Dreamer's Pool (5 page)

Oran, are you a tall man or short? Fat or thin? Fair-haired or dark? These things weigh nothing in the final decision, you understand. Only, I would like to know.

4

~BLACKTHORN~

O
ne thing was certain: there’d be no sleeping in warm barns or begging crusts from local farmers until I was off Mathuin’s land, and even then I’d have to find some way of cleaning myself up before I let anyone see me. These filthy, sodden tatters were all the clothes I possessed, and there was no concealing my matted, crawling locks and my bruised and stinking body. All very well for Conmael to say
Make your way to Dalriada.
Dalriada was far away, and even if I’d had so much as a paring knife or fishhook, I was too weak to do more than pick a berry or two from the bushes as I passed. I was the kind of vagrant who made folk hustle their children indoors and bolt the door behind them. Which I could understand, since if I’d been a respectable sort of person I’d have been doing exactly the same thing.

There was little doubt in my mind that what had happened was Conmael’s doing. The sturdy-looking roof suddenly caving in on a fine morning without a breath of wind; the door conveniently blocked so the guards couldn’t come rushing in; nobody stopping me as I clambered over the roof, climbed down and crossed open ground to get to those woods – that had to be fey work. Conmael must have heard me calling after him, saying I wanted out after all. Or maybe he knew what I wanted without being told, just as he seemed to know a whole lot more about me than any stranger possibly could. It made me feel queasy. And now here I was, free at last, but bound by his poxy conditions unless I wanted to find myself right back in Mathuin’s lockup, waiting for the executioner. Could he do that? After what had just happened, I had no wish to put it to the test.

The first night out saw me making camp – if you could call it that – under oaks, on rising ground. Midsummer, hah! It was freezing. Everything I had on was damp, including the blanket I’d had wrapped around me when Slammer and his cronies threw that bucket of slops to shut me up. I’d been drinking from streams, crouched like some feral creature, wary of capture, but all I’d found to eat were those berries, and they’d been dry and shrivelled, not even good enough for sparrows and shrews. The idea of getting to Dalriada on my own was laughable. One more day like this and I’d be too weak to walk ten paces.

All I’d managed to do was find a hollow and hunker down in it with the clammy blanket over me. As the darkness deepened and the night birds started up a mournful chorus, I decided Conmael was nothing but a meddler. In the old tales, the fey were full of tricks. A curse on the man, I shouldn’t have trusted him an inch. He’d taken me out of one hellhole to drop me right in another.

It was too cold to let myself sleep. The chill would carry me off before starvation got a grip. Grim would have solved the problem by performing his nightly exercises, pulling himself up on a branch of the oak or walking on his hands awhile. Even thinking about that made me tired. He’d used some of that strength to get me out; bade me run and not look back. But what about him? What about the rest of those poor sods?

A soft noise in the dark. I sat up, peering over the edge of my hollow. Had that been only a creature padding by, or had I caught the tread of a human foot? Earlier in the day I’d stopped on a rise, and when I’d looked back I’d seen men with dogs, searching along the road; men in Mathuin’s colours. Morrigan’s curse, I was shivering so hard my nest of foliage was trembling all around me.

No sound now, but light; somewhere not far away, someone was making a fire. The warm glow of it touched the mossy trunks of the oaks and turned the foliage to a rich tapestry: green silk, gold thread. The fire called me as a dryad calls a lovelorn shepherd or a mermaid a lonely fisherman. A wonderful smell came wafting my way: was that chicken soup? My mouth watered.

Now someone was approaching, not furtively but in measured fashion. ‘You can come out.’ Conmael’s quiet, authoritative tone. ‘Unless, of course, you prefer to sit there and freeze to death.’

No contest. I dragged my cramped limbs up to stand and hobbled out.

‘Come this way,’ the fey man said, offering a supportive arm.

I did not ask whether the fire might draw pursuit after me. If Conmael could make the roof of Mathuin’s prison cave in, I imagined he’d have no trouble casting some kind of invisibility charm over us for as long as he needed to. Who knew what he could do?

By the gods, the warmth of this little fire was good! And yes, there was a pot of soup warming on it, and a dry blanket which he passed me to wrap over my wet things, and another blanket, folded, to sit on. I sat, swathed, and thought how dangerous it was for a person to become so weak she might do almost anything for a fire and a full belly.

