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Authors: Juliet Marillier

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BOOK: Dreamer's Pool
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‘Someone down there.’ Grim was almost swallowed up by the darkness. The fire was down to ash-coated coals; his knife caught the last of its light, gleaming in the shadows. ‘In the woods.’

My common sense fled. My mind filled with Mathuin, his men-at-arms, his thugs here to make an end of us and rob me of my last slim chance to see justice done.

‘Step out and show yourself!’ I shouted, before Grim grabbed me and clapped his big hand over my mouth. For a moment I fought him – a pointless exercise – and then a light appeared in the woods below our camping spot, and another, and a third, and it became plain that our visitors were not Mathuin’s folk but Conmael’s.

Grim let me go only to push me behind him. He planted his feet squarely, the knife ready in his hand.

‘Grim,’ I said. ‘They’re friends.’

‘Hah!’

‘Grim. Leave this to me.’ And when he still made no move, ‘Trust me. Please.’

He grunted, stuck the knife in his belt, folded his arms.

Conmael was coming up the rise. Behind him walked three others of his kind. All wore hooded cloaks, and each had the noble nose, broad brow and lustrous eyes typical of the fey. A person who had not encountered such folk before might perhaps think this an unusually handsome, if somewhat odd-looking, family of human brothers. Anyone who knew their lore, or who had lived close by a place where their kind dwelled – a cave, a hollow hill, an ancient forest, a mysterious lake isle – would recognise their true nature.

I stepped forward, trying to set aside the awareness that I was inadequately clad, tousled from sleep and freezing cold to boot. ‘Conmael,’ I said, shivering despite my best efforts. ‘What brings you here in such inclement weather?’

‘A desire to make sure you do not drown where you sleep,’ he said smoothly. ‘The stream is rising fast. I wish you to reach your destination.’ His gaze went briefly to Grim, then returned to me. ‘No longer alone, I see?’

His manner set me on edge. I spoke through chattering teeth. ‘Last time we met you said you’d leave me to get on with things. What’s changed? I’m keeping my side of the agreement.’ Had I managed to miss a request for help somewhere along the way? Reduced my remaining chances to four and added another year to the sentence before I’d even reached Winterfalls? That would be cruel. But perhaps that was the game, with the term of the agreement always stretching just a little further than I could reach. Such a trick would be typical of the fey.

‘Speak up.’ Grim’s voice was a rumble of aggression.

Conmael’s brows rose. ‘My conversation is not with you,’ he said, ‘but with your mistress. Shouts and blows may have won arguments for you in the past, fellow. They are pointless in the current situation.’

The flicker of anger already in me flared abruptly to a full-sized blaze. ‘Keep your remarks to yourself!’ I snarled, painfully aware that although the insult had been aimed at my companion, Grim was standing strong and quiet beside me while I raged. ‘If that’s the best you have to offer, we’ll be better off without your interference!’

Conmael gave an airy wave of the hand. ‘If that is your wish, of course. It merely occurred to me that the stormy weather might be slowing your journey and making it less comfortable than it need be. I provided only scant supplies for you. By now, surely you have need of further resources.’

I opened my mouth to tell him we were fine on our own, thank you, but Grim got in first.

‘Dry clothing for the lady. Fresh bread, a round of cheese. Two more blankets and a second knife. That should see us to Winterfalls.’

I was stunned into silence.

‘My offer was not made to you,’ said Conmael.

‘Consider Grim’s request my request,’ I snapped. ‘Provided there is no payment required in return, that is. I’m not talking about a handful of coppers here. No payment of any kind. My obligation to you is already heavy. I’d rather go cold and hungry than add to it.’

‘You’re sure that’s all you want? Bread, cheese, dry clothing and a blanket or two?’

‘And a knife,’ said Grim levelly.

‘And a knife, but perhaps not just yet,’ Conmael said, eyes still on me, ‘since your guard dog seems likely to plunge it into me the moment I turn my back.’

It seemed to me that under the circumstances Grim was doing a remarkable job of keeping his temper. ‘I’m willing to accept the offer of some necessities, Conmael,’ I said, hugging the blanket around me. ‘But I can’t believe you came out here in the rain just to ask us if we needed help. Your folk are surely capable of leaving us a basket of bread and cheese any time they’re so inclined.’

‘Your camp site will be flooded before dawn,’ said one of Conmael’s companions. ‘Unless you care to swim out, you should move.’ He held up the lantern he was carrying to reveal that the stream had risen significantly. Perhaps he was right about a flood, perhaps not. I had no wish to put it to the test.

Now I felt not only cold, tired and angry, but stupid as well. We’d made a foolish error. In the dark, with little knowledge of the terrain around us, we had no choice but to accept these folk’s help.

