Den of Wolves

by Juliet Marillier

  ‘Get him a rope, Gormán.’

  Everyone’s gathered by the barn. Tóla raps out instructions. There’s a search on at Winterfalls too, since that’s where Cara must have started off. But the messenger that brought the news thought she’d be trying to walk home, and that’s what Tóla thinks too. Must be feeling guilty. You would, wouldn’t you? Blackthorn said he hadn’t gone down to see her even once.

  The master sends four men off along the track toward Longwater. Four more down the track toward Winterfalls. Three to check the area to the south, but not to go too deep into the forest.

  ‘And you,’ he says last, looking at me and Ripple, ‘see if the dog can pick up a scent. Della!’

  I haven’t noticed Mistress Della standing there quietly in the shadows, but now she comes forward with a garment, perhaps a shift, and passes it to me. I bend down and let Ripple have a sniff. Can’t tell if the dog knows what it’s all about or not. ‘Might start down on the Winterfalls side,’ I say. ‘Only not on the main track, if what Gormán said before is right. Sounds like Cara would stay off paths where she might meet folk.’ I look at Mistress Della. ‘Might be best if I take this with me.’ She nods, and I tuck the shift or whatever it is into my belt.

  ‘Gormán will go with you,’ says Tóla. ‘My sister and I will stay here and wait for news. Cara may somehow make her way home without encountering any of the searchers. I want to be here if . . . Keep your lights burning and go carefully once you’re off the main paths.’

  I want to ask about Bardán, where they’ve put him, whether he’s somewhere warm and comfortable, but I can’t. Gormán brings back a coil of rope. He hands it to me and I tie one end to Ripple’s collar. He fetches a lantern, the kind that burns oil. Be safer than the torches some of the fellows are carrying; I don’t fancy walking in among the trees with one of those. It’s dark as dark now. Moonlight hasn’t got a hope of breaking through those clouds. At least the rain’s stopped. For now. I think of the girl out there somewhere. Wood-wise this Cara may be, but it’s no night for anyone to be on their own in the forest. Chilly enough to freeze your bones.

  ‘We’ll have hot soup ready when you get back,’ says Mistress Della. Sounds as if she’s been crying. ‘Go safe, all of you.’

  We’re off, then, Gormán and me and Ripple. For the first bit we walk with the fellows who are checking the main Winterfalls track, the way I’d ride if I was going home. After a while we part company. The other men go on in the direction of the settlement, and Gormán and me head off along a side way, snaking into the woods.

  ‘You know the girl,’ I say. ‘If she wanted to get home quick but not be spotted, which way would she choose? What paths does she know?’ Seems to me that on such a wet day, Cara wouldn’t have wanted to be dawdling in the woods admiring the scenery.

  ‘Cara knows all the paths,’ Gormán says. ‘She knows her way to every corner of Wolf Glen. She’s never been lost, not even once.’ He speaks proudly; I’m guessing he was the one who taught her to find her way. ‘She must have had an accident,’ he says. ‘Hurt herself. Or had some other mishap.’ He doesn’t say she might have fallen victim to some evil bastard, and I don’t either. No need to put it into words. Every man who’s out looking for the girl must have that in the back of his mind. ‘Or she didn’t head up here at all. Could she be at your house? Would your friend be back there by now?’

  ‘Our house would be one of the first places the folk from Winterfalls looked. Seeing as Cara goes over to visit Blackthorn most days. Place will be empty. Blackthorn’s staying the night in Longwater, and I’m here.’ What do I know about Cara? She’s different. Doesn’t talk much. Likes birds. Knows trees. Clever with her hands. I’ve seen the little creatures she’s been making. She keeps them on a shelf in our cottage, alongside the ones I’ve made. Chooses one to take back to the prince’s house every night, like it’s to keep her company. Brings it back next morning and puts it on the shelf with the others. Still a bit of a child, even if she is a young lady of fifteen.

  We head on along the track, such as it is. It’s slow. Ground’s boggy, lantern light stops us from breaking our legs but not much more. All feeling like a waste of time and effort. Me, I’m trying not to think of Cara lying out there cold and dead under the trees, or drowned in a flooded stream, or worse. We walk on and on, slogging through the mud, hauling ourselves up a few steep rises, losing the path and finding it again. I’m thinking how long it is since Ripple was fed.

