He tried to think strategically. The king wanted solutions. Could any solution be found here that would not only satisfy Keldec – or, more importantly, the queen – but also do the right thing by the Good Folk?
He made himself treat it like any other tactical problem. Even with the constant guard, the uncanny folk presented a danger to the king’s household. They needed to be moved. And the king wanted them trained. The first step was to get them away, somewhere they could be held securely without the ring of iron and the high enclosing walls. The next step . . . the next step was beyond him. Could Esten persuade these Good Folk to cooperate? Could they learn to fight alongside human warriors? If that happened, if he was complicit in it, he would be sharpening a tool to use against his own allies. He would be undermining the rebellion.
Thirteen Enforcers attended the council: each troop leader and deputy with the exception of Wolf Troop’s second-in-command, Finan, who was at Summerfort overseeing the small contingent that wintered there. Owen Swift-Sword and Rohan Death-Blade came into the chamber with the others to find both king and queen already present, along with Brydian and his fellow councillor, Gethan, a man with a powerful canny gift involving fire. Esten was seated between the queen and Brydian. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for days.
‘Sit,’ said the king.
The troop leaders seated themselves; their deputies stood behind. The anticipatory silence lasted a little longer than was quite comfortable.
‘This won’t take long,’ Keldec said with a smile Flint did not find reassuring. ‘I had expected that the arrival of these folk at court would be a triumph. Instead we have something close to catastrophe. I want this addressed quickly.’ He glanced at Esten. ‘I mean no criticism of the Caller. If his talents are as yet limited, no matter. He will learn.’
Implicit in that, Flint thought, was the threat of what might befall the Caller if he failed to learn well enough, or quickly enough. But Esten looked relieved. He did not yet know the king as the rest of them did.
‘As troop leaders, you are my right hand,’ Keldec said smoothly, making sure his gaze travelled over every one of them. ‘I rely on you to maintain security and order. Everywhere in my kingdom. Under every possible set of circumstances. I hope you have given due thought to this problem. I hope you have brought me solutions.’
What did he think they were, a gathering of mages? Everyone was carefully avoiding meeting anyone else’s eye.
‘Of course, my lord King.’ Flint spoke into the silence, his voice betraying nothing of the conflict within him. ‘Might we first hear from the Caller? We have been impressed by his efforts to control these folk since their arrival here. But none of us fully understands the extent of his abilities. Our solutions might be better shaped to the problem if we were more fully informed on this point.’ Keldec had not confided in him before calling this council, as he had so often done in the past. Such conversations had their own special peril, but they did provide Flint with clues to the king’s thinking. This was like trying to steer a boat through stormy waters without oars or sail. ‘Or if you prefer,’ he added, ‘one of your councillors might provide us with some further details.’
Galany, leader of Bull Troop, cleared his throat. ‘My lord King, I support Owen’s suggestion. With your permission, if we might also put some questions to the Caller, that could prove most helpful.’
Flint was watching the queen. Watching her eyes narrow; seeing the way she examined the face of one man after another as if to divine his true thoughts. When her gaze came to him, he met it steadily.
‘I want this done quickly,’ Keldec said. ‘While we waste time with questions and answers, those folk are running amok out there. I will have no uncanny army left.’
‘My lord King, our solutions can only be effective if we have the information required to make them. We would not prolong the discussion unnecessarily.’ The smooth tone came easily, still, despite everything. Flint hated himself for it.
Keldec regarded him, and for a moment there were only the two of them in the chamber. Flint wondered, not for the first time, if the king sometimes wanted it all to go away: his ambitious wife, his self-serving councillors, the whole edifice of power and cruelty he had built up over his fifteen years on the throne of Alban. Given the opportunity, would Keldec prefer to be a different man, a scholar, a shepherd, a hermit?
‘You speak wisely, Owen,’ the king said. ‘Brydian, is our Caller able to answer for himself?’
Brydian wore a frown; the queen’s lips had tightened. ‘Yes, my lord,’ the councillor said. He gave Flint a long, assessing look.
‘Very well, let us hear what he has to say.’
Esten rose to his feet. He was not a tall man, and the robe they had given him to wear sat loose on him. He looked sick; wretched. But his voice was steady. ‘Thank you, my lord King. My lady.’ A glance toward Varda and a small inclination of the head. This was no gauche country lad. ‘I apologise for what has happened. I had thought . . . I had hoped I could keep control of these folk once we reached Winterfort. It seems not. I am . . . mortified. Aghast.’ He looked around the council chamber, and the thirteen Enforcers gazed back at him. ‘It will perhaps be easier if you tell me what you want to know, and I attempt to answer.’ A sideways glance at Brydian. ‘If you permit, my lord King, my lady, may I sit down? Until now, until we rode south, I had never exercised my gift for so long a period. I’m afraid it has weakened me . . .’ He sank back onto the seat.
