Raven Flight (3 page)

Sage and Red Cap, with the babe, had followed me all the way from the forests by Silverwater in the west, where I had first encountered them. They had helped me, had stood up for me in the face of their clan’s doubts, and convinced others of their kind to aid me on my journey. Indeed, I’d discovered that Sage had been keeping an eye on me since I was a child, suspecting that my special ability went something beyond the canny gifts—unusually good sight or hearing, a particular talent at music, an exceptional
knack with animals—that a scattering of human folk possessed.

So Sage and Red Cap were here on the mountain, not lodged with the rebels or with the mysterious Folk Below, but in some place unknown to me. Sage had been confident, at first, that the Good Folk of Shadowfell could be persuaded to come out and talk to us, but thus far our efforts to contact them had been fruitless. I had hoped to enlist their help; I had promised Regan I would do my best. Although the Good Folk in general were distrustful of humankind, the Folk Below, with their gifts of food and fuel, had shown goodwill toward the rebels since Regan and his band had first moved into Shadowfell. I had thought I could ask for their help in finding the Guardians—they should know, at least, where to start looking for the Lord of the North. More than that, I’d thought we could win them over to the cause. If the Good Folk could be persuaded to join the rebellion, we had a much better chance of removing Keldec from the throne. The most famous Caller of the past had united fey and human armies to defeat a common enemy.

All very well. Thus far I had not even persuaded these folk to open their door to me. And there lay the problem. My gift was powerful. I had used it to turn the tide of a battle last autumn; I had called out a rock being, a stanie mon, to fall on a party of Enforcers and crush them. That deed weighed heavily on my conscience, and not only because one of the rebels had been caught up in it and had sustained an injury from which he’d later died. Regan’s
fighters had hailed me as a hero that day. But I did not feel like a hero. Wielding that kind of power horrified me. It made me determined not to use my special talent again until I knew how to do so wisely. I must reach the Folk Below without using my gift; I must not compel them to come out. Sage and her clan had befriended me without my needing to call. Why should not the Folk Below be the same?

My health improved. My strength increased, thanks to good food, enough rest, and rigorous training. I became more used to living at close quarters with many folk. That had been hard at first, for it was years since I had lived in the village of Corbie’s Wood, with a family and a community. Father and I had been on our own a long while; and after he died, it had been only me. And then Flint and me. I tried not to think too much of him, for my imagination was all too ready to paint me pictures of Flint at court, Flint in trouble, Flint under suspicion of spying. I dreamed of him sometimes, confusing dreams that I could not interpret. I kept them to myself. He had been my companion in times of trouble, sometimes trusted, sometimes doubted, in the end a friend above all friends. And now he was gone. I must not waste time regretting something that could not be.

I had not kept count of the days, but others had. It was close to midwinter, and even Ban and Kenal, the two lads most recently arrived at Shadowfell, were starting to look like warriors, thanks to Tali’s training and their own hard work. We sat in the dining chamber, the only place
big enough to accommodate our whole community at once, working on various tasks by lamplight after supper had been cleared away. At one end of the chamber, Milla’s cooking fire burned on the broad hearth, filling the place with welcome warmth. Regan and Tali sat together, red head and dark bent over a map spread out on the table before them. They were arguing, though they kept their voices down. Tali had her arms tightly folded. Regan’s handsome features wore an uncharacteristic frown.

Eva and I were working our way through a basket of mending. Killen, Shadowfell’s most expert archer, had fletching materials laid out on the table before him. Andra was sharpening my knife for me, her eyes narrowed as she worked it against the whetstone. The special sheath I had made, with its protective wards, lay close by. She had not asked me about it, and I had not volunteered any information. I had learned the making of such things from my grandmother, a wise woman. Grandmother’s story was too hard to tell, too raw and painful, even now. She had fallen victim to the Cull in the cruelest way, turned into a witless shell by an enthrallment gone wrong. Destroyed before my twelve-year-old eyes as I hid and watched. I had learned to set the memory away where it would not cripple me, and I did not bring it out for sharing.

