Raven Flight (7 page)

I would have retreated quietly, not wanting to interrupt
him. But Regan said, “It’s a momentous day. Midwinter, and our first meeting with the Folk Below. A milestone on our journey. Will you join me?” So I stood beside him, thinking how remarkable it was that out of the darkness of winter there always came the light of springtime.

“Rise up, brother sun!” Regan’s voice was strong and sure. There was no trace of uncertainty in it. “Bear forth your flaming torch! Banish the shadows. March forward in vigor, young and free, and lead us into a new day. Farewell to the dark. Hail to the light!”

“Hail to the light!” I echoed. The stirring words were most apt, not only to the festival day, but to our whole enterprise. Glancing at my companion, I saw that his face was bright with hope. It was a perfect reflection of the light he had invoked. No wonder he inspired such loyalty.

We stood there awhile longer, until the rain became intolerable and we retreated to the steps.

“You must have come up here in the dark,” I said.

“I brought a candle. The rain extinguished it for me; as a symbol of new light it was short-lived.”

“The prayer was good. I had planned to say one of my own, but I’ve forgotten the proper words.” We began the descent, Regan going first, I following. We went slowly; in my mind I could hear Tali saying,
Pick up the pace! What are you, a pair of old women in your dotage?

“I doubt if the gods trouble themselves much about the words,” Regan said. “What matters is the intention. Only a few of us at Shadowfell observe the old rituals; most have become rather disillusioned over the years.”

“But you believe it’s worth going on in some small way?”

He did not answer immediately, and when he spoke, he sounded unusually hesitant. “Sometimes I wonder whether all a ritual provides is a comforting familiarity. Such observances lose their significance if few believe in them. For me, it still seems important to acknowledge the turning of the year. To celebrate the times of joyful plenty and to recognize the times of sorrow and hardship. A ritual makes it easier to understand our place in the grand plan of things.”

I would have liked to ask about his past, before he became a rebel leader, before Shadowfell began. But that was not the way we did things here. Regan knew far more of my story than I did of his, for before Flint had left for the east, he’d told Regan about our journey along the lakes and up the Rush valley, and how we had been friends, then enemies, then friends again.

“I’m not sure if I believe in gods,” I said as my knees started to protest at the long downward climb. “I know the Guardians are thought to be wielders of old magic and immensely powerful. If the gods exist, they must be greater still. And more distant. I think of them when I see a lovely sunrise, or a flock of birds passing over, or the first flowers of spring. When I hear a fine tune played well, or see someone act with generosity or courage.” An image of Flint came sharply to my mind, Flint after the battle, kneeling to close the eyes of a dead Enforcer. I would never forget his expression.

My foot slipped on an uneven step and I struggled for balance. Below me, Regan halted; I steadied myself against
his shoulder. “Sorry,” I gasped. “Tali’s told me often enough not to lose concentration.”

“You’re doing well,” Regan said as we continued the downward climb. “When you first got here, you were skin and bone. You wouldn’t have managed ten of these steps. Now you’re up and down with the best of them.”

“Tali’s work.”

“A person doesn’t achieve such a result without determination and hard effort, no matter how well drilled she is.”

We reached the bottom of the steps.

“It troubles you, doesn’t it?” Regan asked, out of the blue. “The risks. The losses.”

I nodded.

“What you have to offer us is priceless,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said your gift was the difference between our winning and losing this struggle. Even with Lannan’s support, we can’t move a fighting force into Summerfort that will equal the king’s. This won’t be a conventional battle; much will depend on the element of surprise. And Keldec won’t surrender his power easily, even when he sees we’re backed by some of his chieftains. We can expect more losses; it will be a bloody confrontation. More than that; I believe the king will make full use of whatever magic he has at his disposal, whether it’s the talents of the canny men and women of his court, or something more powerful.”

His words turned me cold. “Something more powerful? You mean uncanny folk? How could the king use them? They despise him. They hate the way he’s changed Alban. They’d never agree to help him.”