Conmael spared me the indignity of having to ask. ‘Strike camp,’ he said, ‘and we will lead you to a more suitable spot, dry and sheltered. The necessities you requested will be ready for you there.’ A carefully judged pause. ‘I did explain before that I wish to help you, Blackthorn. There is no need for every encounter to be a battle.’

‘It was your manner that made it so. I hope you and your friends will do me the courtesy of absenting yourselves while I get dressed.’

They set down their lanterns and faded back into the shadows. Within the space of two breaths I could not see them at all. It was deeply disconcerting: not just the suddenness, but the feeling they might still be there watching, only invisible. On the other hand, the spectacle of me or Grim unclothed was hardly going to cause any excitement.

‘I’ll hold up a blanket for you,’ Grim said now. It seemed he, too, suspected we were still under scrutiny. ‘Better be quick, it’s cold.’

We put on our damp clothes. We bundled up our supplies. As soon as we had our packs on our backs, Conmael and the others were there once more, raising the lanterns, lighting a path through the woods. Not the track we’d come in by, since it was already deep in water, but another that snaked up around the rocks, then curved down under the trees again. An unpleasant thought came to me: that we were being led far astray, into a realm beyond the human, and that there would be some kind of trick attached. Perhaps Conmael had decided seven years of tending to the aches and pains of my own kind and staying away from Mathuin would not be enough to teach me whatever it was he thought I still had to learn. Perhaps both I and hapless Grim, whose only crime had been to follow me when he wasn’t wanted, would now be condemned to ten years, fifty years, a hundred years in the world of the fey. A hundred years doing Conmael’s bidding. If it was anything like the tales, I’d be sent back into the human world the same age I was now, and find that not only was Mathuin dead and gone, but his grandchildren were too. So much for justice.

I stumbled, and Grim’s hand shot out to keep me from falling.

‘All right?’ he muttered.

‘I’ll cope. You?’

‘I’ll do. Wish I knew what the fellow was playing at.’

Conmael was walking up ahead of us. He did not turn, but his voice came clearly, for all the moaning of the trees in the wind and the relentless voice of the rain. ‘Blackthorn knows the nature of this game. Whether she chooses to share the details with you is her business.’

‘She told me.’ Grim’s voice was granite hard. ‘And it didn’t make a lot of sense.’

‘To you, maybe not.’

There was a silence as we climbed, then Grim said, ‘I understand why you would save Blackthorn. But why couldn’t you do it without killing the others? It wasn’t their fault she got shut up in there.’

Now Conmael did stop. He turned to face us, his high-boned features touched to gold by the lantern light. ‘You expect me to justify my actions to you?’

‘It’s a fair question,’ I said.

Conmael shrugged. ‘I had a purpose. I achieved that purpose. Perhaps, if someone had asked them, your fellow prisoners might have chosen a quick and painless demise over a longer stay in Mathuin’s custody.’

‘Quick? Painless?’ Grim’s words were like blows. ‘Didn’t wait around long enough to check, did you?’

‘You would prefer that I had left Blackthorn to Mathuin’s executioners? Don’t tell me that given the choice between her and the others you wouldn’t have chosen to save her.’

‘Stop it,’ I said, hating the look on Grim’s face. He hadn’t told me the whole story about that day, about what had happened after I got out. Something dark was in his eyes now; it was in the set of his jaw. ‘It’s past now. Just move on.’

‘Broke the whole place down, didn’t you?’ Grim wasn’t going to let this go. ‘If you could do that, why couldn’t you get her out without killing anyone else? If you’ve got magic, you should use it better.’

‘Grim. Walk on.’

‘Just saying.’

There was no crossing over to the Otherworld. There were no tricks, as far as I could tell, though I was hardly in an ideal state to detect them. Conmael and his companions led us to the edge of the forest, where the light from their lanterns revealed a shelter cunningly fashioned around the trunk of a massive oak. It was woven from branches and foliage, with a low opening well screened from the weather. The neat space inside was carpeted with dry grass, and on this were set a cloth-covered basket that smelled of freshly baked bread, a pair of folded blankets, and two bags. Conmael hung his lantern from a low branch.

‘It will soon be day,’ he observed, glancing up at the sky. The storm was clearing, the rain was easing. A fresh westerly wind made the strange little hut seem altogether appealing, even if the place was somewhat inadequate to shelter the two of us, Grim being an unusually big man. ‘You will need more sleep before you move on. We will leave you now. Your supplies are here.’ Conmael gave Grim a fleeting glance. ‘All that you requested.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, making an effort. Winterfalls was still a fair distance away, judging by what we’d seen from up on the pass. I’d best keep my wretched tongue under control until we got there and sorted ourselves out. ‘When might I expect to see you again? It’s good to be warned if one’s about to drown. But I’m hoping you won’t make a habit of visiting in the middle of the night.’

