Milla straightened with the ladle still in her hands. “Lannan’s hardly going to march his entire army south to Summerfort for the Gathering. That would be like waving a flag to warn Keldec something’s amiss. Not to mention the difficulty of moving a large force over those mountains, even in summer.”
“Wedderburn is the closest chieftaincy to Summerfort,” Andra said. “If we had Keenan’s approval to cross his land, we could move men into place without using the king’s road.”
“The risk is too great.” Tali was intent on Regan; I suspected this was an ongoing debate. “I don’t know why you insist on pushing this argument. It’s quite simple: you can’t put your trust in anyone from that family. And besides …” She fell silent.
“Go on,” Regan said, and the look on his face was one I had never seen before; there was a darkness in it, the shadow of something unspeakable. “Besides what?”
“You know what,” Tali said, then looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. “Neryn. What is it?”
“I’ve been talking to Sage. I think I might …” I hesitated, not wanting to confess that I could perhaps have spoken to the Folk Below much earlier, if I’d been prepared to compel them out. “I believe I may be able to speak to the Good Folk today, and I want your permission to invite them to a council. It would be on midwinter eve, and we’d need to offer good hospitality, a feast, maybe music. And a gift; I will arrange that.” All eyes were on me, showing varying degrees of surprise; it was known that I had failed so far to speak with the Folk Below, but not exactly why. Nobody said anything, so I cleared my throat and went on. “If they agree to come, we’ll have to shield every piece of iron at Shadowfell.”
Milla smiled. “Prepare a feast without pots and pans, ladles or knives? That’ll be a challenge and a half.”
“Regan would talk to them about the rebellion and how they can help us. And I would ask them for help in finding the Guardians, the ones who can teach me. There’s another thing.”
“Go on,” Regan said.
“I’ve talked about this with Sage and Red Cap, and they think we should suggest it to the Folk Below. Some of the Good Folk have the forms of birds, or something close. I have met one, Daw, who called himself a bird-friend. Daw is able to send crows to spy and to carry messages. This could be a way of getting word from one of your teams to another very quickly. A crow could fly from Shadowfell to the north, or from the Rush valley to the isles, in far less time than it would take a man to ride.” After a moment I added, “I believe that would reduce our losses. It would mean folk wouldn’t need to take the kind of risk Cian and his comrades did.”
“Birds that talk.” Andra’s tone was flat with disbelief.
“Let Neryn tell us,” Regan said. “You were at the battle last autumn; you saw what she can do. There are wonders here that we can hardly imagine. Talking birds are probably the least of it.”
“Daw can certainly speak as we do. And he can make the birds understand.” I thought of the owl-like creature that had helped me survive a chill night. “Among the Northies—the northern Good Folk—there’s at least one that has a bird form.”
“This could make all the difference.” Tali’s face was alight with enthusiasm now. “It would allow us to coordinate our forces, to ensure everything’s in place at the same time. Provided the Good Folk can be trusted, it would allow us to pass on information ten times more quickly. And secretly, since these folk only make themselves visible to humankind if they choose. We must hold this council; we must persuade them to do this.”
Her tone troubled me. “It may not be so easy,” I told her. “The Good Folk have difficulty agreeing even among themselves. And in times of crisis they mostly go to ground, hide away until the threat is past. Sage and Red Cap are exceptional. It’s very possible the others may refuse to help.”
“But you’re a Caller,” said Tali. “Can’t you make them help us?”
I hesitated. My instincts told me compelling uncanny folk into action could only lead to disaster. Surely it was best that they stood up for justice because it was what they believed in.
“Seems to me,” Milla said, “the first thing we should be doing is thanking them. After all the good they’ve done us since we came to Shadowfell, it’s past time for a bit of recompense. A feast, yes. And a payment of some kind, like the offerings folk used to put out on the doorstep to keep the Good Folk happy.”
There was a silence while everyone considered this.
“Can’t imagine what such folk would have need of,” said Little Don, who was toying with the playing pieces for stanies.
