Den of Wolves

by Juliet Marillier

  ‘Seems a pleasant woman,’ I say. Pleasanter than her brother. Not that it would be hard.

  ‘Come up to check on us.’ Bardán’s eating without looking at his bread and cheese. Staring off into the forest as if half of him’s somewhere else. He doesn’t ask what she said to me, which is just as well.

  ‘Easier to talk to than Master Tóla.’ Morrigan’s britches, this ale’s going down a treat! Didn’t know how thirsty I was. ‘Wary of you, though.’

  ‘Wise to be wary. She’s that man’s sister.’

  ‘You hate him, you hate her, is that what you mean?’

  ‘He . . . he took . . .’ All of a sudden, Bardán’s right back in his nightmare, whatever it is. ‘He gave me . . . he made me . . .’ Hands shaking so hard he can’t hold his cup steady. I take it before he spills ale all over himself.

  ‘All right, it’s all right,’ I tell him, knowing it’s not, knowing how it feels when the past comes up and takes over everything, a crashing, crushing wave. ‘Breathe, Bardán. Breathe slow.’ I move the tray away, crouch down beside him, put a hand on his shoulder. He might lash out. His eyes are crazy, full up with all the bad things. Shudders running through his whole body. Know how that feels. ‘Breathe, friend. In . . . out . . . You’re here, with me. Here at Wolf Glen. Doing good work. Making something fine. Breathe slow, Bardán.’

  I go on like this a while, and he shivers and stares and grinds his teeth, and I’m hoping Gormán might come and help me, but I’m thinking maybe it’s better if he doesn’t, because Gormán’s no more friend to this poor soul than Master Tóla is. Makes me wonder why they want him here, even if he is the only one knows how to build the heartwood house. Makes me wonder why he stays. Why he thinks he needs to stay. If I was him I’d be walking off into the forest right now, turning my back on the master and the rest of these folk and making a new life for myself. Only it’s never so simple, is it? I should know that.

  ‘Tell you a story,’ I say. That’s what Blackthorn does, sometimes, when the darkness comes back and I’m too crazy or sad to make sense of things. ‘Give you something different to think about. There was this fellow once, a shepherd he was, went wandering off with his sheep to a field with a big hawthorn growing all by itself in the middle . . .’

  Bardán’s calming down. Only half listening, maybe, but that doesn’t matter. Just needs something instead of those voices from the past, the ones that hide away in your head and sneak out when you don’t expect it. I tell him how the shepherd met a beautiful fey woman and fell in love the moment he clapped eyes on her.

  ‘“I will marry you,” the woman said, and Dougal’s heart leaped in his chest. “But,” she went on, and his heart sank a bit, “first you must climb to the top of the Perilous Crag, find the Red Giant’s cave, and bring me back his most precious possession.”

  ‘Now Dougal, being a shepherd, was fleet of foot and good on ledges. He’d fetched more lost sheep back than anyone could count. So he got up the Perilous Crag all right and found the Red Giant’s cave without much trouble. So far, so good, he thought. Maybe the fellow’s out for a walk and I can get this done quick and painless.’

  Bardán’s listening. Nodding here and there. I wonder what’s best with this story. Get it wrong and he might come unstuck the way I did when Blackthorn started telling that tale about warring clurichauns. Turned me half-crazy for a while. But make it too bland and he’ll stop listening, and when you stop listening the dark things come back into your head.

  ‘Next thing,’ I say, ‘the Red Giant came roaring out of the cave. “Who dares come up my crag? Who dares approach my cave? Don’t you know I can snap you in half with my two little fingers?”

  ‘Dougal was scared. Who wouldn’t be? But he thought of the beautiful fey woman, and he looked the giant in the eye and said, “I do know this: you have something precious in your cave and I need to take it away. My whole future depends on it.”

  ‘Now you might be wondering why the giant, big as he was, didn’t just reach out a finger and push Dougal over the edge. Easy, it would have been. Only there was a charm over the place, and over the giant’s treasure, that the big man himself couldn’t lift. A fey charm, a bad one. “You can’t have it,” the giant said, planting his big feet apart and folding his big arms. “Unless you can guess what it is. Take as many guesses as you want. Only, if you haven’t got it right before the sun goes down, off the cliff you go, and there won’t be much left of you when you get to the bottom. Who’ll look after your sheep then?”’