‘When there is a need, you will see me,’ Conmael said.

‘My need or yours?’

He smiled. ‘Let us see how this unfolds. I bid you farewell. Travel safely.’ And just like that, he and his friends were gone.

The basket did indeed hold fresh bread and a round of cheese, as well as a flask of mead. The bags contained a change of clothing for me, and – somewhat surprisingly – another for Grim. There was also a knife, and, of course, the blankets.

‘Very nice,’ observed Grim, holding up a generously sized woollen tunic in a fetching shade of blue. ‘Doesn’t feel right to put them on, though. Or eat the food. You know those stories? Fey food that sets a geis on you, fey garments that burn your skin all away. That fellow, that friend of yours, I wouldn’t trust him an inch. Whatever he’s up to, it’s no good.’

‘He did save my life.’

‘All the same.’

‘Well, if you want to stay in those wet things and nibble on the last dried-up mushroom for breakfast, fine with me. I’m going to risk the geis and the poisoned clothing spell. I’ve eaten Conmael’s food and worn his gifts before, and I still seem to be all right. Turn your back, Grim.’

‘He wouldn’t hurt
you
,’ Grim muttered as I stripped off the damp clothes and wriggled into the dry ones. But when it was his turn he put on the trousers and shirt and tunic and wrapped the warm cloak around himself, and everything fit as if made especially for him. That turned him very quiet. We shared the food without talking, saving some for the journey. It was only as we settled to sleep – it was not yet dawn – that Grim said, ‘I don’t like owing that fellow anything at all. He’ll want payment one way or another. His kind always do.’

But I was snuggled in my blanket on the dry grass, warm and comfortable, and I fell asleep before I could answer.

8

~GRIM~

L
ast part of the journey’s easier. We’ve got good food and warm clothes, and that helps keep our spirits up. Be happier if we’d earned those things with the work of our own hands. Heard too many tales about fey gifts and fey promises and how they turn a man’s life upside down. There can’t be good in it. Hard to weigh it up. A puzzle. Conmael saved Blackthorn from the executioner. That’s big. It’s big enough that I should forgive him plenty. But I don’t like him and I don’t trust him. His kind don’t think the way we do. They don’t have feelings, if the tales are true.

Anyway, he doesn’t come back, so we travel on without him. Lonelier country here in the north, mountains and lakes and dark forests. Not so many farms and not so many folk on the road. That suits the two of us. Some days we go from dawn to dusk with hardly a word spoken. Just walking on, stopping for a rest or a drink or a bite to eat, then walking on again. There’s a peace in it that has me wishing we’d never get to Winterfalls, but a day comes when we reach a crossroads with a marker. Letters scratched on a big stone slab, and arrows pointing off north and west.

‘Winterfalls,’ says Blackthorn, looking up the road to the north. It doesn’t surprise me that she can read. I reckon hers might be quite a story. She turns to look along the track to the west, leading to a soft woodland, all kinds of green. ‘Winterfalls,’ she says again. ‘Through Dreamer’s Wood.’

‘Which way?’ I ask. I can see the northern track is the main one – it’s broad and well kept and seems to run fairly straight. The path through Dreamer’s Wood is prettier. Looks like the kind of way that could lose itself quickly.

‘The northern one’s quicker, I’d guess,’ says Blackthorn. ‘But the cottage isn’t in the settlement of Winterfalls. It’s on the fringe of Dreamer’s Wood. That’s what Conmael said. So we’re going that way.’ She gives me a glance. ‘Looks as if we’re nearly there.’

I wait for her to say it:
Thank you for helping me get here, Grim, now you can go your own way.
But she doesn’t, just turns and heads off along the westward track. I hurry after her. If this place turns out to be a ruin, I’ll fix it up nice and neat. Mend the roof, dig new drains, put a good bolt on the door. See that the fire draws well, the shutters fit tight, the privy’s dug deep. Make it into a proper home.

We get closer to the wood and a funny feeling comes over me, the same as when that poxy Conmael and his cronies were around. I look at Blackthorn, but she’s walking on as usual, lost in her own thoughts. Probably thinking it’ll be good to stop moving at last. We’ve walked through the best part of summer. Soon those trees will be turning all colours, their leaves like a beautiful big fire. As red as that hair of hers. Seems like this might be the right sort of spot for her, funny feeling or not.

We reach the trees, all kinds, some I know the names of and some I’ve never seen before. Strikes me as odd how quiet it is in there. Even the birds aren’t chirping much, though it’s a sunny day. One step ahead, the path will be in shadow. And something tells me I don’t want to take that step.