  ‘Go carefully around here,’ Gormán says. ‘Hidden dips, hollows, some of them deep. Easy to fall.’

  Straight away I’m remembering the wild man, lost in his nightmare. Running, running. Falling. Down, down . . . Gone . . .

  ‘Got something to ask you.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Bardán. Saw him at his old house today. Weeping over his family, over their graves. Seems like he had a good life once. An ordinary life. But he’s broken now. Not right in the head. I know he went away. When he was building the house the first time. I know he was away years.’

  ‘Master Tóla doesn’t make rules for no reason,’ Gormán says. ‘Careful there, the bank’s crumbling. Step a bit to the right, use the rocks.’

  I don’t like the idea that’s come into my head, don’t like it at all. ‘Bardán talked a bit about that time, when he ran away. That time when he disappeared with the house half-built. Don’t think he meant to tell. It just came spilling out. Said he was running. Then falling.’ I make myself take a slow breath, not easy when I’m stumbling over rocks and slipping in the mud, trying to keep up with Ripple, who’s pulling on the rope now.

  ‘Mm-hm,’ says Gormán.

  ‘You know how folk don’t like the track up here, the one from Winterfalls. You’ll have heard the tales they tell about the place. Wondering if . . . wondering if there might be a . . . portal. An entry. Could be in the ground, down deep.’

  Gormán’s quiet a good while. I know he knows what I mean. But when he speaks he says, ‘A portal to where?’

  ‘Somewhere a man might learn how to make a heartwood house.’

  ‘His father taught him.’ Gormán answers quick, like he hasn’t taken time to think. Like he’s had this answer all ready for when someone asked. Then he does think, and he stops walking like he’s been hit. ‘You’re saying –’

  ‘I’m saying if there’s someplace where folk can fall a long way, so far they’re out of one world and into another, that’s a place where we should be looking. Finding Cara’s more important than keeping Master Tóla’s secrets. Even he’d say that. Wouldn’t he?’

  Light from the lantern’s not good, wavering, flickering. Hope the oil doesn’t run out. But I can see Gormán’s gone white. ‘There is a place,’ he says. ‘Whether I can find it in the dark, I don’t know. Surely she wouldn’t . . . Cara knows to stay away from the signs, she understands . . .’ He’s said more than he wanted to already. Told me something he didn’t mean to. ‘I think your dog’s picked up a scent,’ he says.

  Looks like she has. Pulling on the rope, trying to haul me down the hill. No way to know if it’s Cara’s scent or some creature Ripple wants for her supper.

  ‘Follow her,’ Gormán says. ‘But take care. Morrigan’s curse, I don’t know if I want you to be right or wrong. I just pray she’s safe. If he loses her too he’ll go out of his mind.’

  I let Ripple lead the way down a steep bank. Gormán follows. If Cara’s come to grief Tóla’s going to blame Bardán, same as he did when his wife died. He’s going to say it’s the wild man’s fault for being slow with the build and not getting the heartwood house finished. Mine too, probably, since I’m the one doing the work. He’ll shut out anything that doesn’t fit the theory. Like him refusing to get a crew in to do the work quicker. He’ll blame anyone except himself. That man’s full up with hate. Could be that hate comes from being afraid. Not afraid of Bardán so much, but afraid o
f bad things happening. Misfortune, like his wife dying while Cara was still a baby. One thing I know, and it makes my belly churn. If his daughter dies, Tóla will lay the blame squarely on us.

  20

  ~Cara~

  It was a long, long fall. Time enough for her to think, When I land I’ll die. And a bit later, If the landing doesn’t kill me, I’ll be so broken I’ll die anyway. And then, Why is it so far? No cave is as deep as this. And at the end, It’s not a cave, it’s –

  She was down. Sore, but not broken. In the dark, on her own. In her mind Aunt Della was saying, Girls who insist on ignoring perfectly sensible rules are sure to find themselves in trouble. And her father . . . her father would be beside himself with worry. Even if this was his fault, at least partly. If he hadn’t sent her away, if he hadn’t left her at Winterfalls and never come to visit, if he hadn’t refused to explain . . . But she was the one who’d run off without telling anyone. She was the one who hadn’t been prepared to wait.

