Raven Flight (19 page)

The farther west we sailed, the more creatures I saw. Seals basking on the rocks. Something large and sleek just under the water, keeping pace with our boat. Gulls; many gulls, flying above us, beside us, skimming over our wake, alighting atop the mast or on the rim rail to turn their heads and examine us. Their eyes were not as fey as those of yesterday’s messenger, but there was something in their gaze that went beyond mere hope of scraps from a fisherman’s catch.

“Unusual number of birds,” Tali said.

“Mm.” I found I was checking their feet. None wore shoes.

“Neryn,” Flint said quietly. “Look ahead, there.” He pointed westward, indicating a gap between two larger islands. Beyond, I saw only open sea stretching to the end of the world.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Ronan’s Isle. Slightly to the north of our prow.”

Black Crow save us! How far out was it? Would we be lurching about on these waters all day?

“In shape it’s something like a whale,” Tali said. “And there’s a flock of birds—see, just over there, flying in an arrowhead shape and heading straight toward it.”

Now I saw it, a speck in the ocean, so small I could not really tell if it resembled a whale or a haystack or a pudding bowl. “Oh. It’s a long way.”

“We’ll be there when the sun reaches its peak,” Flint said. “It’s too far to go under oars, certainly, unless you have the strength of a bear. A place seldom visited.”

“You’ve been there before?” It was, perhaps, another of those questions that should not be asked. He had grown up in the isles; somewhere in this widely scattered realm was the place where he had learned his craft from a wise old tutor. Somewhere too was Regan’s childhood home, where he and Flint had become friends. Where something had occurred that had made Regan the leader he was, and set in him a burning will to restore Alban to justice. I had dreamed of Flint here as a small boy. Even then he had looked lonely.

“Not for a while.”

“You can make yourself useful, Neryn,” Tali said. “Pass us the waterskin, get out some provisions. Not that there’s much left. I look forward to some fresh fish.”

“I have supplies,” Flint said. “In the bag, there.”

I did as I was told. Flint’s food supply included fresh bread, a luxury Tali and I had not seen for some time. I handed each of them what seemed a reasonable share.

“You should eat, Neryn,” Flint said as I packed the rest away.

“I’m not hungry.” I had thus far managed not to retch out the contents of my belly over the side. I was feeling useless enough without that.

“Best eat.” Tali’s tone was neutral. “Even if you’re sick afterward. A couple of mouthfuls, at least. And make sure you drink some water.”

“Is that an order?” I attempted a smile.

“It is. When we reach Ronan’s Isle, it’s your turn to be leader. Dealing with uncanny beings, especially ancient and powerful ones, is not my strength.”

“Here,” said Flint, passing me the waterskin. “Drink. Eat. Then keep your gaze forward, to the destination. By midday we’ll be on solid ground.”

More birds came: not only gulls but terns, gannets, and puffins, a soaring, wheeling banner around our little craft. So much for going unnoticed in these waters. I hoped people would assume we’d taken an especially good catch.

As we traveled on westward, the other craft were left behind. Out here, the islands were farther apart, the skerries more treacherous. The sea grew turbulent, and I soon lost my meager meal over the side. My companions were stern-faced and silent, fully occupied in keeping the boat on a steady course. I tried to fix my eyes on the destination. To take my mind off how wretched I felt, I hummed under my breath the song of truth, the old forbidden anthem I had once sung for the warrior-shades of Hiddenwater, and later for a lonely brollachan. There was a verse in it about the Guardians, its words mysterious but strangely comforting:

White Lady, shield me with your fire;

Lord of the North, my heart inspire;

Hag of the Isles, my secrets keep;

Master of Shadows, guard my sleep.

I had met the Master of Shadows, and he had not been a restful sort of being. If he watched over a person’s sleep, it would likely be full of nightmares and sudden, startled wakings. If the same principle held true for the entire verse, perhaps I could expect the Hag to be a gossip and unreliable. Who was there to hear secrets in a lonely place like that isle ahead of us? The Master had a curious little dog. Maybe the Hag liked birds.