When Flint had told me he was an Enthraller, one of those who performed the same vile magic those men had worked on my grandmother, I had fled in revulsion. The news had made me physically sick. Mind-mending, Flint had called it, a fine old magic that had been warped and
perverted under Keldec. In time I had come to accept the truth of this: that mind-mending had indeed once been a force for healing. Still, I did not speak of my grandmother: neither of the time of her wisdom and love, her strength and goodness, nor of the frail, lost thing she became. Her death had been a mercy.

Big Don was adjusting the binding on a spear. Little Don, a marginally shorter man, was plucking a tune on a three-stringed fiddle and humming under his breath. Others played games—stanies, hop-the-man, or a form of skittles with an elaborate scoring system that seemed to change from night to night. Running totals were marked up on the stone wall with charcoal, and friendly disputes as to their accuracy were common.

The games, I did not care for. No one at Shadowfell knew I’d first met Flint when he beat my father at stanies and won me as his prize. That night was etched on my memory forever. Not long after the game the Cull had swept down on Darkwater and my father had been burned to death. I had trained myself to be calm when folk brought out the board and pieces. I had taught myself not to start in fright every time they made the call:
Spear! Hound! Stag!

“You should go off to bed,” Eva said, giving me a glance. “You look worn out. Been having bad dreams again?”

In a place like this, there was no avoiding scrutiny. “I’m all right. Let me finish darning these leggings, at least.”

“Another pair of Tali’s,” Eva commented. “She wears them out faster than anyone else, and since I’d rather not
get my head snapped off, I don’t ask her to do her own mending. It’s not as if she’s ever idle. Does the work of four men, that girl.”

Plying my bone needle and hoping Tali would not complain about my uneven stitchery, I allowed my thoughts to wander back to Flint, for it was a dream of him that had disturbed my sleep last night. It was hard to say exactly what we were to each other. Not lovers. Not sweethearts. What lay between us was too deep and too complicated for such words. I feared for him. Despite what he was, despite what he did, I longed for his return. But only if coming back did not place him in still greater danger. I yearned for the time when we could be together in a world without fear. I hoped that time would come before we were too old and tired to care anymore.

“What are you dreaming of, Neryn?”

I managed a smile. “Better times. Opportunities. Good things.”

“Ah, well. We all dream of those.”

“Even Tali? I wonder what she would do if Alban were at peace.”

Tali’s dispute with Regan had intensified; she smacked her hand on the table for emphasis.

“I don’t see peace coming in a hurry,” Eva said. “Even if it does, folk will still need guards, protectors, sentries. There’s always work for fighters.”

“Tali as a sentry? Give her a day or two and she’d be running the whole army.” I realized halfway through this comment that the chamber had fallen quiet and my voice
had carried clearly to both Tali and Regan. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, glancing over. “I meant no offense.”

“A song!” put in Big Don before Tali could say a word. “What better for a winter night? Who’ll oblige us? Brasal, how about you?”

Brasal was Fingal’s other infirmary assistant, a young man of brawny build who could lift a patient with ease. His strong hands were useful for bone-setting. He also had a deep, true singing voice.

“Come on!” Little Don plucked the start of a tune on his fiddle, then reached for the bow. “Something cheerful, none of those forlorn ballads of lost loves and misfortunes.”

“I’ll sing if Regan sings with me. And the rest of you join in the refrain, even you, Tali.”

“Me?” Tali’s dark brows lifted. “You know I’ve got a singing voice like a crow’s, Brasal. I’ll leave it to the rest of you.” After a moment she added, “Sing that thing about catching geese, I like that one.”

The goose song was lengthy and became sillier as it progressed. Regan added a higher counterpoint to Brasal’s melody, and we all joined in the refrain with good will. This made a change from the pattern of hard work that filled our days, and it pleased me to see people smiling. Eva and I sewed as we sang, and Killen’s big hands stayed busy with his arrows. When the goose song was done, requests came from all over the room and the singers obliged. Regan’s singing voice was lighter than Brasal’s, clear and sweet in tone. The fiddle added an anchoring
drone and sometimes inserted its own line of melody. The fire crackled; the mead jug was passed around; the mood was mellow.

