‘Once they stole, twice they stole, stole them right away,’ Bardán murmurs, looking out through the broken door of his shelter, where moonlight gleams faintly on the pale limbs of a willow. From where he lies he cannot see the moon itself, and that is good. Hidden here, in the dark, he feels safer. On his own, out of the way, in the quiet. Only he wishes Grim was here. He likes Grim’s stories, though he was glad the one about the Red Giant never got finished. A story like that couldn’t have a happy ending. Once they stole, twice they stole . . . Why can’t he get that out of his head?
Somewhere out there, in the dark woods under the cold moon, is the place where he went down in the earth. The place where he fell and fell and didn’t come back again for a hundred years. Or what felt like a hundred years, only when he came back that man he loathed and feared was still here, but older. So it can’t have been so long. Was it long enough for them? When he found a way out did they simply let him go, his father’s debt at last acquitted? Was the price of his father’s error Bardán’s sanity? His mind is a muddle, his thinking disordered. His body is a shambles too, but that is his own doing. A penance imposed by himself. He will not bathe in hot water, will not cut his hair, will not come fully back to his own world until he finds . . . Until he finds . . .
There is a sticking point, a door in his mind that simply will not open. Something happened. Something dire and terrible, something back then, before he fell down and down and ended up in another place entirely. He was running through the woods, through the night, running and running, running to get away, running from the monsters, and then he fell, and he hit his head, broke his teeth, and when he woke up he was in that place and he couldn’t remember what had come before. Couldn’t remember anything. Only, when the fey had patched him up and fed him and given him something that made him sleep for two days and two nights, he did remember how to build. He remembered the skills his father had taught him. And they set him to work. Years and years of work. Years and years of silence. At first he couldn’t talk. His lip was split, his jaw was not right, his teeth were smashed. And by the time they were healed as well as they ever would be, he’d got out of the way of speaking, and he never quite got back into it, down there.
While he worked, the past came back to him. Not all at once. Just bits, snippets, half-thoughts. The master. The wretched heartwood house. Gormán, who’d once seemed a friend. And, later, the story of his parents, who were never quite part of Longwater settlement. Who were always thought of as different. His father, whom the fey blamed for fleeing, and blamed twice over for stealing his mother away. His parents’ escape had condemned their son to those years of servitude. And yet, he treasures the memory of them. He holds it dear.
It’s a puzzle. There are pieces missing and he doesn’t know where to start looking. His father’s gone, his mother’s gone, he’s out of that fey place and wild horses couldn’t drag him back in. The master won’t talk, Gormán won’t talk, Conn’s too young to know anything. One thing Bardán understands. He can’t leave Wolf Glen. Because the only part he’s sure about, the only part that’s certain, is that he must finish the heartwood house. He knows how it should be done in every particular. He knows the consequences of making even the slightest error, knows them in ways Master Tóla could never understand. Grim might understand. Grim likes tales, and he’s open to the strange and uncanny. But though there are things he might tell Grim, this one is his own, most carefully guarded secret. His plan. His vengeance.
12
~Grim~
Season’s been unusually dry, just a light shower or two. Long run of good working days. Been wondering when we’d get some solid rain. It comes at last, pelting down, one day when I’m halfway home. Riding through the forest I keep dryish, but going across the open fields I get wet through. Ripple’s a sorry sight, head drooping, tail down, plodding along at Mercy’s heels. Mercy just keeps going, steady as steady. Can’t say I’m keen to ride her to Scannal’s and walk back, which is what I do most nights. Be good to get warm again first, have a word with Blackthorn and a bite of supper. Worst of the downpour might have passed by then. Doubt it, though. My bet is, it’ll be wet again tomorrow and I won’t be going up to Wolf Glen.
That’s good and bad. I’d love a day off, to tell the truth. Get time for a proper talk with Blackthorn, watch her working, do a few jobs around the house. Maybe meet Cara at last. Cook supper so Blackthorn doesn’t need to. All good. Truth is, though, even one day off and I’d be worrying about Bardán. What’ll he do with himself if I’m not there? Huddle in that useless little shelter, getting colder and damper and sadder all the time? One thing’s sure, the master won’t be inviting him in for a hot supper and a night’s rest in a proper bed. Gormán might soften. Give him a corner in the barn. Funny, how I keep thinking the wild man won’t be all right without me there to keep an eye on him. Foolish. But I do think that. Feels like right now I’m the only friend Bardán’s got.