Time passed. Ronan’s Isle changed from a dot to a blob, and from a blob to a discernible mass of land that was indeed whalelike in shape, high without being unduly steep, and big enough to house a community of sorts. A cluster of huts fringed the near shore, and there were boats drawn up on the shingle, as at Pentishead. Nets hung from poles, drying in the midday sun. A pair of old men sat side by side on a bench gazing out to sea. As Tali and Flint brought our craft in to the shore under oars, they watched us without getting up.

Relief to be on dry land at last did not overwhelm my caution. “What about …?” I murmured, indicating the men with a jerk of the head.

“It’s safe here,” Flint said.

I could not believe this. Nowhere in all Alban was safe,
save Shadowfell. Where the king did not have eyes and ears, there were always ordinary folk ready to betray their neighbors. “But—”

“It’s safe, Neryn.” Flint helped me out of the boat and onto the pebbles. I waited while he and Tali hauled the craft up and secured the rope around a stone slab. As we’d reached shore, the birds had risen in a cloud, then winged away across the island. A solitary gull watched us from the rocks nearby. “These folk know me.”

We slung on our packs, grasped our staves, walked up the beach. My knees were wobbly; I could not balance. If anything, I felt sicker than I had on the boat. And now here was one of the old men, rising without haste, walking over to take my elbow and guide me to the bench.

“Sit ye doon awhile, lassie, ye’re the hue o’ fresh cheese. No’ a sailor, are ye?”

And while I muttered a thank-you, the other old man said to Flint, “I hardly knew ye, laddie. The winters sit hard on ye.” He examined Flint, his blue eyes bright and farseeing in a face seamed by age and weather. “How lang will ye be bidin’ in these pairts?”

“A day or two, old friend, no more. I’ve come only to see Neryn and her guard here safely across.” Flint nodded toward Tali, who was standing somewhat apart, scanning the terrain around us as if Enforcers might appear at any moment despite Flint’s promises of safety. “I’ll be needing a lift back to Pentishead.”

“Oh, aye.” The tone was measured. I thought it would take a lot to disturb the natural calm of these two islanders.
They seemed like men who had seen many storms come and go, and who had the measure of most folk. But not Flint, I thought. Plainly they knew him. They knew him well. They spoke to him as if he belonged here; he addressed them with the respect due to familiar elders. But if he had once been one of them, surely he was no longer. A king’s man. An Enforcer. Worse than that, an Enthraller. Could it be these folk knew nothing of his other life?

“One o’ the lads will ferry ye tae the mainland, when ’tis time,” the old man said.

“Twa days,” commented the other ancient. “ ’Tisna lang. There’s folk will be wantin’ to see ye. Three winters, that’s a guid while tae be awa’.”

Flint made no response to this, but came to crouch down beside me. He took my hands in his. “Where do we go now, Neryn?”

“
Take the narrow pathway to the west, over Lanely Muir
,” I said, quoting Hawkbit. “When we get to the end, we wait.”

“The lassie doesna seem fit for a lang walk,” observed one of the old men. “ ’Tis quite a way.”

“I’m perfectly fit.” I rose to my feet. The ground tilted; I fixed my eyes on a point straight ahead and managed not to fall. “If the boat will be safe here, we should move on.” As I spoke, the solitary gull took flight, following the narrow pathway that led from the sheltered bay up the hill before us. This was a place of stone and rough grass; nothing grew higher than my knees.

“Your wee boatie will meet wi’ nae harm.”

The old men watched us go. Halfway up the hill I
looked over my shoulder. The two of them were back on their bench, gazing out across the water, where a single fishing vessel moved on the swell, a mere speck in the immensity of the sea. Looking back eastward, I saw the humps of the bigger isles, part veiled in sea mist, but I could not see the mainland. It was a strange feeling to be thus cut off from the rest of Alban. Something inside me longed to stay here, to ride out the storm in safe harbor as so many of the Good Folk had chosen to do when Keldec’s rule plunged our peaceful realm into darkness. To leave cruelty and hardship, wars and struggles, for other people to deal with.

“All right, Neryn?” Tali was climbing the track with her usual ease, seemingly not in the least tired by the trip.

“Fine.”

The gull flew above us, moving in slow circles to keep pace. An ordinary bird in every respect, complete with webbed feet. But nothing was ordinary here. For now, as my legs reacquainted themselves with solid ground and the queasy feeling subsided, I began to sense the strength of Ronan’s Isle, an old, old strength. Magic breathed from every stone. The air was alive with it. The sea that circled the isle whispered tales of wonder. There were Good Folk here, no doubt at all of that.