  When Blackthorn was telling it, she stopped here and passed over the wax tablet, and there were the questions for me to read. So I tell it the same way.

  ‘“Is it gold?” “It is not gold.”

  ‘“Is it silver?” “It is not silver.”

  ‘So it went on; Dougal guessed all kinds of jewels; he guessed bronze or copper or fine glass. He guessed cattle or sheep. He guessed a fine hunting hound, a swift riding horse, a magic sword. To each the answer was no.

  ‘It was hardly going to be a castle or a fleet of ships or a parcel of land – how could the Red Giant keep any of those in a cave? Even the horse or dog would be tricky. The sun was going down, sinking into the west. A golden light shone on the rocks around the cave mouth; it would soon be dusk, and it would be over the cliff for Dougal.’

  ‘Down,’ murmurs Bardán. ‘Down, way down.’ I can see his jaw clenching again; I need to get this finished quick.

  ‘It came to Dougal, a bit late, that he’d been foolish to think a beautiful fey woman was ever going to want to wed him. What was he, after all? An ordinary shepherd, not handsome, not wealthy, not magical in any way. Folk called him kind. They called him dependable. They called him a good friend in time of need. But he was hardly the husband for a woman lovelier than springtime and more graceful than a swallow. Maybe he should say this to the Red Giant.’

  ‘A good husband,’ Bardán says, surprising me. ‘Kind, dependable. That was what she wanted.’

  I’m about to tell the next part when I see Gormán coming over from the barn. ‘We’ve got company,’ I say, finishing my ale and setting the cup on the tray. ‘Tell you the rest tomorrow.’

  ‘Full of theories,’ Bardán said. ‘Everyone in the village. She’d fly off one night and leave him on his own. She’d abandon her child. She’d turn the milk sour and curse the cattle so they dropped dead calves. But she didn’t. He was a good husband, and she was a good wife. She was the one got them out of that place. Why would she want to go back?’

  I’m trying to warn him to shut up, hold his tongue, but he keeps on talking, telling a story that’s a bit like the other one but not the same, and now Gormán’s here, not looking pleased at all.

  ‘A word of warning,’ he says. ‘Break the rules and you’ll be out of a job,’ he nods in my direction, ‘and you,’ he looks at Bardán, ‘will be in all kinds of trouble.’

  I don’t like this. Don’t like it one bit. ‘Lose the two of us,’ I say, keeping it quiet-like, ‘and the master won’t get his heartwood house built. Thought he wanted it finished, every part just so. Taking a break, telling a tale or two, what could be wrong with that?’

  Gormán looks a bit discomforted. ‘A tale? Depends what it is. Best if you keep your minds on the job. That’s what he wants.’

  ‘Been meaning to talk to you anyway,’ I say, thinking this is an opportunity. ‘I know Master Tóla doesn’t want the whole district knowing about this. But it doesn’t make sense to keep working with only Bardán and me and a bit of help here and there. We’ll be putting the crossbeams up soon. Can’t do it without a crew. I know you and Conn and the farm lads can’t leave your work for a longish stretch. We’ll need to get in some fellows from Winterfalls settlement. Give me a few days’ warning and I can get you six good workers.’

  ‘He didn’t agree to that when you suggested it before,’ says Gormán. ‘And he won’t now.�
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  ‘No wonder it never got finished, first time around,’ I say.

  ‘First time around, we had a crew,’ Gormán says. ‘If Bardán here hadn’t run off in the middle of the job, the house would have been built years ago.’

  ‘Ran off. Fell down,’ murmurs Bardán. ‘Way down. Down into the dark. No way back . . .’

  ‘So, will you ask him?’ I keep an eye on the wild man. Hoping he won’t fall back into his nightmare. He was starting to come good when I was telling the story. ‘The master? Ask him if we can have a few fellows from the settlement to help. We can tell them not to talk about the job when they get back home.’ Soon as I’ve said this, I think it wouldn’t work, not with the hour’s ride each way. They’d have to come up to Wolf Glen and stay till the job’s done, and Master Tóla’s never going to agree to that.

  ‘I can ask,’ says Gormán.

