The Caller

by Juliet Marillier

  He still could not make sense of what had happened. The bout had been routine, king’s men and Good Folk together. Scorch and his two comrades were strong, even without their magical advantages, so he’d pitted each of them against a pair of Stag Troop men. The rules of engagement were clear: back off when ordered to do so. And even if that order did not come – for he and Rohan could not watch all of them at once – back off before serious damage was done.

  Brydian must have believed Scorch was out of control, or he would not have ordered Esten to use the quelling call. He had done so behind Flint’s back, with no warning, and in the moment when shock made Scorch freeze in place, a spear had pierced his belly. A wooden spear, since there were no iron weapons on the field; but the damage was done. Oddly, what stayed strongest in his memory was not the big warrior falling to his knees, trying to hold his guts in place, but what came after: himself moving forward to help his stricken comrade, and Fume’s powerful arm coming out to push him away. The furious words, delivered in a bitter undertone: ‘Back off! You’re nae friend o’ his, and you’re nae friend o’ mine.’

  He had no right to be hurt by those words – he deserved them. He was troop leader. He had been in charge when it happened. That made Scorch’s death his responsibility. He had seen Brydian and Esten come out to watch earlier; he should have known what could happen. He could have called off the training. He could have spoken to Brydian, requested that Esten make no use of his gift. This lay on his shoulders. Whatever the king had in store for him, it would be no more than he deserved.

  Sometime later, as he lay in a restless half-sleep, he heard the bolt slide open on the big door down at the end of the confinement cells. His body readied itself for another assault; the long years of training had their effect, even when his mind was a fog. He breathed deeply, sat up without a sound, tried to focus on the space beyond the bars. His eyes would not cooperate; everything was hazy. He listened instead. The door was closed and bolted again; two men – no, three – spoke in lowered voices along at the guard post. One was Brocc from Wolf Troop. Brocc had not been among those who’d beaten him earlier. But Brocc was an enthralled man, and that made him faultlessly loyal to the king. The second was Galany, leader of Bull Troop. The third was Rohan Death-Blade.

  Footsteps along the walkway.

  ‘Keep it short,’ Brocc said. ‘I have orders, and letting in visitors isn’t one of them.’

  ‘Can you unlock the cell? He’s hardly going to bolt with all three of us here.’

  ‘Why would I unlock it?’

  ‘Brought him a blanket.’ Rohan’s voice. ‘And some ale.’

  ‘You can give those to me. And you can talk through the door. He’s in there.’ A big dark form that must be Brocc loomed beyond the iron bars. ‘Someone to see you, Owen.’

  He attempted to stand, and failed. Brocc retreated; the other two came to the bars. What was wrong with his eyes? He could hardly tell which was Galany and which Rohan.

  ‘Owen?’

  Ah. Rohan on the right.

  ‘Brought you a blanket. Make sure Brocc gives it to you. Perishing cold down here.’

  A blanket would be good; perhaps it would stop this wretched shivering. ‘Thank you.’ He wanted to ask them what was going on out there, how the Good Folk were faring, whether the whole of Stag Troop was paying the price for his lapse in self-control. But getting the words out felt like swimming against an impossible tide.

  ‘Got a few bruises there.’ Rohan was being careful, with Galany and Brocc both within earshot. ‘Has anyone had a look? Toleg or one of his helpers?’

  ‘Hardly. Eyes troubling me. Nothing serious.’ This was not only about a blanket. Rohan might come solely to check on his welfare, but not Galany.

  There was an exchange in murmurs, which he heard. Rohan saying he looked unfit to talk about anything; Galany saying it had to be now.

  ‘What?’ he managed.

  ‘Listen, Owen,’ Galany began, and even through the fog Flint could hear the awkwardness in the Bull Troop leader’s voice, ‘I have a question for you, knowing you’re the most skilful Enthraller we have. Knowing you learned the old art of mind-mending, the way folk say it was before.’

  This was unexpected. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Ruarc’s still in the infirmary. That was a mighty blow to the skull, would have killed a lesser man. He’s not himself. Raving, fighting anyone who tries to help him. Needs two men there just to stop him from hurting someone. And Toleg says that might not change. He says an injury like that can shake up a man’s mind so badly there’s no curing him.’

