I cannot afford anger. I cannot afford the luxury of feeling. There is a job to be done. Do it. ‘Brocc?’ he called when the sound of the others’ footsteps had faded away. ‘Can you bring the lamp? And an old blanket.’
He stepped into the cell. The furred creature was limp on the stone floor, broken, clearly dead. The man-like being was at the very back of the cell, pressed into a corner, visible only as a patch of darker shadow. The little woman was crouched by the fallen one, holding its limp paw, murmuring. ‘Rise wi’ the flame. Soar wi’ the eagle. Swim wi’ the selkies and rest in the fairest field o’ flowers. Ye’re safe at last, laddie. The dark night’s ower; day’s dawnin’ fresh and fair.’
Brocc came with a tattered blanket under one arm and the lantern in his hand. Warm light spread across the dank cell, showing the little woman’s chalk-white face, her deep-set eyes, the pool of blood spreading on the stones. It illuminated the bruises, the broken limbs, the marks where iron had met flesh.
‘Black Crow save us,’ Brocc muttered.
The wee woman’s prayer was finished. She lifted her head and spat with some accuracy on his boot.
‘I’ll do what needs doing here,’ Flint said, taking the blanket. ‘Could you unlock the outer door? Leave me the lantern, will you?’
When Brocc was gone, Flint crouched by the woman, not too close. She hissed at him, giving not an inch of ground. Her eyes were those of a cornered wildcat, ready to fight to the death.
‘My name is Owen.’ He kept his voice to a murmur. ‘I’m under orders to take you out of here. I’ll see you safe into the woods, well away from this place. We need to go now.’
The woman did not move. He had never seen such a baleful glare.
‘Please,’ he said, after a glance over his shoulder. No sign of Brocc, and he knew the other cells were empty. ‘I’m a friend. Let me help you.’
‘A friend. Ye tell me that, wi’ the king’s stamp all ower ye. Why would I trust ye in the slightest particular, when I’m shut up here wi’ my friend lyin’ deid in my arms?’
‘You’d trust me because the alternative is staying in this place until you’re dead too. Let me take him. Let me wrap him up and carry him out. Can you walk, the two of you? Are you injured?’
‘Hah!’ She released her hold on her dead friend’s hand and got stiffly to her feet. ‘Ye could say we were injured, aye. But tae get oot o’ this foul cage we’d walk even if we had twa legs broken and our heids on the wrong way roond. Handle him gently or I’ll lay a hex on ye,’ she added sharply as Flint spread out the blanket beside the broken creature.
Every instinct told him to be quick; to get them out before someone realised he had no intention of killing them. But he took his time, lifting the sad corpse onto the blanket with careful hands, swathing the creature as if it were a sleeping babe. The wee woman watched him, gimlet-eyed, until the job was done.
The little man had not moved from his dark corner. He had not uttered a sound.
‘We need to go,’ Flint said again, looking at the woman. Brocc would have unbarred the door by now, and outside it would be almost night.
‘Aye,’ the woman said. ‘Aye.’ She went over to the corner – she was limping badly – and slipped an arm around the little man’s shoulders. When he tried to pull away from her, she held firm. ‘Time we were gone, laddie. Come ye wi’ me, now. We’ll be hame soon. Come on, lad, ane foot after the other. Ye can dae it.’
Flint went first, carrying the body. She came after, the lame supporting the lamer. Past the iron grille; along the narrow way between the rows of cells; past Brocc, who was coming up from the outer door, his knife at his belt. Iron everywhere.
The wee woman was singing under her breath. ‘Oh, hushaby birdie, and hushaby lamb . . .’
When they reached the outer door, the lullaby ceased. ‘Ye speakin’ true?’ she asked, looking at Flint. ‘They’re fond o’ tricks here. Ye’re no’ takin’ us oot tae be done tae death like vermin?’
‘Shh,’ he warned. ‘No talking until we’re well out into the forest.’