  And now here she was, in some shadowy place deep underground, too far down to climb out of, too dark to make a way through, and nobody knew where she was, nobody at all. Not even Blackthorn. Who was ever going to think of looking for her here? She had nothing useful with her except a small sharp knife. She was hardly going to cut foot and hand holds in the solid rock, then climb out of what had felt like the deepest well in the whole world.

  ‘This way,’ someone said in the darkness, making her heart leap in fright. ‘Warm fire, pretty lights, a feast just for you. Friends, music, dancing.’

  Cara made herself still. She made herself as still as a frozen pond; as still as a caterpillar in a cocoon, waiting for its moment of transformation; as still as the deep roots of an oak. Don’t hear me, she willed whoever it was. Don’t hear me breathing.

  The voice came again. ‘Cold out there. And getting colder. Damp. Long walk. Rest weary feet.’

  There were tales. Gormán told them sometimes. And Mistress Blackthorn told them. There were those stories Prince Oran and Lady Flidais read after supper, full of all kinds of oddities, including fey folk of different sizes and shapes. Some were dangerous, monstrous, giants or trolls or dragons. Some were little and friendly, needing nothing more than that bowl of milk and crust of bread on the back step. But all of them were tricky. And someone who lived so deep underground that the place couldn’t be a cave was surely dangerous. Even if that someone had a sweet voice and a nice manner about him. Or her. She couldn’t guess which.

  ‘Don’t be shy, Bird Girl,’ it said now, coaxing. ‘We’re friendly folk. And you’re not exactly rich in friends, are you? Come through here where it’s warm and safe, and you’ll have companions enough to last you a lifetime. Aren’t you hungry? Thirsty? Tired out and a little sad? Let us look after you.’

  There was one story about a girl who went out in the woods and met a fey being, a wispy thing with gossamer wings, and the being offered the girl a tiny cake with a flower on top. She only took one bite. That bite meant the girl could never, ever go back to the human world. She could never see her family again, her mother, her father, her little brothers. She had to stay in the Otherworld for the rest of her life. Cara kept her mouth firmly shut. In the darkness of underground, she could feel the thunderous beat of her own heart.

  She was hungry; far hungrier than she should have been, considering she had only walked part of the way to Wolf Glen before she made the mistake with that hole in the rocks or whatever it was. But she had drunk from streams along the way and she had a full water skin slung over her shoulder. Odd that the skin had not split open when she fell. But then, she had landed softly, even though the ground beneath her feet was hard-packed earth.

  ‘Cara!’ The way it called her name was like music, almost. Like the chime of a strange bell. ‘Oh, Cara!’ Then a peal of laughter, as if this were some kind of game, no more than an amusement.

  You won’t make me move, she thought. You won’t make me speak. I’ll wait you out. How long would it be before anyone realised she was missing? How long before anyone started looking? How long could she stand in one spot, in utter darkness, without growing faint? If she so much as reached for the water skin they’d come rushing in, she knew it, and she’d never ever be able to go home to Wolf Glen.

  Odd, how soon she lost a sense of time passing. The voice kept on, wheedling, coaxing, cajoling. She held her silence. Her back was aching. Had she stood here for an hour, two hours? Or was time playing cruel tricks? Her nose itched but she dared not lift a hand to touch it. Her mouth was so dry; she was longing for a drink. And as if it knew exactly what was in her mind, the voice whispered, ‘Fresh water in a little shining jug. Clear as a mountain stream. Wouldn’t you like some? And fruit such as you’ve never seen in your whole life, round and red and full of sweet juices. Crisp to the teeth, delicious on the tongue. Cheeses, oh, such cheeses, golden and salty and flavoursome! Soft wheaten bread to eat them with. Such a meal, and all ready for you, Bird Girl. Why would you stand there in the dark, muzzy head, aching body, thirsty mouth, empty belly? Why, oh why? Who will come for you? Who will find you? How will you call for help? You have no voice.’