  A silence. Nobody said what they were probably all thinking: a man with a ruined mind was of no use at all to the king. Ruarc could not be safely returned to his home village and forgotten about, as was done with victims of botched enthralments. This man had been an Enforcer; he was strong and skilful, and with his mind in disorder he would be dangerous.

  ‘Galany and I were wondering if Ruarc could be helped by mind-mending,’ Rohan said quietly. ‘Wasn’t it sometimes used in old times to bring a measure of peace to folk who were troubled?’

  Flint did not answer. Behind this apparently simple request lay many, many questions.

  Galany spoke in a murmur. ‘Come over to the door, Owen.’

  He found that he could rise, though everything tilted around him and his belly churned with nausea. His walk was a stagger; when he got there, he had to clutch the bars with both hands to stay upright.

  ‘Can you do it?’ whispered Galany urgently. ‘Can you help him?’

  Oh gods. He was so tired. He felt as if he might lie down and never get up again. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered back. ‘It’s been a long time since I used it in that way. If too much damage has been done, the best I could achieve would be to calm him a bit. And once might not be enough.’

  ‘But you could help?’

  His legs gave up the attempt to hold him; he collapsed to the floor. Galany squatted down on the other side of the bars. Rohan stayed on his feet, perhaps keeping an eye out for Brocc.

  ‘I’m in here. Ruarc’s in the infirmary. Why would the king authorise letting me out?’

  ‘We could bring Ruarc here. How long would it take?’

  ‘At best, overnight. More likely several nights. You’d need Oblivion; he’d have to be in a deep sleep. Galany, this is not something you can do without anyone else knowing. At the very least, the guards would have to agree to it. And Brocc . . .’ No need to finish this; Brocc’s enthralled state meant he would feel obliged to report such an occurrence to the king.

  ‘Keldec might be happy to see one of his best warriors restored to health and ready to return to duty,’ Rohan said.

  ‘He might. And if this were yesterday, perhaps he’d agree to let me try what you suggest.’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself with that,’ Rohan said. ‘Just tell us, if you got the opportunity, would you try this?’

  He rested his head against the bars; closed his eyes.

  ‘Galany,’ Rohan murmured, ‘go and have a word with Brocc. Keep him occupied. Tell him he can drink the ale.’ With the other man gone, Rohan crouched down beside his leader. ‘Got a plan,’ he whispered. ‘Get you out of here.’

  Flint felt a thrill of terror run through him. ‘No! The error was mine; I don’t want anyone else paying for it. Don’t risk yourself or any of the troop.’ He drew a ragged breath. ‘Are they all right? The rest of the men, and Blaze and his folk? Are you still in control?’

  ‘I haven’t been officially relieved of my duties yet, but it’s only a matter of time. We’re sure Wolf Troop will get the training job, perhaps jointly with Bull, since time’s running short. There have been no further losses as yet. Owen, the men support you. They understand why you did what you did.’

  ‘They should forget me. They should concentrate on surviving.’

&
nbsp; ‘Until midsummer?’ Rohan’s voice was a thread.

  The silence was full of the perilous unspoken.

  ‘And what about you?’ Rohan added. ‘Is that all you want, just to survive?’

  ‘My survival doesn’t matter.’

  ‘And Ruarc?’

  ‘I’m locked up and awaiting punishment. I’m too weak even to stand up. I’ve lost the king’s trust. I wish I could help Ruarc. He was a fine man.’

  ‘You could bring him back.’

  ‘I might try it and fail.’

  ‘You’d at least have tried. Besides . . .’

  Galany was back, and down at the guard post someone was jangling keys. ‘Will you help?’ the Bull Troop leader asked bluntly. There was something in his tone that gave Flint pause. Something that reminded him of comrades fallen, of himself kneeling beside a dead man and whispering a half-remembered prayer. He thought of a line in the old song: I am the warrior, sword in hand. With Ruarc’s life in the balance, how could he refuse?

  ‘If you can set it up, I’ll try. No promises.’

  ‘Thank you. Rohan said you’d help us. Don’t know when, but be ready. We’re almost out of time.’