My mind’s on home, the glow of the fire, the smell of supper cooking, Blackthorn saying Get those wet things off, big man, you’re dripping all over the floor. I ride around the path that skirts the wood. Ripple sees home and gets her heart back all of a sudden. Sprints ahead.
‘Well done, Mercy,’ I tell the horse, giving her a pat on the shoulder. ‘Give you a rest and a rub down, eh, before I take you over to Scannal’s?’
I come closer. Dusk’s falling now, but there’s no light from inside the cottage. No smoke from the chimney. Door closed against the rain, which is fair enough. But she’d have the lamp lit. Always does, so I can see my way home. Ripple’s at the door, barking to be let in, but nobody’s opening up.
I get off Mercy’s back, lead her in under the eaves, tether her where it’s dryish. Heart hammering now, which is foolish. She’ll have been called to someone ailing or to a childbed. Had to leave in a hurry. Maybe she’s left me a message. Something simple that I can read for myself. ‘All right, girl,’ I tell Ripple. ‘Quiet now.’ I open the door. Hands clumsy with cold, shaking on the latch.
Nobody home. Fire’s out. Been out a while, no glow under the ash blanket. No sign of supper, not even the makings of it. Must have been an urgent call. It happens. It’s the nature of the job. Shut it, I say to my stupid thoughts. They’re busy telling me all the bad things this could be. She’s alone somewhere out in the rain with a broken leg. She’s rushed off south to find Mathuin of Laois. Again. Only this time she’s gone too far to be stopped. She’s decided she wants to be on her own. Doesn’t want me around, getting in the way, needing her too much. If I lose her, I can’t go on. Not even now, when I’ve started to sort myself out.
I make myself breathe slow. Weigh it up. A cold, wet horse, no fire, not much fodder for Mercy. A wet ride over the fields to Scannal’s. But there’s a warm stable and a good feed there. Mercy’s carried me for an hour in the rain already. And she’s not my horse. Also, someone at Scannal’s might know where Blackthorn’s gone. If they don’t, I’ll go to the settlement, drop in at the smith’s, ask Emer. Only thing is, if Blackthorn gets home while I’m out, she’ll be the one coming in to a dark house, no fire, no supper. Be happier if I could get the place warm and bright for her.
Make up your mind, Grim. Don’t stand there dripping all over the floor. ‘Right,’ I say to Ripple. ‘You’re staying here, then at least she knows we’re back.’ I find an old cloth and rub the worst of the wet out of Ripple’s fur. There’s flint and tinder and a good stack of dry wood. I always make sure of that. I set a fire on the hearth, get it burning well, put on a couple of big logs that’ll last a while. Do it careful; don’t want them falling out and setting the house on fire while I’m gone. I light the oil lamp. She’s left the wax tablet on the table, the one she uses to teach us our letters. I look for a message, but all it says is: What bird are you? I am a crow. Which I’m guessing is the start of whatever she wanted me to read for her. The start of something she didn’t get finished.
Don’t think about it, Grim, I tell myself. But I can’t help it. In my thoughts there’s someone knocking on the door, and Blackthorn opening it because it might be a person in trouble. Only it’s not one of the locals with a sick child or a wife giving birth or a friend with a sprained ankle, it’s Mathuin’s henchmen come to take her away.
‘Bad news from the south,’ says Scannal. He takes hold of Mercy’s bridle to lead her into his stable. ‘I heard it in the settlement. Something about Lady Flidais’s parents and an attack. The prince is off to court first thing tomorrow, that’s what they’re saying.’
‘An attack.’ Thoughts working fast, too fast. ‘Who by?’
‘I don’t know much about it,’ Scannal says. ‘One of the local chieftains in those parts, some fellow who’s always stirring up trouble. Bad business.’