Regan hesitated. “If he could find a way to coerce them, he would not hesitate to do so. I know the king’s men were interested in you, Neryn; tracking you, hunting you ever since word got out that you might have an unusual talent. That was what Flint told me. Now that you are beyond Keldec’s reach, I imagine his agents are looking elsewhere for a Caller. What if there were another to be found?”

Now I felt sick. “Perhaps it’s a good thing that we only have a year and a half to do this,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“It is just a thought,” Regan said, and laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Put it aside for now, and let us think of a new day, and the light of the rising sun. Of hope and faith. We meet the Good Folk at dusk, and perhaps set foot on the last and most remarkable part of our journey.”

I looked up into his eyes, and saw there the faith he spoke of, bright and true, and behind it the shadow of the deaths, the injuries, the opportunities set aside in the name of the cause. To till the fields or sail the fishing boat in peace; to lie down at night by a loving wife, to father children, to grow older surrounded by a strong community. I wondered, yet again, what dark thing lay in Regan’s past, what had driven him to this.

He smiled, and I thought,
Even so, he is a father to his comrades; he is a friend; he is the center of a community. Here at Shadowfell he is all those things. He is a leader
.

By dusk we were ready, or as ready as we could make ourselves. Of all the human inhabitants of Shadowfell, I was the only one who had much experience of the Good Folk,
and that had been quite limited, for they were a cautious and reclusive people, not given to mixing even among their own clans. The council would be a challenge—both Northies and human folk would be wary. The Northies might choose not to come up at all. The lure of sleep might be too strong.

All day we had made preparations. The feast had been cooked in clay pots, with the assistance of Sula’s canny gift for transferring heat into water. Wooden spoons, copper basins, tin cups, and earthenware platters had been put to use. In a chamber at the very back of Shadowfell, every piece of iron we possessed, to the last belt buckle, was wrapped up and set away behind a fast-closed door.

Eva and I had put the finishing touches on the gift we’d made, and had hung garlands of dried herbs about the dining chamber, which was the only place in Shadowfell big enough for a council—we hoped the community of Northies was not too numerous. The rebel community had practiced songs and had listened as I explained that Regan would do most of the talking until we discovered how amenable the Good Folk were to the proposal we would be putting to them. I warned them that there might be some odd-looking beings, and that they must be courteous even if the visitors spoke somewhat bluntly.

Just before dusk, Sage and Red Cap came to the door and were admitted. Red Cap had his infant in a sling on his back; it was hunkered down against the chill with only the tips of its ears showing. We stood at the top of the spiral stair with Regan and Tali. The rest of the community was
waiting in the dining area, where the benches and tables had been stacked at one end, and blankets spread out on the earthen floor in their place.

We heard them before we saw them, and I was filled with both relief and wonder. The sound that drifted up the stair was hard to describe. It was not a chant, nor yet a song; it was something like the sound of breaking waves, and something like crackling flames, and a little like the rustling of leaves in the wind. It made the hairs on my neck prickle.

“Black Crow’s curse,” breathed Tali.

“Hush,” murmured Regan. “Only listen.”

The murmuring, rippling sound increased, reaching our ears in a pattern of rise and fall. Light flickered on the stone walls of the spiral stair.

“A procession,” I whispered. “A midwinter ritual.”

“I’m glad to see the Northies have not forgotten the old ways.” Sage made no attempt to lower her voice. She glanced up at Regan. “You can leave this part to me.” Her tone was full of authority, and he gave a solemn nod.

The lights became brighter; shapes flickered and danced across the ancient stone as the Northies climbed toward us. Beside me, Regan sucked in his breath.

They were cloaked in uniform gray, but it could be seen that they were of many kinds. Their leader—not the being we had encountered before—carried a glowing lantern fashioned in the shape of a bee. Behind him came many others, some bearing lights, others carrying little baskets or bags. Among them were five tiny beings, each about a
handspan tall. They were holding a very small wreath of greenery between them; it was taking some maneuvering to get it, and themselves, from step to step, and the folk behind them in line were showing signs of impatience. I suppressed the urge to offer help, since quite plainly this was something the wee folk either wanted or needed to do by themselves.