  Stop it. Just stop it. What would Mistress Blackthorn do? To start with, Blackthorn would never be in this situation, she was much too sensible. She wouldn’t rush off on a whim and not tell anybody where she was going. But if this did happen to her, Blackthorn would know what to do now. Cara tried to think what the wise woman might suggest. She hadn’t talked about the fey much, apart from telling those old tales. But Cara had heard her and Emer talking about magic, not the fey kind, changing people into animals or appearing in a puff of smoke, but what Blackthorn called natural magic, which was something to do with using what was already there. Cara had liked the sound of that. Knowing rain was near, for instance, and using the right words to make it come sooner or hold off until later. Making the fire on the hearth flare up suddenly or setting the candles flickering if you needed a distraction. That sort of thing. She probably hadn’t been meant to hear that; it had sounded like secret wise woman learning. But she’d been sitting on the front steps working on her squirrel carving, and they had probably forgotten her.

  So, use what was already here. All very well if she could see anything at all. Not impossible even in total darkness, provided she could move around and feel things. But if twitching a muscle or whispering a word might give her away, what was she supposed to do? Stand still, she told herself. Breathe. Wait. The answer will come.

  ‘I know a secret,’ chimed the little voice, sing-song, teasing. ‘I bet you can’t guess it.’

  Cara stood quiet. This was nonsense. She’d be a fool if she let it trouble her. Be still. Wait.

  ‘I know a secret. It’s about your father.’

  Stop it. Be quiet. She moved, then; stuck her fingers in her ears. Her arms hurt when she lifted them. And she needed to piss, but there was no privy down here. Imagine being rescued with your skirt all wet and smelly. Imagine being taken to the Otherworld like that; think of the mockery.

  ‘I know a secret. I know what he’s building!’ the little voice announced.

  Tell me. Tell me now. Cara clenched her teeth. Even with her ears stopped she could hear the taunting voice. No friend at all. The kindly words, the promises of comfort were lies. She had to find a way out.

  ‘Your father’s a liar, a liar, a liar! And you’re a pretender, pretender, pretender!’ It had become a song.

  Tears came to Cara’s eyes. This wasn’t fair. It was cruel. Her father was a good man. Even if he was sometimes strict, even if he made her do things she didn’t want to do, he loved her and wanted the best for her. He never acted without good reason. Of course he wasn’t a liar.

  ‘Your whole life is a lie, Cara. It was a lie from the moment you were born.’

  Cara’s heart went cold. This was a different voice, fey like the other, but much deeper and far, far more frighten
ing. It scared her so much that words came out despite her best efforts. ‘Don’t say that! You don’t know anything!’ It was a whisper; for the space of a breath she hoped the owner of that voice had not heard.

  ‘I speak the truth.’ If a wolf could speak in words, its voice would be like this: dark, wild, full of trickery. ‘Ask your father why he is building his heartwood house again. Ask him why he needs protection. Who is the enemy? Who is the threat? Or does the danger come from within?’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles,’ Cara whispered, unable to let this pass. ‘First you try to tempt me with promises, then you accuse my father. What do you want?’

  ‘Ah.’ The tone changed again, softening, sweetening. ‘Only for you to take a step, and another, and a third. Only for you to look in the mirror. Only for you to be where you belong, Bird Girl.’ This voice was pure honey; it was the loveliest song of a lark high in the sky; it was the softness of down on the breast of a dove. It was sunlight and rippling water and the sigh of wind in the leaves. A person would need a heart of stone to resist such a voice.

  Blackthorn. Remember what Blackthorn said. Use what is already there. But what was here, far underground? Earth. Rock. Little blind things that lived in the dark. Spiders, crawling insects. Creatures that lived among deep roots. Ah! Maybe there was help here after all.

  She moved, stretching out her arms. Voices came suddenly, closer than before; there was a note of greedy anticipation in them that terrified her. She took four paces away from where they seemed to be and her hands encountered a rough stone wall. She edged along it sideways. Opened her mind to the deep, slow voice of a tree. Where are you?

  ‘Cara! Oh, Cara! This way, pretty one!’ One of them was calling, the others giggling, whispering, moving about as if ready to reach out and grab her the moment she came close enough.