‘If ye plan tae set us free, why dinna ye simply put us oot the door and be aboot your ain business?’
She was as stubborn as Sage. He could not miss the bruises on her fair skin; she was walking as if she’d endured a beating. But she held herself straight, and her arm was firm around her friend. ‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘We must move on. There’s barely enough light to see the way.’
‘That’s nae matter tae the wee fellow,’ she said. ‘He canna see at a’, since your queen got the notion that an iron poker in the e’en would mak’ him jump higher.’
The light was not good enough to show him the wee man’s features clearly, but what he could not see, he had no difficulty imagining. There was nothing to say. Sorry did not begin to capture the wrongness of this.
‘And dinna ye dare apologise,’ said the woman, as if reading his mind. ‘Nae matter how gentle your hands might be or how soft your words, ye’re like the others. Like her. Like that fellow who brought us here whether we wanted tae come or no. A breaker. A destroyer. Worse; ye hae the token o’ fell magic aroond your neck, I see it.’
His Enthraller’s amulet; the dream vial on its cord had swung free of his tunic as he manoeuvred through the little door. With both hands supporting the wrapped body, he could not push the token back into concealment. ‘Hush,’ he hissed. ‘No talk until we’re safely away.’
The moon was rising, near full, and cold light fell over the landscape before them. From this side of the hill there was no view of the settlement that lay below Winterfort’s wall. Instead there was a wooded slope, broken in places by the track that wound its way down to meet a northern road. Further away the land rose and fell, with pockets of woodland becoming, at some distance, a dense forest of pine and oak. He knew the way. One bridge; two sentry posts. He hoped the fellows on duty had been told he had the king’s permission for this. He might have a troop leader’s authority, but a shadow of doubt lay over him now. Folk had viewed him differently since the Gathering, when the king had called his loyalty into question. It did not matter that he had proven himself to Keldec’s satisfaction. Once hurled, mud had a habit of sticking. Today’s events wouldn’t help.
‘Owen?’
He started; the little man gave a whimper of fright. Brocc had come back down the steps to loom up behind them, a solid dark figure.
‘Mm?’
‘I’d best lock up behind you. When you get back, hammer on the door and I’ll let you in.’
The edge of the forest lay within clear sight of Winterfort. Farmers took pigs to forage there; troops of Enforcers used the area to hone their tracking skills. Women gathered herbs by the streams that ran under the trees, carrying mountain water down to the loch. He’d need to take the two survivors past that area and well into the forest, so they’d have at least some chance of getting away.
His burden meant he could not help the survivors, and both of them were hobbling. The wee woman led the wee man; he leaned on her. The last of the daylight was gone. By pale moonlight they made a slow progress down the hill, across the bridge and on toward the greater darkness of the forest. Twice the sentries challenged them; twice Flint identified himself and explained his purpose, and they were allowed to pass. He began to wonder who was following them; who was watching. Would not this be a perfect opportunity to walk away, to set it all behind him, as he’d tried to do once before? He could simply vanish into the forest along with his companions. He could find a way across the mountains to the Rush Valley and thence to Shadowfell. He could escape.
Too easy. Too perfect. This had to be a trap. Why else give this task to him, and to him alone? He doubted the queen or Brydian suspected he might want to spare the prisoners. No; what they expected was that he would run, bolt for freedom as soon as he had the chance. Try it this time and the trap would surely be sprung. Had Rohan talked
? He could have sworn that when Rohan spoke to him in the stables he’d simply been passing on the message from the king. All the same, this was too odd to be taken at face value.
The moon was high by the time they reached the edge of the forest. The wee man’s breathing had turned to wheezing sobs; the woman’s face was a grim mask. They halted at the foot of a great oak, and Flint set down the creature’s body.
‘Off wi’ ye.’ The wee woman’s voice was flat with exhaustion.
‘What?’ Surely he had not heard right.
‘Gae hame tae your friends wi’ their iron bars and their fires and their hard words. We dinna need ye and we dinna want ye.’