‘What?’ says Blackthorn, but she’s stopped walking. We stand there looking ahead along the path into Dreamer’s Wood. Little branching foot track goes off on the right, just wide enough for one person to walk. You wouldn’t go that way with a horse and cart or a herd of cows. It’s a slow, up and down, in and out sort of track. Thing is, though, it doesn’t go through the wood, but around the edge of it, in sunlight. Might be the path to the cottage, might not. But if we follow it, sooner or later we’ll get there. That’s what I’m thinking, but I don’t say any of it. She’s the one in charge.

‘This way,’ Blackthorn says, backing up and taking the smaller path. ‘No need to go into the wood.’ Then, dropping her voice as if she thinks someone else might be listening, ‘Did you feel it?’

‘Felt something. Don’t know what it was.’

‘Mm. Well, let’s find this wretched cottage.’

We walk on a bit, and I hear birds singing in the fields, see them too, picking over the remains of a barley crop. But if there are birds in the wood, they’re staying quiet. Scared of the place, maybe, same as I am, though I’m not going to tell her that. Not much use as a minder if I fall into a jelly over something I can’t even see; something I can’t put a name to. Dreamer’s Wood. Wonder who the dreamer was and what happened to him?

‘Quiet in there,’ says Blackthorn.

‘Mm.’

‘Makes a change from that place. No shouting. Not even chirping. Peaceful.’

I don’t say anything.

‘The silence might take a bit of getting used to,’ she says.

I’m thinking the silence will keep me awake. Make more room in my head for the bad things. Need to work on that. Need to stay strong. ‘Anything’s better than Slammer,’ I say. Then I recall that Slammer’s dead, crushed under a broken wall with only his hand sticking out, and I wonder if he had a wife, children, a life outside that place, or if screaming at us was his whole life. I wonder what happened to make him so crazy.

We walk halfway around the wood and there’s the cottage, half-under a stand of willows.

‘Morrigan’s britches,’ mutters Blackthorn, stopping in her tracks. ‘What a wreck.’

But I’m not seeing a wreck, I’m seeing what the place could be with a bit of love and care and hard work. Patch the roof, mend the shutters, see to the drains, everything on my list and more.

‘Nothing that can’t be fixed,’ I say.

‘Of course,’ puts in Blackthorn, ‘Conmael’s folk would do it, if I asked them. It would probably only take a click of the fingers to set the whole place to rights.’

When I don’t answer, she takes a long look at me.

‘What do you think?’ she says, as if it matters.

‘Not up to me, is it? You’re the one Conmael wants to live here.’

‘All the same,’ says Blackthorn, ‘what do you think? What would you do if you were me?’ And when I still can’t find anything to say, she adds, ‘Come on, Grim.’

Trying to put myself in her head is enough to turn me dizzy. ‘You want to be on your own,’ I say, hoping I won’t disgrace myself by shedding tears. Big man like me, ridiculous. ‘After that place, that’s what you want most.’

‘Go on.’ Her face gives nothing away.

‘So the easiest thing would be to call Conmael and his folk, and ask to have the cottage fixed up and all the supplies you need laid on,’ I say. ‘You could lock the door behind you and keep out anyone you didn’t want.’

A silence. She’s waiting for me to say more. Getting the words out is like swimming in porridge. Feels like a test. ‘But if I was you, what I’d be wanting most was to do things for myself, without magic to make it easier. Mend the outside, fix up the inside. Make sure that well’s free of rubbish. Dig a garden, maybe get some chickens, take the time to explore and learn about things. In that place of Mathuin’s, it was always other folk deciding things. Big things like you getting to have your hearing, and little things like the chance to take a piss without Slammer looking on and making comments. I know you’ve made a promise to Conmael, and there’s no changing that. But if I was you I wouldn’t be wanting any more favours from him and his folk. I’d be wanting to do things myself.’

Blackthorn smiles. When she smiles it’s like the sun suddenly comes out, when you’ve been thinking the day’s going to be all grey clouds. ‘I’ll be needing a bit of help,’ she says. ‘Only until the place is fixed up. Just so we’re clear. You’re right, I like being on my own.’

I see myself the way she might be seeing me: useful, since she’s hardly going to be climbing up on the roof to mend the thatch or lifting stones to fix those walls. Useful but sad, because I can’t hide how much I want to stay. To a stray dog, every crumb’s precious. ‘Mm-hm,’ I mumble, not trusting myself with words right now.

She’s studying the tumbledown dwelling. ‘A fire and a brew, I think,’ she says, ‘then we can see what needs doing. Come on.’

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