  Chapter Twelve

  At last Ruarc was asleep. So was Toleg, who had been so worn out by another morning’s struggle with the injured warrior that he had raised no objection when I suggested he retire to his little chamber for a rest and leave me in charge. We’d been managing without Scia, who was unwell. Ruarc’s two guards were taking a break, eating the food and drink a Bull Troop man had brought for all of us. I picked at my own share. Ruarc’s ravings had us constantly on edge; times of quiet like this rarely lasted long.

  And then there was Flint. Word had come that he was locked up in a secret prison within the walls of Summerfort, and that the king was so furious about the whole affair that he could barely speak. I’d heard talk that Keldec was planning a special punishment for his disobedient troop leader, to be delivered at the Gathering. Owen Swift-Sword was not universally liked. Folk thought him something of a rebel – if things had been different, I might have laughed at that. He was known as a man who went his own way, and who did not suffer fools gladly. Most of all, people knew him as Keldec’s favourite, the one whom the king would forgive almost anything. This was a mighty fall from grace.

  One of the guards came over to top up my mead cup.

  ‘Thank you –’ I began, then fell silent at the sound of a small child screaming from somewhere beyond the infirmary door. The screaming was getting louder by the moment.

  Without a word the two guards went back to Ruarc’s pallet, one to each side. I made for the door. If I could stall whoever it was before they came in, perhaps I could prevent them from waking him.

  The door slammed open, making me jump back. The noise was shrill enough to wake the dead. Ruarc sat up abruptly, shouting. A group of folk burst into the chamber. I swallowed my fury and took control. Or tried. The screaming child was the king’s son, Ochi, thrashing around in the arms of a nursemaid, his face purple. Two other women were yelling at me, but over Ochi’s voice and Ruarc’s I could not catch a word. Something about his nose?

  ‘Tell me calmly what’s the matter,’ I said.

  ‘Master Toleg,’ one of the women shrieked, ‘where’s Master Toleg? The queen won’t –’

  A cold resolve came over me. Toleg had not emerged from behind the closed door of his chamber. Just possibly he was so tired this had not woken him. If so, that was how it was going to stay. ‘You’re not helping anyone with all this noise,’ I said. ‘Least of all the child. Take a deep breath and explain to me what has happened.’

  ‘Ochi – can’t get it out – the queen –’

  The women were beyond speaking sense. The two Bull Troop men were taken up with restraining Ruarc. But – ah, yes. Standing behind the gesticulating women was the guard I’d seen with Ochi that day in the garden, the one to whom the child had run to share a discovery.

  ‘You,’ I said to the guard. ‘What’s happened here?’

  ‘Playing with beads. Somehow got one stuck up his nose. We tried to get it out, but . . .’ He looked at the frantic scene, the screeching child, the dithering women. There was no need to explain why the attempt had been unsuccessful. ‘One of the maids went to fetch the queen,’ he added.

  Black Crow save me. The queen on her way? I rolled up my sleeves. The first step was to get Ochi calm. That wasn’t going to happen with his nursemaids close by, or indeed with Ruarc in the same chamber.

  ‘Through here,’ I said, indicating the stillroom entry. ‘You – what is your name?’

  ‘Maelan,’ the guard said. ‘I’ll take him, shall I? Come on, Ochi, this nice lady’s going to make it all better.’ He scooped the boy out of the nursemaid’s arms and strode past me into the stillroom. The maids clustered around, wanting to follow.

  ‘Just Maelan and the boy,’ I said. ‘The rest of you, find somewhere to sit down, and be quiet.’

  ‘But he’s not –’

  ‘But the queen –’

  I shut the door in their faces.

  Ochi was still screaming. Maelan put him up against his shoulder like a baby and patted his back. ‘All better soon, little man,’ he said. ‘Don’t rub your nose, now. How about a story while the lady gets ready?’ Without waiting for an answer he launched into a tale about a mother cat that found a baby hedgehog among her kittens. The story was punctuated with dramatic miaows and squeaks. Ochi’s yelling subsided to hiccupping sobs; Maelan sat down on the edge of my pallet with the boy on his knee and began knotting a handkerchief, making it into a little creature with ears and a tail.