‘Seen anything of Blackthorn today? She wasn’t home when I got there. Not sure where she’d be in all this rain.’
Scannal shakes his head. ‘I haven’t seen her. Maybe in the settlement?’
‘I’ll head over there now. Won’t be needing a horse tomorrow unless this clears quicker than I think it will. Hardly building weather.’
‘Go carefully,’ he says. Which is good advice, since the light’s fading fast and the rain’s coming down in sheets. Couldn’t be wetter if I tried. And it’s turned chilly. Hope Blackthorn’s inside somewhere, waiting for a break in the weather. But deep down I know something’s wrong.
Walk to the settlement, boots all mud, heart going too fast, mind full of stories with bad endings. Stupid, I tell myself. Healers get called away all hours of the day and night. What are you expecting, that she’s going to be there with a lamp lit and your supper ready on the table every time you come home? This is Blackthorn, not a village wife. Thing is, though, our life, hers and mine, has got a surprise around every corner, and a lot of them are bad ones.
Next stop is the smithy, where there are lights shining and folk moving about. Knock on the door, Fraoch comes out, takes one look at me and asks me in for mulled ale and a bite to eat. But I’m too worried to say yes, good though their supper smells. Emer comes out with her hair done up in a kerchief and her apron on. Tells me Blackthorn walked over with her and the girl, Cara, in the afternoon, and Emer hasn’t seen either of them since. Emer thinks Blackthorn was going back home to make up some salves.
Hard to ask the right questions. Hard not to rush off blind, start searching everywhere. Almost dark. ‘Scannal told me there’s some kind of trouble for the prince,’ I say.
‘That’s right,’ says Fraoch. ‘An attack at Cloud Hill, in the south. Where Lady Flidais comes from. Some fellow’s marched in with a big body of men-at-arms and taken over her father’s holdings. That’s what folk are saying, anyway. Sounds bad. The king’s called a council and Prince Oran’s heading off to court in the morning. Taking a fair number of folk with him. You sure you won’t come in and get dry, Grim? You look like a drowned rat. An oversized drowned rat.’
‘Thanks, no. Bit worried about Blackthorn.’ Mathuin. Who else? His land’s right next to Cloud Hill. She’d have heard the news when she dropped Cara at the prince’s, wouldn’t she? What would she do? I try to think the way Blackthorn would think, never easy. First choice: go home, lock the door, make up the fire and start working on something tricky, a potion of some sort. Try to keep her mind off Mathuin with hard work. I know she didn’t do that. Second choice: something foolish. Let those thoughts turn her a bit crazy, the way they’ve done before. Grab a cloak and head off in the rain, south toward Laois, knowing she’ll never be able to get on with her life until that man’s been punished. She might have done that a year ago. More or less did do it. But now? Only if this has scared her half out of her wits. Third choice: go and talk to the prince and Lady Flidais, find out more about what’s going on. Maybe tell them the truth about us and Mathuin, in case it could be helpful. Only she wouldn’t do that without talking to me first. Would she?
‘She might be still at the prince’s house,’ I say.
‘Why don’t you come in and dry off,’ says Fraoch, ‘and I’ll walk over there and ask? It won’t take long.’ Looking at me as if he thinks I might drop in a heap any moment.
‘No, I’ll go,’ I say. ‘But thanks.’
I get to Prince Oran’s house. Rain still bucketing down. Guards are trying to keep dry and watch out for trouble at the same time. I get a stroke of luck – one of the guards is Eoin, the other one’s Garalt, and I know both of them well. Which means I don’t need to waste time explaining myself, except to ask if Blackthorn’s here. Garalt opens the gate and calls another guard. That man heads off to find out for me.
‘Heard there was an attack,’ I say, thinking I may as well find out more if I can. ‘In the south. You heading off with the prince in the morning?’ I remember that Eoin came from Cloud Hill with Lady Flidais, when she came north to marry the prince. Garalt’s a Winterfalls man.
