem; she danced around this gloomy old ha’ like a bright butterfly. She was full o’ questions, wanted to know the makin’ and workin’ o’ everythin’. Hardly stopped movin’ frae dawn tae dusk. When she grew up a bit, her father began tae teach her the magic o’ stone, the spells and charms, the deep knowin’. Folk would come on the twa o’ them, the tall man and the half-grown lassie, heads together over some old scroll or conjurin’ up creatures out o’ the bare rock.” She folded up the garment she had been mending and reached into the basket for another.

  “What happened?” I asked, knowing it could be nothing good.

  “Many enchantments she learned from her father; she was skilled in that work. But she was always wantin’ more. The Lord, ye understand, would hae kept her safe at home, nae wanderin’ beyond the ha’ unless she took him along wi’ her. He didna ken that a’ lassies want tae run free when they start tae grow older; a’ lassies want tae be let off the leash and mak’ their ain errors.

  “Gem took tae slippin’ oot. She was clever, she had spellcraft, she learned tae get by her father’s guards unseen. The Lord had given her the kennin’ o’ deep magic. Mebbe he forgot tae teach her common sense. One day in summer, Gem went missin’. Naebody saw her leave, but she wasna tae be found anywhere in the ha’. Ye ken how steep the paths are in these parts, sheer up and doon on either side. The Lord used a spell tae find his daughter, but it was too late; she’d lost her footin’, or somethin’ had startled her, and she’d fallen tae the rocks far below. Broken. Dead. The cruel part o’ the tale is, the lassie was skilled in magic. She could hae changed her form and flown oot o’ trouble. But she was still young, and she wasna quick enough.” She fell silent for a little, her sewing forgotten in her hands. “They’d been arguin’ that same mornin’, before Gem left. He wasna happy wi’ her work on some charm or other, and she lost her temper and shouted at her papa. Why canna ye leave me be? Why canna I be free like the creatures on the mountain? ’Twas only a small quarrel; she loved her father weel. But that lay heavy on him once she was gone.”

  “What about Gem’s mother?”

  “She faded.” Flow resumed darning the stocking she was holding. “Grief shrank her down tae a shadow. In the end she went awa’. Couldna bear tae be in the place where her only child had perished. And he was left on his ainsome. One day he lay doon and didna get up again. Told us, before he crept awa’ inside himself, that we werena tae wake him. We’ve watched ower him ever since, hopin’ things would change, but they havena. Until the twa o’ ye came along.” She cast me a sideways glance. “We never had a Caller before. We’re thinkin’ mebbe ye can do what we’re forbidden tae try.” Hope shone in her eyes.

  “It must have been very hard for everyone here,” I said eventually. “Losing Gem, and then the Lady, and him as well.”

  “Gem was oor wee one, the only bairn ever born in this ha’, and we a’ grieved for her. The Lady, aye, ’twas indeed sad. As for him, we tried tae coax him oot o’ his sorrow, but he was deaf tae us.”

  “But you’ve kept the household going, kept it all ready for him.” Hundreds of years; such hope.

  Flow sighed. “It’s been hard, sometimes, tae gae on believin’ that someday he’ll wake. The lads, the Twa, they’ve been staunch; they havena slept more than a snatch since he lay doon there.”

  “The Twa—you mean his two guards?”

  “Aye, lassie. ’Tis special hard for them, since they were always by his side before. We’re thinkin’ ye might be the last chance. If a Caller canna reach him, wha can?”

  I hesitated. “I think … I must speak honestly, Flow. I don’t believe I should call a Guardian as I might a less powerful being; it feels wrong. I need time to think about it, work out another way.… But Whisper said stone moves slowly. We had some hopes of returning to Shadowfell before the winter.”

  “We’ve waited lang. We can wait a bit more. Could be you’ll know when it’s time.”

  In the isles Tali had been counting the days until we might move on with our journey. Here she was busy from dawn till dusk with the northern warriors, somewhere down below. She fell into bed each night content but exhausted and slept soundly until morning.