There were beings here that seemed hewn from rock, their features, under the gray hoods, made up of cracks, crevices, and holes. They were like smaller versions of a stanie mon, and the sight of them sent me back to that day on the battlefield, the day so many men had perished because of me. One creature was all smoke and flame, and walked without a cloak. Tali muttered another oath and Sage gave her a repressive look. Red Cap had lifted the young one out of its sling and put it on his shoulders, the better to see; it squeaked in excitement, waving its paws.

The Northies’ leader was at the top of the stairs. He came toward us, with three others in a row behind him, and pushed back his hood to reveal a face not unlike Sage’s—pointed ears, beady eyes, shrewd expression—though in place of her green-gray curls he had filmy hair that resembled cobweb. The others did the same. One was a little woman with dark, penetrating eyes, one a gold-furred, catlike creature, and the third, somewhat taller, a being that fell somewhere between young man and badger, bearing a staff. They halted.

“Greetings,” said Sage, taking a step forward. “Out of winter’s darkness, you bring us light. Hail the light!”

“Hail the light!” Regan and I echoed, followed, a heartbeat later, by Tali.

“Our solemn greetin’ tae ye.” It was the little woman who spoke. “Out o’ sleep is born wisdom. Out o’ winter comes new life. The wise woman passes intae shadow; the warrior awakens. Hail the light!”

“Hail the light!”

As we gave our response, the last of the Northies reached the top of the stair. They gathered in a group, eyeing us suspiciously. There were many of them; the passageway was crowded. The sound that had accompanied the ascent had died down. I still did not know whether they had been singing, or humming, or whether they had created that compelling music by means of a magical charm.

The five tiny folk came forward, bearing their wreath. It was about the size of a woman’s wristlet. They stopped in front of Regan and held it up. They were saying something, but their voices were so small and high there was no making out the words. With considerable presence of mind, Regan dropped gracefully to one knee, which brought him somewhat closer to their level.

“A gift to you,” translated the cat being. “New growth. New life. New hope is born from winter’s darkness. Take it, warrior.”

Regan put out his hand, palm up, and the tiny folk laid the wreath on it. “I thank you,” he said quietly. “In the time of shadow we rest and are renewed. May the fallow season make us strong. May the light return to us; may its warmth restore us; may its beacon guide us forth.” He rose
to his feet. “We welcome you to our hearth and to our hall. We welcome you to Shadowfell.”

I glanced at Sage, thinking the folk from downstairs would be entirely justified in arguing that Shadowfell was
their
hall, and that Regan’s people were only here because the Northies made it possible. Sage’s mouth quirked up at the corner, as if she shared my thought. The five tiny folk had gathered around Red Cap, whose resemblance to a pine marten—sleek brown fur and an open, guileless face under his scarlet hat—probably made him seem the least threatening being among us. The infant was uttering little squeals, as if torn between excitement and terror.

“We too have a gift,” I said, and from under my cloak I brought out the basket Eva and I had made together. We’d crafted it in the shape of a bird’s nest, and it was fashioned from many materials: uncarded wisps of wool; spun and dyed thread; twigs and dried leaves gleaned from Milla’s stock of herbs; five white stones knotted into a leather cord; patches of cloth from various worn-out garments, cut in the shapes of moons and stars; little plaits of hair, black, russet, gold; feathers, cobwebs, and dry seedpods. I supported it on my two palms and knelt down so they could see. Nestled within were tokens sewn of felt and stuffed with dried peas. We had made flowers and fish and leaves, rabbits and owls and mice, a thistle and an acorn. I hoped it would please our visitors.

“My name is Neryn, and I am responsible for disturbing you during your winter sleep, as you may know,” I said. “This is Sage and Red Cap, from the Watch of the West.
This is Regan, Shadowfell’s leader, and this is Tali, his second-in-command. We offer you the work of our hands.”

The cobweb-haired man and the little woman stepped forward and took the basket between them. “Aye,” the wee man said, touching the fabric with a careful finger, “there’s old knowin’ in the makin’ o’ this, ’tis plain in every corner.” He glanced up at me. “Who was it learnit ye hearth magic, Caller?”