“Regan.” Milla spoke into the silence after a song. “Do you remember that old tune for midwinter, ‘Out of Darkness Comes the Light’? I’ve always loved that.” She glanced at me. “My man used to sing it, back in the early days. Back when we needed every scrap of hope we could find.”

I nodded understanding. At two-and-thirty, Milla was the oldest person at Shadowfell. She and her husband had been with Regan from the first, along with Flint. Fingal and Tali had joined them not long after. Those six had been the sum of the rebellion then, the tiny flame from which a great fire of hope had flared. Milla’s man had died for the cause. Exactly how, I did not know and did not ask. Folk only shared their stories if they chose to; it was an unspoken rule that one did not pry. Likely every person at Shadowfell had a tale of loss and heartbreak in their past, just as I did.

“I remember it,” Regan said. “Brasal?”

Brasal shook his head. “I don’t know it. You start, I’ll try to pick up the tune.”

Regan lifted his voice, unaccompanied in the quiet of the chamber. The firelight played on the strong bones of his face; his deep blue eyes shone with feeling. And while his singing voice was pleasant rather than exceptional, suddenly everyone’s gaze was on him. Fingers stilled in mid-stitch; playing pieces were set quietly down.

Out of darkness comes the light,

Out of night comes morning,

Out of sorrow rises joy,

In the new day’s dawning.

Courage, wanderer! May the sun

Cast its light upon us,

Showing us the path ahead

Into springtime’s promise.

Rise up, weary traveler, rise!

Hope’s bright beacon lights the skies.

The melody died away; this song had no refrain. For a count of ten nobody made a sound. I could swear not one of us took a breath. Then, into the quiet, there came a din of clashing metal and raised voices. Tali was on her feet in an eyeblink and in front of Regan, shielding him with a skill born of long practice. Andra and Killen were up a moment later, moving in on either side, she with her staff, he with an ax. Tali’s knife was at the ready; I had not even seen her draw it from the sheath. Brasal moved into position in front of me and Eva. Five people headed out toward the entry, drawing weapons as they went.

“It’s the middle of winter,” muttered Eva. “Who’d come knocking but an ice trow or a madman?”

I shivered, waiting. It was all very well to joke about trows. I had met a brollachan last autumn, and although the fearsome creature had proved to be a friend, that was only after he had dangled me by the ankle over an abyss and frightened me half out of my wits.

Shouts from the entry; someone exclaiming in astonishment, “Cian! By all that’s holy!”

Regan made toward the door; Tali halted him with a raised hand. She formed a word with her lips, making no sound.
Wait
.

We did not have to wait long. Big Don and Fingal came back into the chamber supporting a man between them. He was wrapped in thick woolen clothing, a cloak, a cloth around his head and shoulders, mittens that looked heavy with damp. A dusting of snow lay on his head and shoulders. Within the shawl-like wrapping that swathed his head, his eyes were strangely bright against a death mask of a face, gaunt and pale with exhaustion. His boots were cracked and worn. The two brought him to the fireside and sat him down on a bench. All around the chamber, weapons were slid back into their sheaths.

“On his own,” said Big Don succinctly.

Regan crouched before the traveler, gazed up into the drained face. “By sun and moon, Cian, you look like a ghost! Welcome home. No, don’t try to speak. Let’s get you warm first. Milla—”

Milla was already ladling broth from a cook pot into a bowl while one of the men poured mead into a cup and set it by Cian. Plainly this was neither madman nor ill-doer, but one of us.

“Not too much,” Fingal warned as Cian lifted the cup in shaking hands. “A sip at a time. That’s it. Get that cloak off, man. And the boots. Black Crow save us, look at the state you’re in. How far have you walked today?”

“Save the questions for later.” Regan gestured and folk moved back, giving the traveler room. Milla brought the broth; Brasal went out and came back with a blanket, which he wrapped around Cian in place of the cloak and shawl. Under Milla’s direction, Little Don carried in a tub of warm water for the traveler’s feet. Cian’s face regained some color, but bouts of shivering still coursed through his body.

“Who is he?” I whispered to Eva.