“You should wrap up your weapons now,” I told my companions. “I feel uncanny presences here. The Hag may be close.”

In fact, Flint was carrying no visible weaponry, though I doubted he would go anywhere completely unarmed.
Tali took out the cloak she had put in her bag, slipped her knives from their sheaths, wrapped them in the garment, and stowed them without a word.

We climbed the hill, and found ourselves on the edge of a broad, treeless area that must surely be the Lanely Muir the Northies had mentioned. There was indeed not a soul to be seen here, only some tough-looking sheep with wool in long, twisted locks, grazing with new lambs by their sides. To the south, at a distance, a cluster of low stone dwellings huddled behind protective walls, and between them and us stood stacks of peat drying in the wind. I could see the dark gouges in the earth where folk had been digging, and here and there a patch of water shining amid the brown. Above the moorland the spring sky was alive with birds.

The gull led us, now winging ahead, now alighting on a stone or a stretch of tumbledown wall to wait while we caught up. We made our way across the island to the west, where the rising land of the moor gave way, with shocking abruptness, to sheer cliffs. There had been cliffs on the Northies’ map, but nothing could have prepared me for this. The height was immense—surely we had not climbed so far? The cliff edge was split with crevices, its uneven surface treacherous. Here and there sections had broken away to stand alone, craggy giants with the ocean washing white around their feet far, far below us. Each solitary stack was crowned with a colony of nesting gannets, and in the nooks and crannies of the precipice more birds roosted. The noise of their voices filled the air, a constant screaming. Birds dived to the sea below and rose with fish in their
beaks. Others circled above, perhaps seeking their own young among a myriad of squawking, jostling creatures.

“What now?” Tali had eased off her pack and was looking along the cliffs, one way, then the other.

“We wait. Perhaps not right here.” I recalled the tiny Twayblade seated on the very edge of the cliff, dangling his feet over the mind-numbing drop. “We might sit over there by the wall.”

The drystone wall had probably been erected to keep the livestock from coming to grief. It seemed whoever had built it had run out of energy quite soon, as the wall stretched only a short distance along the cliff top. We sat, our backs to the stones, our faces to the endless sea. The gull flew off with a squawk.

“Couldn’t we explore along the cliff top?” asked Tali. “Maybe look for some sign of her? I don’t know where a Hag would live, but you mentioned a cave. She’s hardly going to come strolling along looking for us.”

“We wait because that’s what we were told to do. We don’t go exploring. We might blunder in somewhere we’re not welcome and cause offense. I’m here seeking a big favor. I need to approach it in the right spirit.” It occurred to me that when I’d met the Master of Shadows, he had indeed come strolling along looking for me, if in a somewhat roundabout way. I had not sought him out; he had approached me.

Silence, then. Flint was beside me, his legs stretched out, his hand right beside mine. I found myself wishing, unreasonably, that Tali were somewhere else.

“Tell me more about this change in the Good Folk,”

Flint said eventually. “I thought your friend Sage was unusual in her support for the cause. But it seems the tide has turned far sooner than anyone expected.”

We broke the news to him that Lannan Long-Arm had set a time limit on his support. We explained the council at Shadowfell, and the Good Folk’s belief that a season of change was upon all of us.

“Sage and Red Cap left Shadowfell to spread word of the rebellion to their own kind in the west,” I said. “The Good Folk of the north, those who live under Shadowfell, were going on a similar mission. And there was talk of using birds, or fey folk who can fly, to carry the message. I was wondering if word had traveled ahead of us. Now that we’ve found you, I’m sure of it.”

“Birds. Extraordinary. But, then, you have a habit of making the extraordinary happen.”

Tali told him about Regan and the others: where they had gone, what they hoped to achieve before next winter closed the paths. Flint listened in silence. Of his own business he told us nothing. The sun moved into the west; the shadows began to lengthen. Flint took off his cloak and put it around my shoulders. Tali was restless, getting up, walking a few paces, sitting down again.

“Gifts,” I said, realizing I had forgotten this important aspect of dealing with the Good Folk. “We should make an offering to show goodwill.”