  I hear what he’s not saying. But it’s pointless. He doesn’t like strangers at Wolf Glen. Sounds like Master Tóla’s his own worst enemy. ‘Tell him it’s not safe to put the beams up without a proper crew. Doesn’t matter how much silver he’s offering. A good man doesn’t put his workers at risk.’ I think of an argument Master Tóla might listen to. ‘Heartwood house is supposed to be lucky, isn’t it? How lucky will it be if some poor sod’s died in the making of it, all because the master had his own way of doing things?’

  Gormán nods. ‘He won’t have workers from Winterfalls here,’ he says. ‘But I’ll tell him what you said.’

  ‘Good. And now we’ll get back to work, Bardán and me.’ I take a breath, then I say, ‘You and Conn. Been working together a while?’

  ‘A while, yes.’

  ‘Don’t you tell tales and sing songs, help you through a job?’

  Gormán smiles. ‘Neither of us has the gift of a good singing voice. Not that it matters when you’re out in the forest. The birds don’t judge.’

  ‘So, that’s all we were doing, Bardán and me. No harm in it.’ Thing is, I don’t like the way they treat the wild man, as if he’s some kind of mad beast, not a man at all. Doesn’t matter what that sad and terrible tale is, the one Mistress Della was talking about. Nobody deserves to be treated so badly. I’ve seen the wretched little hut he sleeps in. I spend all day working next to his smell, which is the smell of a man who hasn’t had a hot bath for a long, long time. I take home a few extra fleas and creepy-crawlies every night, thanks to Bardán. Be easy enough to house him in the barn, some dry straw, a few good blankets, a proper roof over his head. Or in the foresters’ quarters, next door. But no. Nobody wants him near. Only they don’t want him too far, either. Because he’s got the magic to finish the heartwood house.

  Gormán takes himself off, and I get back to work. Morrigan’s britches, even carrying one of those roof beams over from the barn would take four fit men. How does Tóla think we’re going to haul them up? By magic?

  ‘Stone on stone,’ says Bardán. ‘Stone on stone on stone.’

  10

  ~Blackthorn~

  For a long time I’d been best alone. Not that I greatly loved my own company; I lost patience with myself almost as quickly as I did with other people. But I needed quiet, solitude, time to think things through. Time to stop myself from acting like an impulsive fool who thought she could solve the world’s injustices all by herself.

  After the vile ordeal of Mathuin’s lockup, I’d acquired Grim as a travelling companion, not wanting him, not choosing him, but bound to let him tag along because of Conmael’s poxy rules. And now I was so used to having the big man around that when he was off doing his long days on the heartwood house I couldn’t help missing him. It felt as if part of me was absent.

  Not that I was alone much now, even with Grim at Wolf Glen. Most days Emer was with me, capable Emer, concocting various cures, giving the cottage a sweep-out, bringing in water from the well, even when I reminded her she was a healer in training, not a servant. And now there was Cara, whose measure I did not yet have, not fully. She’d taken to coming over from the prince’s house in the mornings, duly escorted, and hanging about the cottage until someone came to collect her. The attraction was not myself or Emer, but Grim’s wood carving tools. She used them every morning. I wished Tóla could see her work and recognise her rare skill.

  She couldn’t carve all day, and I saw a virtue in keeping her busy, since she was forbidden to do what she most longed to do: go home. ‘If you’re going to be here with us,’ I’d said to her once it became apparent that she meant to continue these day-long visits, ‘I want you usefully occupied. Find a job and keep out of our way while we’re working. Emer knows how to handle poisonous plants. You don’t. And while Emer is my student and assistant, you have no such arrangement with me. I don’t imagine your father wants you to become a wise woman.’

  She surprised me, as we got to know each other better, by proving quite capable at a variety of domestic tasks. I was less surprised when her speech began to flow easily in my presence. I was beginning to think fear lay at the heart of her problem. Not the kind of fear a person feels when confronted by a charging bull – I could imagine Cara shinning up a tree to escape – but a terror of getting things wrong, especially if her mistakes offended those she loved. Her father in particular. If I was right, that man had a lot to answer for.

  Time passed, the season advanced, and a rich crop of unwanted plants sprang up in Grim’s usually well-tended vegetable patch. One warm day Emer went off into the wood to gather herbs, and Cara and I settled to weeding. We worked in companionable silence for a while, enjoying the sun.

  The garden began to look more like its old, tidy self; Grim would be pleased. With the advancing spring, the days were lengthening. There should still be light enough for him to see it when he came home.