“In the longer term, ridding Alban of its tyrannical ruler is the best gift we can offer,” Regan said. “You say the Good Folk would rather hide away. Don’t they value the notion of an Alban at peace, a country where they can go unmolested?”
“They may doubt our ability to deliver peace,” said Andra. “We are of humankind after all, the same kind as Keldec and his Enforcers.”
“Then it’s up to Regan to convince them,” said Tali. “We need these folk on our side. Once Neryn gets them to this council, he’ll have to make the speech of his life.”
The spiral stair led down into the heart of the mountain. The first time I had entered the maze of passageways that made up the rebel headquarters, I had almost fallen down here while trying to find my way around. A chill draft blew up from below, turning my flesh to goose bumps. Sage drew her cloak more tightly around her.
“Down we go, then,” she said.
I held the lantern; Sage walked ahead. Shadows danced on the stone walls as we descended; the air grew colder.
“Sage,” I whispered. “I don’t really know how to do this. Call them, I mean.” Twice I had summoned stanie men, great, slow beings of stone. I had relied on instinct when I called them, and chanted verses from a childhood rhyme. Stanie mon, stanie mon, doon ye fa#x2019;. But the Good Folk were of many kinds: brollachans, trows, urisks, selkies, smaller beings like Sage and Red Cap. Perhaps each must be called in its own particular way.
“No need to whisper, lassie. Northies only hear when they choose to. As for how to do it, you’ll know. You’re a Caller.”
We reached the foot of the stair. Before us the stone of the mountain rose up in an unbroken wall. This was the spot where I had waited, day after day, in hope that someone, something, would come out to talk to me as Sage and her kind had done in the forest, knowing I was in need. Plainly, in the case of the Folk Below, needing was not sufficient. I set the lantern on the bottom step.
“Think about what they are,” Sage suggested when we had stood quiet for a while. “An old, old folk, stubborn and strong. Strong as stone, and as hard to open up. Set in their ways. Not bad folk, but …” Her shrug was eloquent.
To win Hollow the brollachan over, I had played a game and sung a song. The same song had awakened a ghostly army on the shores of Hiddenwater. And once, I recalled, all I had done was think Help! and a strange mist had come up to hide me from Flint. That morning I had watched him search for me, his face white with anxiety and hurt; I had heard him call my name until his voice was a hoarse whisper. I had so misjudged him.
If these were an old, old, folk, perhaps they still observed rituals, as the human folk of Alban had before Keldec had come to the throne and banned such gatherings for their taint of magic. This had been at the back of my mind when I suggested midwinter for the council. I tried to remember the words Grandmother had used at the turning of the season and at the high festivals. That seemed so long ago. And who was I to give voice to such solemn prayers? My losses had wiped out the last remnant of my faith. Still, I must try, and if the Northies saw through it, then I must try something else.
I moved to stand by the wall, spread my arms wide, and leaned into the stone. I pressed my cheek against its cold, hard surface; my fingers encountered bump and crack and small scuttering thing. I breathed slowly. Behind me, Sage made no sound.
Endure as earth endures, those were the words
of wisdom given me on that strangest of days, when the Master of Shadows had tested me. The Northies were not so much like earth as like stone, hard and strong and slow to change. That could seem an obstacle when what was needed was quick decisions and immediate action. But stone was the backbone of Alban, and the strength of all its people—it said so in the song of truth. Her crags and islands built me strong. Stone was shelter; it was anchor; it was home.
As I stood there in silence, I felt the strength of stone pass into me; I opened myself to its deep magic. The call woke inside me, rising from my heartbeat and coursing blood, forming words I spoke almost despite myself. “Folk of the North! Folk of deepest earth!” The call was bone and breath, memory and hope, the past and the future. In my mind I held the many faces of stone: the roots of great trees deep in the earth; the cliffs where stanie men stood in their long, silent vigil; pebbles in the riverbed, each different, each a small, lovely miracle. Crags raising their proud heads to the sunrise; mountains under blankets of winter snow. “In the name of stone I call you! Come forth! Show yourselves! I have grave need of you, and it is time!”