Conmael filled a cup from the pot and passed it to me. ‘Careful,’ he warned. ‘Don’t drop it.’

I willed my shaking hands to take control; lifted the cup to my lips; took a mouthful. Shut my eyes in utter bliss. I could almost understand those old stories in which folk exchanged their first-born child for a bowl of broth.

‘And drink slowly,’ he said, ‘or you’ll make yourself sick.’ Then, after a moment, ‘But I don’t need to tell you that; you’re a healer. And now you’ll need a healer’s name. I imagine you won’t be wanting to use either of your old ones.’

‘You imagine right.’ This was the best meal I had had in my life. Ever. If that was because it was fey food, and if that meant drinking it changed me into a toad or whisked me off to another world, too bad. I was going to finish every drop and probably lick the cup clean afterwards. Somewhere in the back of my mind was the question of names, and how he knew I had two, but right now it didn’t seem to matter.

‘There’s bread,’ said Conmael. ‘Take just a little at first – here.’

When he passed me the chunk of oaten bread, I had to blink back tears. In the lockup, when the men had dreamed of roast pork, sausages and plum pie, I had longed for fresh, honest bread.

‘Thank you,’ I made myself say. The first bite transported me to that place Grim had described: barley fields in sunshine, yellow flowers, bare feet paddling in a stream. I had indeed become weak, to be thus overwhelmed by simple things. ‘Blackthorn,’ I said, trying to get control of myself. ‘That is the name I choose.’ It felt right; it had in it the idea of what I was now, walking under a shadow and all prickles.

‘Mm-hm.’

That was all he said until I had finished both soup and bread, and had warmed up sufficiently to stop shaking and begin yawning, the food and the fire conspiring to draw me toward sleep. Then my companion spoke again. ‘I have a bag here for you, with a change of clothing and some items for the journey: a knife, a flint, way-bread and so on. When you reach Winterfalls there will be other supplies ready. Not much; only sufficient to get you started. And you’ll be wanting to bathe. My folk will bring warm water shortly, and will ensure that you have privacy. That is for tonight only, Blackthorn. From tomorrow you’ll be relying on your own resources.’

I understood he was not planning to stay, which was just as well if I was supposed to strip and wash here under the trees. Out of the myriad urgent questions, I chose what seemed the most important right now. ‘Winterfalls. I don’t know the place – where and what is it?’

‘Winterfalls is a holding in the north-east, near the coast of Dalriada. It’s the residence of Prince Oran, only son of the Dalriadan king. Quite a young man, I understand, and establishing his own household for the first time. There’s a sizeable settlement there and many small farms. They don’t have a local healer, so there’ll be no shortage of work.’

‘Are you telling me I’ll need to live in this settlement?’

Conmael smiled. ‘You loathe that notion so much, Blackthorn?’

‘Let’s just say it would add to the difficulty of keeping your conditions.’

‘I know you better than you realise,’ he said. ‘There is an old cottage some miles from Winterfalls settlement, on the edge of a wood. The local folk can walk or ride there quite easily; there’s a path through Dreamer’s Wood and another that skirts it. The place will be highly suitable for you, though it’s run-down. You’ll need to do some work on it. People can get to you if they need help, but you’ll have plenty of time in your own company. There are the makings of a garden; the house was tenanted by another wise woman some years ago. You’ll be able to gather wild herbs in the woods. And my folk are nearby.’

‘To keep an eye on me.’

‘To watch over you.’

‘And to slap another year on the sentence if I make even the tiniest error.’

‘You think my terms harsh. But you have received your life back in return. Besides, learning can be very harsh indeed. And long. You know that already.’

‘Conmael.’

‘Yes?’

‘Did anyone else get out of that place? When you did what you did?’

When he did not answer straight away, I wished I’d kept my stupid mouth shut. After a while he said, ‘My interest stretches only as far as yourself. What became of those incarcerated with you, I have no idea.’ He gave me a very direct look, then added, ‘I did not believe you could surprise me, Blackthorn, but you just did.’