  A peeping sound made me turn my head toward Cara. Crouched beside the garden bed, she had a bird on each shoulder, one on her head, and four or five others close by, helping themselves to worms as her weeding efforts uncovered them. There were no birds on my side of the garden. I watched, fascinated, not daring to speak lest I scare them away.

  Somewhere in Dreamer’s Wood, someone screamed. The birds took instant flight. Cara and I scrambled to our feet.

  ‘Emer,’ said Cara. ‘Quick!’

  ‘No.’ I grabbed her arm, holding her back. ‘Wait.’ We stood still, listening. No more screams. But a man’s shout, cut off abruptly, and the sound of someone moving through the woods. There was only a moment to weigh it up. Emer was strong and sensible. She was wiser than her years. I had to put Cara first. She was in my care, and she was fifteen years old. ‘Come back inside,’ I whispered. ‘Do as I say.’

  Out there, it had gone quiet. I hustled Cara into the cottage. ‘Stay here and keep silent.’ I grabbed the knife I used for cutting up joints of meat and stuck it in my belt. ‘No rushing to the rescue, understand?’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Flidais is expecting me to keep you safe. Stay inside until I come back. This may be nothing.’

  ‘All right.’ Cara’s voice sounded tight. We both knew Emer was not a screaming kind of person.

  I went back out, shutting the door behind me. Stopped to listen. Cattle exchanging remarks in the nearby field. Birds in the wood. And below that, a man’s voice, speaking calmly, and Emer saying something in her turn.

  They came into sight before I reached the edge of the wood. Emer was pale but composed. She had her herb basket over her arm. Walking with her was a young man. A somewhat unusual-looking young man. His garments were those of an ordinary traveller, but his features were graven with a striking pattern, a clever tracery of lines that gave the suggestion of a hunting hound. He had two sheathed knives at his belt. My grip tightened on my own knife, though nothing in Emer’s manner suggested danger. This would have been an excellent time for Grim to put in an appearance. But Grim was miles away at Wolf Glen, and so was Ripple, whose
protective presence would have been welcome.

  As they came closer I saw that the fellow had on a leather breast piece under his short cloak and protective bands around his forearms. Warrior garb.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Emer said as they reached me. She set her basket by her feet. ‘This man is Cúan.’ The name matched the skilfully executed tattoo. Young hound. ‘There was a – some kind of disagreement – but it’s over now. Cúan, this is Mistress Blackthorn, whom I told you about.’

  ‘Good day, Mistress,’ the warrior said, giving me a polite nod. ‘Might I have a word?’

  ‘A disagreement,’ I said. ‘Between whom?’ Whatever it was had frightened Emer. She might be calm and composed, but her eyes told me a different story.

  ‘Nothing you need concern yourself with,’ the man said. ‘It’s over now. I’m sorry the young lady was troubled. She was not involved in what occurred.’

  A woefully inadequate explanation. I held his gaze, waiting for more.

  ‘We were riding to Winterfalls, to Prince Oran’s establishment. My companions have gone ahead. I thought it best to make sure Emer came safely home. And I have a question or two for you.’

  Emer was shivering now. She needed a restorative brew. Behind me, the cottage door creaked open. No surprise. Cara was not fond of rules, even those designed for her own benefit. ‘You’d better come in,’ I said. Why this man would want to speak to me I couldn’t imagine. ‘I’ll make a brew.’

  The young man waited while I made tea and Cara set out some bread and honey. With Cúan present the room seemed suddenly too small. Emer sat by the fire, saying nothing.

  I poured the brew. Cara passed around the platter. ‘It seems you’re not going to tell us anything further about what happened just now, Cúan,’ I said eventually. ‘What was it you wanted to ask?’

  ‘You might tell me whom you have seen passing along that track in recent times. The track through Dreamer’s Wood. Carters, farmers, folk taking pigs out to forage . . . it would seem a convenient way for all of those. But few enter the wood, is that correct?’ Whatever he saw on my face, and perhaps also on Emer’s, seemed to give him pause. ‘You wonder why I would ask such a thing,’ he went on, flashing a charming smile that didn’t fool me for a moment. ‘It may reassure you to know that I am heading for Winterfalls at the invitation of Prince Oran. My companions also.’