Silence, save for the fading echoes.
I stepped back and found I was dizzy; Sage caught my arm, stopping me from falling. “Now what?” I whispered, knowing I hadn’t the strength to do it again. The call had only taken a few moments, but I felt as if I had climbed a mountain without stopping for breath.
“We wait. These are not hasty folk.” After a moment she added, “If that doesn’t do the trick, lassie, I don’t know what will.”
I sank down onto the bottom step. We waited. It was freezing at the foot of the stair, a stark reminder of how much Regan’s Rebels owed to the Northies, for it was not possible for a whole winter’s supply of fuel to be brought up the mountain and stored in the caverns every autumn. When stores ran low, the wood baskets were replenished by unseen hands. And even when the fire burned down to coals, the chambers upstairs stayed warm. I clenched my teeth to stop them from chattering; I pulled my shawl more tightly around my shoulders. I wondered if the Master of Shadows had been entirely wrong. Perhaps I did not have what it took to be a Caller after all.
A tiny sound. My skin prickled. A crack was opening in the wall, perhaps a handspan broad and as high as my shoulder. There was lantern light on the other side, illuminating a personage in a gray cloak. The eyes that peered at us through the gap were inimical. The skin of the creature’s narrow face and long fingers was as gray as its garment, and around that face hung long, tangled locks of the same stony hue.
“What ye want?” Even its voice sounded gray. Something about it made my flesh crawl; it set a dread in me that went far beyond the cavern and the shadows and the cold. I felt as if we had woken something that was best left sleeping.
I stood silent, unable to find the right words. The thing standing here was not human. It was not even one of the Good Folk; or if it was, it was a kind far different from Sage and Red Cap and the folk of the forest. As I stared into its hostile eyes, the crack between us began to close.
“No!” I exclaimed, taking a step forward. “Wait! I must speak with you!”
“ ‘Must,’ ” echoed the creature. “We dinna much care for must.”
The crack had narrowed no farther. I gathered my wits, wondering why Sage had not stepped in to help me. “Please,” I said belatedly, “may we speak with you? I am Neryn, a human woman and a Caller, and this is Sage.” I tried to arrange my face into a pleasant expression, though the thing’s stony glare unnerved me.
“A Westie.” The tone was all scorn.
“Aye,” said Sage equably, “a Westie, and not ashamed to say so. I’ve traveled a long way to be here, across the margin between Watches. Even a Northie can grasp the significance of that. This is not a couple of folk making a nuisance of themselves at your doorway. It’s a matter of vital importance. Will you come out and talk with us?”
“I willna. That place up there reeks o’ cold iron.”
“Then may we come in?” I asked. “I’m bearing no iron, and nor is Sage.” It occurred to me that whoever brought up supplies and left them in the kitchen had to come close to Milla’s pots, pans, and ladles, so there must be at least one Northie among this clan who could tolerate iron. Now did not seem the time to mention that.
“Come in?” It seemed this was an unthinkable notion. “As if it werena enow that your shoutin’ woke every last one o’ us frae the lang winter sleep!”
I looked at Sage; she looked back at me, her gooseberry eyes full of disbelief.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” I said. “I bring an invitation to your clan. And I need your wise advice on a matter of great importance. But I suppose if Northies go to sleep for the winter, like bears or squirrels, you won’t be interested in a midwinter feast, with music and gifts, to thank you for your kindness. And you won’t care whether you’re part of a council to talk about restoring peace and justice to Alban. All you’ll be thinking of is how soon you can go back to bed.”
The being’s expression became, if anything, still more baleful. “A human lassie,” it observed. “And ye’re callin’ us squirrels and bears.”
“That wasn’t what—”
“Seems tae me,” the creature said, “that if it’s good enow for the Big One tae sleep all winter lang, it’s good enow for us sma’ folk.”
The Big One. That was the name the Good Folk used for the Guardians. This was delicate indeed. I must not let this creature slip back into the depths of the mountain; there was knowledge here that could be vital to my journey and to our cause.