  My days were spent with the Lord of the North, in the great silent cavern where he lay with his eyes on nothing. The ranks of attendants who had been present when I first entered this chamber were gone now, but the Twa kept me company. They stood alert, spears in hand, while I sat by the Lord’s pallet and tried to find answers.

  This was surely a charmed sleep, a spell turned inward that could only be undone by magic. As a Caller, I had no magic of my own; I was neither fey nor a mage. My time with the Hag had made it clear to me that my power lay in opening myself to natural magic, becoming a conduit through which it could flow. But I would not call a Guardian. To attempt that seemed not only presumptuous and foolish but, under the current circumstances, perilous. If the Lord had put himself into an enchanted sleep, then ordered his household not to wake him, he wasn’t going to be well pleased by a human woman breaking the spell, then asking him to teach her. It seemed to me I must find a way into his slumbering thoughts and seek there the answer to bringing him back. How I might go about this, I had yet to work out.

  Meanwhile, I imagined him as a friend who had been grievously hurt, someone I could not cure, and I did what I might have done if he were human. Sang songs. Told stories, including my own with its losses and its learning. Talked to him of other things: the turning of the seasons, the harvest, the weather, my hopes for Alban’s future. At my request, Flow prepared for me the meals the Lord had most enjoyed and brought them on a tray so I could eat by his side. I always asked him if he wanted a share. I encouraged the Twa to talk to me about the past, not the sad past of Gem and her mother, but the time before, when this household was full of laughter and life. The Lord lay quiet as our talk flowed over him; under our smiles and tears he remained impassive. The days went by.

  Tali was making better progress. She was helping train the Lord’s fighting forces, or rather, training Scar and his fellow leaders to do the kind of work she did at Shadowfell. At the same time, she was making these folk into comrades, talking through our strategy, explaining why it was so important that we all work together. She was listening to their contributions, some of which, she told me, were immensely valuable.

  I was glad she was so busy. It stopped her from worrying about Regan and the others, from trying to guess where they’d gone after midsummer and what risks they might be taking. Tali either absent or fast asleep was a great deal easier than Tali bored, restless, and anxious.

  Early on I had asked the Twa for their names, so I could address them individually. They did leave the Lord’s side occasionally, but not for long, and never at the same time.

  “Names?” one of them echoed. “We’re the Twa. The ane, and the other.”

  “But didn’t your mother and father name you when you were babies? They cannot have given you only one name between you.” Then again, perhaps that was quite common among Good Folk.

  The other guard took off his shining helm and scratched his head. Both of them had long, thick fair hair, worn neatly plaited. “Lang time ago,” he commented. “Mebbe. But I canna re
call any names.” He looked at his brother. “The ane, and the other. That’s us.”

  I asked Flow about it later, and she said nobody could remember. “The ane, and the other,” she said. “All this time, only those.”

  I had sown a seed in the minds of the Twa with my question. One morning, as I approached the dais where the Lord lay, ready for another long day’s vigil, they were not standing silent as usual, but were engaged in a lively conversation.

  “… but dinna ye think, if we had our ain names, we wouldna be the Twa anymore? That would be awfu’ hard.”

  The other guard shook his head. “The Twa are strong as granite, laddie. A wee thing like a name canna split us apart. Tae my thinkin’ there’s pride in a name. A man can be part o’ the Twa, and be hisself at one and the same time. Dinna ye think so?”

  “Isna it a bittie late for namin’, wi’ the Lord gone awa’ inside himsel’, and nae work for the Twa but keepin’ watch ower his sleep?”

  I came up the steps to stand beside them. “It’s never too late for naming,” I said. “But only if you both wanted it, of course.”

  The Twa exchanged a look, then spoke at the same time.

  “What ye sayin’?”

  “Ye got names for us?”