He drew a careful breath. ‘I must take you further in. There will be folk about here, human folk, if not now, then in the morning. Your friend is hurt; you’re exhausted. I must at least get you to a place where you can safely spend the night.’
She fixed her eyes on him, and he thought how like Sage she was; it was as if she could see right inside him. ‘Ye deaf?’
His mind filled with questions he would not ask. ‘I could help you bury your friend,’ he said quietly. ‘Let me do that, at least.’
‘Bury him? Usin’ what?’
There was a silence. ‘A branch. My hands. I want to help.’
‘Ye’re late in offerin’.’ She gestured toward the blanketed form on the ground. ‘Too late tae save the wee man’s sight.’
The little man muttered something; Flint could not make out the words.
‘What did he say?’
The woman glowered. ‘He says, if ye were expectin’ tae be diggin’ a grave, why didna ye bring a spade?’
Flint found himself looking over his shoulder; scanning the moonlit landscape for signs of concealed listeners. He lowered his voice. ‘Wooden spades are a rarity at Winterfort.’
A longer silence. ‘Ye’re bearin’ nae iron at a’.’ There was, perhaps, the very slightest softening in her tone.
‘I must hope I do not need to defend myself against armed attackers on the way back,’ he said.
‘Nae weapons. Stupid, are ye?’
‘That’s for you to judge.’ He had indeed made himself vulnerable, setting his knives aside before he went to the Hole. The presence of cold iron would have shut off any hope of talking to the prisoners; it would have made a mockery of their release.
He squatted down beside the lifeless form in the blanket, for once unsure of how to proceed. Quite clearly these two were too weak and vulnerable to be left. The wee man might die before morning; if his injuries did not carry him off, the winter chill would. There was no way they could dig a hole adequate for the body of their companion. But he could not force his help on them, not in the face of such excoriating judgement.
‘Ye ken there’s twa men followin’ ye?’ The woman had bent close, murmuring in his ear.
‘Two, you think? Yes, I heard movement behind us. Saw them once or twice.’
‘And ye wi’ nae means tae defend yoursel’.’
‘Spies, not assassins.’ The queen’s men; he’d stake his life on it. Waiting for him to break; waiting for him to betray himself. ‘Never mind that. How can you –’
‘We dinna need ye mair. Be off wi’ ye –’ The woman faltered; her eyes were on his amulet again. ‘That isna like the others,’ she said in a different tone.
‘No.’ His was not the glass replica worn by the other Enthrallers. It was the true sign of a mind-mender, a shard from Ossan’s secret cave in the isles, the recognition that he had completed the long years of training in his ancient craft. His mentor had given it to him. Around its silver mounting was wound a lock of Neryn’s honey-coloured hair. ‘It is not the same.’
‘The one who taught ye . . . He’d be sad tae see what ye’ve come tae, sad and sorry.’
He bowed his head. When she said no more, he got to his feet and realised that not far into the shadow of the forest tiny lights could be seen, like miniature lanterns. It seemed these wee folk had help at hand after all.
‘Since you don’t need my services, I will take your advice and go.’ There was one more thing he must say, one more risk he must take. ‘I have a question.’
She waited.
‘Do you know a woman named Sage? One of your own folk, from a clan that lives in the forest near Silverwater, west of the place where the Rush spills into the loch.’
‘A Westie.’ The tone was scornful, but her eyes told him the name meant something to her.
‘I’m in no position to ask a favour, I know. But if you can make sure Sage hears the tale of what befell you here, I will be most grateful. The whole tale, in all its detail. The Caller, the queen, how you were treated, the way you got out.’
Now she was staring at him as if he were talking gibberish. ‘Supposin’ I can find this Sage, who do I say wanted her told this tale?’
‘Tell her, a king’s man. She’ll know who I am.’