‘The fellows who are going are packing up right now,’ Garalt says. ‘Lochlan and a team of others; I’m head guard while Lochlan’s gone. Prince Oran wants enough of us here to defend the place if we have to. Can’t see that happening; we’ve had peace for so long. And this conflict’s a long way to the south.’
‘Things can change fast.’ Now that I’ve stopped walking, I feel how cold I am, block of ice on a pair of numb legs. I stamp my feet a bit. Hope someone comes out with news while I can still walk. ‘This attack in the south. Was it Mathuin of Laois?’
‘Who else?’ Eoin’s voice is like winter. ‘Big party of men-at-arms moved in under cover of night, surprised Lord Cadhan’s guards. Place was awash with blood, the messenger said. Good men fallen, brave men. Friends of mine. There’s been an itch in my sword arm since I heard that news. A powerful wish to ride to Laois and spill some blood in my turn. That’s how all the fellows are feeling, all of us that came from there with Lady Flidais.’
‘What happened to Lord Cadhan and his wife?’ I want news of Blackthorn, but I need this news too.
‘They’re safe. Got out by a secret way, underground. Cadhan didn’t want to go; wanted to stand and fight. His wife persuaded him to leave. Curdles my guts to think of it.’ He bows his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. There are no words big enough for this sort of thing. We stand there a bit, the three of us not saying anything, until a woman comes out of the house, wrapped in a cloak. My heart leaps, thinking it’s her and she’s safe. But no, this woman is taller. It’s Deirdre.
‘Blackthorn’s not here, Grim,’ she says. ‘She brought Cara back a long while ago, then left. She did ask me if she could have a word with Lady Flidais, but my lady doesn’t want to see anyone at present. The household’s been turned upside down since this news came from Cloud Hill.’
Her eyes are red; she’s been crying. I remember that she comes from Cloud Hill too.
‘Hope you didn’t lose anyone close,’ I say.
‘We don’t know yet. Not all the names. That’s the worst part, not knowing.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, though that’s never enough. ‘Will you be going to court, Deirdre?’
‘Lady Flidais wants me to go with her, yes.’
‘Good luck with it, then. You’d better get in out of the rain.’
That’s when Donagan, the prince’s man and a friend of mine, comes up behind her. ‘Grim! You look freezing, man. Come in if you want, dry off and warm up.’
‘Thanks, but no. Looking for Blackthorn. If she’s not here, I’d best go and look somewhere else.’
He knows how worried I am, that’s plain on his face. ‘She’ll have found shelter with someone, surely,’ he says. ‘When you do find her, could you pass on a message from Lady Flidais?’
I nod. Try not to show I’m shivering.
Donagan moves me away from the two guards. Lowers his voice. ‘It’s the girl. Master Tóla’s daughter, Cara. Lady
Flidais says she’s not sure how long she and the prince will be away, and she wants Blackthorn to keep an eye on Cara while she’s gone. Maybe come over here to stay for a bit, if she can manage that. Seems Blackthorn’s got a knack with the girl that nobody else has.’
First thing that pops into my head is: why can’t Cara go back to Wolf Glen? That’s what I’d ask if I didn’t already know the answer. So all I say is, ‘I’ll pass the message on.’ Thinking how tangled up things get when folk start telling lies. ‘When I find Blackthorn.’ If I find her. ‘Safe journey.’ Before I turn to go, I see Donagan put his arm around Deirdre’s shoulders. She gives him a sad sort of smile. Kind folk, the two of them. If bad things didn’t happen to kind folk, it’d be a better world.
I go round the settlement, getting wetter and colder with every step. She’s nowhere to be found. Couple of folk saw her in the afternoon with Emer and Cara, but not after. It’s like she’s vanished. I remember something. Wish I hadn’t. About going to the Otherworld to find Conmael. Joke, wasn’t it? That’s what I thought. Now I’m wondering. And while I’m wondering my feet are carrying me back home. Might be wrong. Hope I’m wrong. She could be out on one of the farms or over in Silverlake. She wouldn’t thank me for making a fuss, getting half the settlement out searching in the wet, if it turned out she was busy delivering a baby or sitting by some old fellow’s deathbed.
Den of Wolves Page 12