  Already, in my mind, I thought of them by the names I had given them. Not mountain names like those of the fighters; perhaps not names for Good Folk at all. “I have suggestions.”

  “Let’s hear them, then.”

  I looked first at the brother who was just a trace taller, his eyes perhaps a little lighter, his hair slightly paler. “For you, Constant.” I turned toward the other. “And for you, Trusty.”

  Neither said a word.

  “Chosen in recognition of your long and faithful service to a lord who cannot honor you himself,” I said. “But if you don’t like those, we could think of some others. And, of course, you will always be the Twa.”

  It was only after I had settled myself on my stool at the Lord’s bedside, and one of Flow’s helpers had come in with breakfast for the three of us, and gone out again, a small figure hurrying away across the huge, empty chamber, that the Twa made comment.

  “Constant,” said the one. “There’s a guid ring tae that. I like it weel enow.”

  “Aye, and Trusty, that’s a name like a strong helm or a thick winter cloak,” said the other. “A fellow can wear it wi’ pride. Ye give us a guid gift, Neryn.”

  “Then I’m happy.”

  “No ye’re no’,” Trusty said, setting down his spear and lowering himself to sit on the step beside me. Constant sat down on my other side. I passed them their bowls of porridge from the breakfast tray.

  “No’ happy at a’,” said Constant. “No’ in yersel’, I mean.”

  “I don’t know how to reach him,” I said. “Compelling him to come out of the enchantment is wrong, I feel it in my bones. I need to … coax him out. He needs a reason for coming back.”

  “Ye give us a gift,” Trusty said. “Canna ye offer him the same?”

  I recalled that campfire on the cliffs of Ronan’s Isle, and sharing our soup with the Hag and Himself. It seemed a long time ago. “How can I? Where he’s gone, I can’t reach him. And I don’t know what he would want.”

  This was greeted with a weighty silence, during which I realized that of course I knew; there was only one thing the Lord wanted, and nobody could give it to him. “I can’t bring Gem back from the dead,” I said. My mind was still on the Hag, and the teaching she had given me, teaching that had allowed me to single out one mind from many and direct my call there. The test she had set me, in which I had chosen not to call away the gull, which would have snatched up the wee fish, but to summon a far more powerful being: Himself. My mind raced ahead into the realm of the impossible. The near impossible.

  “I have a question for you.”

  “Aye?”

  “The Lady, Gem’s mother … Flow said she faded and went away. Where did she go?”

  Their spoons stilled in their hands.

  “Awa’,” said Constant.

  “Whaur, we canna tell ye,” said Trusty.

  “If I could bring her back, would he wake?”

  “If that didna wake him,” said Constant, “naethin’ would.”

  “Can ye dae it?” asked Trusty, his voice vibrant with sudden hope.

  “When I was in the isles, I did call a being of some power. He was dear to the Hag, like a husband. But when I did it, he was quite close by, under the sea. In my mind, I could feel my way through the water and find him.”

  “Neryn,” said Constant, “I dinna want tae tell ye this, but the Lord, he’s the only one will know whaur the Lady went. And he canna tell ye until he wakes. The truth, it’s hidden inside him; tucked awa’ deep like a shining jewel in the heart o’ stane.”

  The image was powerful. As I considered it, an answer came with such force that I sprang to my feet, almost upsetting my porridge bowl. “The magic of stone! That’s what he’s done, anchored himself in stone, made himself part of it, and hidden the sorrow away inside.…” Stane moves awfu’ slow, Whisper had said. Never mind that; I must work as I had never worked before. “I’m going to need your help,” I told them.

  PERHAPS I SHOWED A CONFIDENCE I DID NOT truly feel, for once I had explained what I intended, it was not only the Twa who helped me but the entire household. I had them move the Lord out of the vast hall and into the chamber he had shared with his Lady, a spacious room but far smaller than the other, with hangings to soften the walls. At my request a fire was kindled on the hearth and oil lamps were brought in to banish the shadows. The Lord of the North lay on his bed, as still and remote as ever.