‘What, because I asked after my wretched cellmates?’ What if Grim had lifted me up to the light, waited until I was safely out, then fought an impossible battle, one man against ten, twenty, thirty of Mathuin’s men-at-arms? The whole wretched bunch of them, Strangler, Frog Spawn and the rest, might now lie crushed beneath those stones. Conmael had made it happen and he didn’t even seem to have thought about that. ‘For them, maybe death was a kindness,’ I muttered. An hour ago, before the fire and the soup, I would have believed my own words. Now, I was not quite so sure.

‘I’ll leave you.’ Conmael rose to his feet. ‘Enjoy your bath. It will be safe to sleep by the fire here. You will not see my people, but they will guard you.’ He did not wait for me to reply, but with a sweep of his grand cloak simply vanished.

Perhaps the bath had been there all along; if not, invisible hands had delivered it at some moment when my gaze was elsewhere. A wooden tub stood on the opposite side of the fire, steaming in the chill night air. Beside it, on a large flat leaf, was a handful of soft soap and a scrubbing brush. Nearby stood a neatly strapped pack which, on being opened, proved to hold the promised change of clothing – plain attire, of good make but unobtrusive – as well as a comb, a flint and a knife that would allow me to gut a fish, skin a rabbit, strike a spark and put up a defence against attackers. There was the wherewithal to catch the fish or trap the rabbit, and also a parcel of hard-baked way-bread, a water skin and a little leather bag containing a moderate supply of coppers. Conmael had been thorough.

The bathwater was not going to get any warmer. Besides, if I delayed it might disappear as the giver had, the fey being fond of playing tricks. I did check the area first, in case Conmael had lied about this being private, but it seemed my only audience would be owls in the foliage above or night insects about their business – my naked flesh, foul though it currently was, would probably bring clouds of biting things. Another reason to get on with it.

Ahhh.
No words could describe the first hot bath in over a year. I soaked and scrubbed until the water was black with dirt and my skin was tingling. I washed my hair, but the matted locks were beyond combing out. At some point I’d have to take to them with the knife. Not now; I was so tired I risked cutting off an ear by mistake. I dried myself on the spare blanket, put on the clothes – oh, the pleasure of warm, dry wool against my skin – and threw my old ones into a heap. They’d have to be disposed of before I moved on. Had those men with the dogs been looking for me? Would Mathuin make a fresh attempt to silence me? Or was I insignificant to him provided I stayed out of his way?

If I stuck to my bargain with Conmael, those questions would stay unanswered for seven years. Unless, that was, someone tracked me down before I got to Winterfalls and the safety of this cottage he’d spoken of. Conmael’s invisible henchmen could hardly be planning to guard me all the way there – hadn’t he said I’d be relying on my own resources from tomorrow?

I dealt with the fire, spreading the ashes up over the coals, hoping it would burn long and slow to keep me warm until sunrise. Then I settled with the luxury of one thick blanket underneath me and one on top, and a shawl around my shoulders and under my head. Within the space of a few breaths I was asleep.

I woke next morning to find the fire still glowing under its ash blanket. Nothing else had been disturbed, but the bathtub was gone. Fortified by my night’s rest, the good food and the warmth, I concocted a meal of way-bread soaked in hot water – Conmael had left me his cooking pot. I burned my old clothing, then covered the fire with earth and moved on. It was a fair day and I made good progress, keeping to the cover of woodland where I could, and going by lesser paths in more open areas. It was not possible to stay entirely unseen, for there were folk working in the fields, making the most of the fine weather. But Conmael’s gifts meant I was unobtrusive now, just one countrywoman among many, and the shawl was handy for covering my matted hair.

It was late in the day, nearly dusk, when I began to suspect someone was following me. Whoever it was, they were doing a good job of it, keeping a certain distance away, maintaining a watch, staying out of sight. Someone with a light tread; someone wood-crafty. But surely not Conmael’s folk, who would make no sound at all. A pox on this! I had almost persuaded myself that Mathuin’s men had lost the trail or given up on me. It seemed not. Who else would be bothering to track me?

Well, two could play this game. No stopping for the night; no camp; no fire. I would not make myself an easy target for anyone. Never again. And I would not call upon Conmael’s folk for help; my pride had not been entirely beaten out of me. I would make myself into a shadow, and I would find this tracker before he found me.