The woman made no reply. Behind her, the little man was sprawled on the ground at full length, one arm up over his damaged eyes. Whoever was holding the tiny lights under the trees, they had come no closer. He realised his presence was likely delaying these folk’s rescue. Worse, if he stayed with them longer he might draw the trackers up here. He was the one they were following; he would head back to Winterfort and take them with him.
‘Be safe,’ he murmured. And he thought, I’m sorry, but he was too ashamed – of himself, of the sad world he lived in, of the cowardice and cruelty and misguided loyalties of humankind – to speak the words aloud. In the face of the wee folk’s silence, he turned away. Under moonlight, he led his trackers home by the most circuitous route he could devise. He was not attacked. He was not stopped, save momentarily at the sentry posts. As he came out of the last cover and headed toward the little door in the fortress wall, whoever had been tailing him melted away into the night. He hammered on the door, and a yawning Brocc let him back into his prison.
Chapter Five
The storm came with a vengeance. First massing, ink-dark clouds; then spears of lightning and thunderclaps like giants playing drums; lastly, fierce winds and driving rain that made the downpours of earlier in the season seem like gentle showers. Beyond the barred door of the outhouse where we were huddled alongside Snow and the chickens, things were blowing about, crashing, falling.
It was morning, but when I opened the shutters a crack to look out, I saw only whirling dark. Things hurtled past – perhaps branches, perhaps timbers from the ruined house, perhaps birds snatched by the gale from their safe roosts. I fought to get the shutters closed again; Ean came to add his strength. Silva had the little brazier alight and was warming food in a pot. She seemed all orderly control, but as she wielded the ladle her hands were shaking.
Whisper had required less persuasion than I’d expected to join us inside. He was perched opposite the chickens, keeping a close eye on Ean. I’d explained his presence by saying he was a domesticated owl, kept in order to control the rats.
Silva ladled out her concoction of oatmeal and herbs, and we ate it. We wiped our bowls and set them aside. The storm raged on unabated. There would be no going out; we’d be shut in here until it was over. Ean’s presence made this awkward, and not only because of the need to hold our tongues on certain matters. While we were shut inside, our only privy was a bucket in a corner.
There was not much point in trying to talk; the voice of the storm drowned anything below a shout. We sat listening as the time passed, trapped in our small space with a weight of uncertainty. My mind wrestled with one problem after another: Ean; the White Lady; the ritual; the need for me to prove myself before I could move on. Had I been too quick to dismiss the challenge the Lady had set me? Perhaps, if I did not attempt it, I would fail at midsummer.
As the storm raged on outside, I fought a war within myself. If I called one of the Good Folk it might die as it
tried to reach me. If I did not call, I risked losing the final battle because I had not practised this particular skill. I had come here to complete my training. This was a vital part of that training. On the other hand, the Lady had said something about making my own test.
I lay down on the pallet and closed my eyes. If I was quiet, if I prepared myself, perhaps the answer would come to me. Let Ean and Silva think I was asleep, so there would be no interruptions. I went through the patterns of breathing, as if readying myself for a call, and I opened my mind to the many moods of air. I reached out through the storm, thinking of wind and rain and hail, of cold and terror, of wings scarcely able to beat for the tempest that tore at them. I imagined air at its most powerful, and how easily a small being could be destroyed by what also helped keep it alive.
The White Lady had taught me to single out one sound among many; to be aware of the smallest rustling in a field of wind-tossed grasses, the tiniest footstep of a beetle among the stones. I woud not call. For now, I would simply listen.
The shutters creaked. The wind howled around the outhouse. Beyond the door, objects crashed about, thrown hither and thither. Ean said something to Silva, perhaps that he would make a brew.
For some time I lay there, until, unmistakably, I heard a voice amid the tumult. Not words; not anything that would reach the ears of Ean or Silva. A high, high voice, a thin, faint screaming. Oh gods! The tiny folk from the Beehives! One of them was out there in that chaos of wind and rain and lightning. They were as fragile as the long-legged spiders that danced across the surface of ponds in springtime.
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