  I asked that we be left alone—the Lord, the Twa, and me. There were to be no interruptions. We entered the chamber and shut the heavy door behind us.

  Constant and Trusty took up their usual positions, spears in hand. I stood by the Lord’s bed, took his cold hand in mine, and shut my eyes. Somewhere within the stony chill of the sleeping man, there was life. Somewhere within the fearsome spell that locked him away, there was a person who had loved, and loved well. A fine person, one who had earned the devotion of his household, a devotion that had endured through three hundred years of waiting. I would not call him; every instinct told me that was wrong. But if I could find his Lady in his thoughts, if I could find something that convinced me her return would wake him, I could call her.

  I went through the long preparation the Hag had taught me: breathing, concentration, awareness. But I changed the manner of it. I did not seek the fluid, ever-shifting movement of water now, but the heavy, monumental existence of stone. Not dancing, spraying, flowing, crashing, but waiting, holding, staying, being. I stood immobile, my breathing slow and slower, searching. Within the stillness that wrapped the Lord of the North, I sought the little signs of movement and change. For the wisdom of the north was not only that of stone, but also of earth, and from earth springs life. If he was a rock, monumental and still, I would be a growing tree, and as a tree sends its roots deep into the earth, I would find a way to the secrets at his heart. When I was ready, I made my mind a seed, lying in the winter ground as snowstorm and windstorm harried the mountains above. I felt the little death that was the cold season. I felt the spring thaw; I felt the ground soften and warm around me, and I stretched out tiny roots into the soil and pushed a single green shoot into the air. I am alive. I rise from earth. I am the awakening of Alban’s deep heart.

  Rain fell on me; breezes stirred me; wandering goats nibbled at my leaves. Seasons passed and passed, and I thrust my roots deep into the ground, finding ways between the stones, gripping tight, winding and binding and fastening myself there. In my crown, generation on generation of birds nested. Martens climbed my trunk and raised their young in my hollows. Autumn by autumn, my leaves changed color and dried up and fell to form heavy drifts around my feet. My seeds were carried by wind and bird and insect; my children flew far and wide, settling in their own soil. S
pring after spring saw my new leaves sprout, the fresh green of hope. Kings and chieftains rode by me on their proud horses; sheep grazed around me; farmers and herdsmen rested in my shade. Fey folk too visited me, joining hands to dance around my trunk, making crowns from my leaves, living in my canopy. Good Folk, respectful of my gifts, wise in ancient ways.

  I grew old, old beyond human measure. My strength waned; insects ate at my core, and my branches grew brittle, snapping in autumn gales. A storm toppled me; I fell to lean against a younger tree, grown from my seed. Mosses crept over me. Small creatures found a refuge in my decaying wood. Beetles dwelt in the shadowy recesses beneath my great body. In death, I was wrapped in life. And underground, in the caverns of Alban’s heart, my roots still held fast.

  “Dinna ye think,” whispered someone, “that there’s a bittie mair warmth in his cheeks?”

  “Aye,” murmured someone else, “and a touch o’ light in his e’en, would ye no’ say?”

  I sucked in a breath, opened my eyes, felt my knees give way. Before I could fall, Constant was on one side and Trusty on the other, holding me up. They helped me to a bench by the fire. The chamber was moving around me, even when I was sitting still. It might have been morning or night; I might have been standing there for days.

  “Not finished,” I managed. “Can’t … rest …”

  “Ye’d best tak’ a bite tae eat and a wee sip o’ mead,” Constant said. “Ye been standin’ there lang. For a human lassie, verra lang.”

  The household knew I wanted no distractions. Trusty went off to fetch food and drink. When he came back in, Tali was waiting at the door to escort me to the privy.

  “All right?” She frowned as she scrutinized my face.

  “Mm.” I was too tired to think, let alone have a conversation. Besides, if I started to talk about this, I might lose any belief that what I was attempting would actually work.