“The Lord of the North?” I ventured. “He’s part of this winter sleep as well?”
“We dinna speak o’ that.” The gray-cloaked being set its lantern down on the ground. In the altered light, I saw that its features were those of a wee man, but seamed and cracked like old stone. “ ’Tis too great a sadness to be put in words. As for the rest o’ us, now ye’ve disturbed our rest wi’ all this callin’, there’ll be nae gettin’ back tae sleep till ye’ve had your say, I reckon. Midwinter, was it?”
“Aye,” said Sage. “What better time for a feast and celebration? Mulled ale, good food, fine singing. And did Neryn mention gifts? Invitations like that don’t come often these days.” She waited for the space of two breaths, then added, “She’s a Caller. Did you grasp that? The lassie’s asking you nicely, out of the goodness of her heart. She’s been down here day after day waiting for you to show your faces, to no avail. Plain discourteous of you, I’d say that was, since I don’t for a moment believe the whole clan was asleep for the winter. Or maybe Northies can walk in their sleep, and carry baskets of food and loads of firewood while they’re dreaming.”
“At dusk, on midwinter eve,” I put in quickly. “That’s when the feast and council will take place. I give you my solemn promise that every scrap of iron at Shadowfell will be wrapped up and set away behind a closed door. I ask that you attend, please, and let us thank you for your help. And I ask that you listen to our leader, Regan. He has something to put to you, something of immense importance.”
“Anythin’ more, while ye’re askin’?”
“I need help in finding the Guardians,” I said. “The Big Ones. Not the Master of Shadows, since he has already come to me, but the three others. If your clan can give me some directions, I will be most grateful.”
A weighty silence. “Ye dinna ask much, do ye?” the being said. “I tellit ye, the Lord o’ the North is sleepin’. A lang sleep full o’ ill dreams. Wakin’ us is ane thing. Wakin’ him … Ye wouldna wish tae be doin’ that, unless ye were oot o’ your wits.” He stepped back from the opening; the crack began to close.
“Wait, please!”
I could still see one eye, his hand with the lantern, shadows beyond.
The stone halted its movement. “Aye?” came the being’s dour voice.
“Please put it to the others. We will prepare the celebration anyway, in hope of your attendance. Please tell them I am here
, and what I’ve said.”
“Ach, they know ye’re here. Havena ye been creepin’ your way into our heads since the moment ye set foot in this place last autumn? How could they not know there was a Caller close at hand? Trouble, that’s what ye are, naethin’ but trouble. Aye, I’ll pass it on.” A pause. “For what it’s worth.” The crack snapped shut; the stone was seamless before us.
“Wretched Northies,” muttered Sage. “Don’t bother yourself, lassie. They’ll be there. They know what you are, and they know they can’t refuse. Gifts, you said? I can’t imagine what manner of gift would please such a sour-faced creature as that.” She gave me a shrewd glance. “You’re weary. That was quite a call; went straight to my bones. You’d best get back up there and warm yourself, and I’ll be off. Red Cap’s only got the wee one for company, and it’s not much of a talker.”
* * *
I reported back to Regan. His eyes showed the same excitement as Tali’s had earlier, filling me with anxiety. So much hung on the success of this council, and Regan could not fully understand how hard it might be to persuade the Good Folk to our cause. Although he was pleased with the news, the overall mood was somber. Folk were not doing their usual work but sitting in the dining area, talking in low voices about the loss of Cian’s two companions, who could not even be offered appropriate burial. I had a word with Eva and Milla on the subject of feasts and gifts, then found myself so weary I could hardly force my eyes to stay open, though it was still day. Tali ordered me to go to the women’s quarters and rest, since I’d be a liability in the training area if I was half-asleep. I did as I was told.
I slept, and dreamed of Flint. Flint standing by a pallet where a solidly built young man lay sleeping; Flint with his hands on either side of the man’s face, singing or chanting. Richly dressed folk seated all around, watching him. Their faces intent, their eyes … avid. When I woke, my stomach was churning. I only just reached the privy before I was violently sick.
Raven Flight Page 4