  I found wax; melted a little over warm water and set it to cool. I cut a short length from a reed. ‘How far up?’ I asked softly. ‘Left or right?’

  ‘Left, and not far,’ Maelan murmured. ‘But sitting awkwardly.’

  ‘When it’s time, the young man needs his back against your chest,’ I said in the same quietly casual tone. ‘One arm around his brow to hold his head still, the other around his body, pinning the arms. Very firm.’

  He nodded. ‘Just say when you’re ready. You’re Morven’s wife, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right, I’m Ellida.’

  ‘Good man, Morven.’ He made the handkerchief creature creep up Ochi’s arm. ‘Then Malkin crept closer – miaow, miaow – and said to Snufflepig: “You are no cat! Your fur is too sharp. Your eyes are too beady. And where is your tail?”’

  The wax was cool enough. I stuck it firmly onto one end of the reed. I moved a three-legged stool close to Maelan and the child and sat down, holding the implement out of Ochi’s view. ‘And what did Snufflepig have to say to that?’ I asked, indicating with a nod that it was time.

  Maelan wrapped his arms around Ochi, pinioning head and body against his chest. I leaned forward, looking up the child’s tiny nostril, my wax-tipped reed in hand. Ochi opened his mouth to protest, and the door from the infirmary crashed open behind me.

  ‘What are you doing to my son?’

  Maelan, bless him, did not move a muscle, though Ochi squealed in fright. I called upon my training, breathing deeply, shutting out everything but the task. There was the culprit, lodged crosswise but within easy reach. I stuck the reed in and pressed the blob of soft wax firmly against the bead, trying not to push the thing further in. With the queen’s enraged presence almost palpable behind me, I made myself count slowly to five. I sent up a swift, wordless prayer and pulled the reed back out. The bead came with it.

  Maelan relaxed his hold; the firm restraint became a gentle hug, a stroking of the wispy hair. ‘There, laddie,’ he said. ‘Brave boy. All gone.’

  I rose to my feet, the reed in one hand, the wooden bead in the other. I turned. She stood there: dark hair swept high, dark eyes in a flawless pale face, elegant gown with spreading skirts of a rich blu
e. Small, vivid, furious. The nursemaids were clustered in the doorway behind her, silent now. From here I could not see Ruarc, but his voice was everywhere.

  ‘My lady,’ I said, making myself curtsy. To be so close to Varda chilled me; it took me back to the last Gathering, where I had seen how she fed off others’ pain. ‘I am Ellida, one of Toleg’s assistants. The prince had a bead stuck in his nose; I have removed it, and he is unharmed, though a little upset.’

  ‘Show me.’

  I opened my palm to display the offending object. The queen had made no attempt to speak to her son or touch him, and the sobbing Ochi did not reach out for her or say Mama. He was clinging to Maelan’s shirt with one hand and clutching the handkerchief creature in the other.

  ‘I see.’ Queen Varda turned her gaze on the guard. ‘How did this come about, Maelan? Who did this to my son?’

  Maelan rose to his feet with Ochi in his arms. ‘My lady. The children were playing in the sewing room while the women worked. I was on guard at the door. I did not see exactly what happened. The maids could perhaps tell you more. Ochi is unharmed, as Ellida says. She did a good job.’

  She turned on me. ‘Why were you tending to him in here, with only Maelan present? Why was the door closed? Where is Toleg?’

  I took a considered breath. ‘My lady, we have a very sick man in the infirmary, as you probably saw and heard as you came through. And the nursemaids were – less than calm. Your son needed a friend with him, and I needed someone who could hold him still and reassure him. I asked Maelan to do that job.’

  ‘And Toleg?’

  ‘I’m here, my lady.’ He appeared behind the nursemaids, his grey hair tousled. ‘I’m sorry I was not at hand when your son was brought in. But it appears Ellida has coped admirably in my absence.’

  ‘And where were you?’

  ‘Sleeping, my lady. Our patient requires constant supervision. It’s my practice to sit up with him overnight so my assistants can get their rest. The place is busy at this time of year, as I’m sure you will understand.’