‘Yes, yes,’ Keldec said, waving a hand as if the request were mere time-wasting.
Brydian was solicitous, leaning toward the Caller, laying a hand on his arm. Gethan poured mead from the jug on the table, then passed the cup to Esten. The queen did not react; her eyes were still on the circle of men, her expression hard to read. Waiting, Flint guessed. Waiting for one of them to slip up, to say something she did not care for, to express even the slightest criticism.
‘Ask your questions,’ the king said. ‘Time is running short.’
There was a silence. Every one of the Enforcers knew the price of speaking too frankly.
Rohan cleared his throat. ‘May I speak?’
This to his troop leader, in accordance with the protocol for such councils. Flint nodded, trusting that Rohan would be careful.
‘I am Rohan Death-Blade, second-in-command of Stag Troop.’ This was for Esten’s benefit, since everyone else present knew him. ‘I understand little of how your gift works, Esten. My knowledge of uncanny folk is also limited. What I know, I know from childhood stories.’
‘Get on with it,’ muttered Brydian.
‘It seems some of these folk may have powerful magic,’ Rohan said. ‘Perhaps the ability to travel in ways unlike those of humankind. Many of them bear some resemblance to creatures of one kind or another, including birds – I saw several winged beings among them. I understand that you called them to you in the south and compelled them to follow you here. Did you do that from a distance, or was it necessary to seek them out, to be within sight or earshot before they would respond to your summons? Would your gift be strong enough to bring Good Folk here from a place some miles away? Or even further?’ He hesitated. ‘I was thinking that if they could fly, or perhaps move in magical ways, they might travel the distance more easily. And a great deal more quickly.’
‘If that were so,’ Brydian’s tone was scathing, ‘do you not imagine we would have performed the exercise thus and avoided a long weary trip to the border and back?’
A little silence. Rohan seemed on the point of speaking again, perhaps to say – at some peril to himself – that this was no answer to the question, but the king spoke first.
‘Let the Caller respond to this.’
‘When I am well rested, when circumstances permit, I can summon folk from a certain distance,’ Esten said. ‘Some of you witnessed my first call at Winterfort, when I brought three beings here fro
m . . . somewhere else. I had not seen them, I had . . . I had felt their presence close by. What I do . . . it’s not a call in the usual sense, a shout or a cry, or a charm spoken aloud. It is more of a feeling, something that is inside, in my mind and body.’
Several Enforcers spoke at once.
‘Well rested, what do you –’
‘How did you come by this –’
‘But if you can do that –’
Brydian lifted a hand and the voices died. ‘Esten, you might explain to these men how you learned to use your skill.’
Esten chewed his lower lip and stared down at the table. He looked as if he would rather not speak. When he did, his tone was almost apologetic. ‘A man is born with such a gift,’ he said. ‘You all know this, I imagine, and you know that the exercise of such talents in the community is against the king’s law. Growing up, I used to see things, hear things I knew I should not. Beings out in the woods; creatures following me, speaking to me. I told nobody. I did my best to shut my ears and eyes to it, knowing it was wrong. When Master Brydian found me I was working as a scribe’s assistant, grinding pigments, making parchment, shaping quills. But . . . for a Caller, it is not possible to sever that link with the Good Folk. I have only to wander out of doors, by a stream or down a forest path, to hear their voices on the wind. I have only to use my eyes to see them. Master Brydian came knocking on my master’s door, asking questions. I had wandered out to the fields to take my midday meal of bread and cheese. When Master Brydian first saw me, there was an uncanny creature nearby that had approached me unbidden. I had not used my gift of calling; not once. My very nature draws them to me.’
‘But you have used your gift now.’ This deep voice was that of Frossach, leader of Seal Troop.
‘Yes, I . . . Master Brydian explained to me what he was looking for, and after that I . . . practised.’
That was it? The fellow was completely untutored, yet a brief period of practice had rendered him skilful enough to draw that huge group of fey folk after him, surrounded by iron-wielding Enforcers, all the way to Winterfort? The expedition had lasted barely long enough to ride to the border and back. Something was missing here. Was Esten lying, and if so who knew the truth?
‘My lord King, I’m aware of the need for haste,’ Flint said, ‘but clearly we will not solve this very real problem without Esten’s assistance. He is the only Caller we have, and he appears exhausted. Preserving his health must be a priority. I have a question; possibly Brydian is better placed to answer it than the Caller himself.’
Brydian folded his hands on the table before him. He narrowed his eyes.
‘What can you tell us of the lore concerning Callers?’ Flint went on. ‘It is such a powerful gift, it seems likely there must be some kind of training required before a man has full mastery of it.’ Careful, careful; let no word of his endanger Neryn. He needed to know what Esten was holding back; whether Esten had indeed completed the training Neryn had said was necessary, but for some reason was not saying so. ‘I would imagine it might take as long, or even longer, than the training needed to master the craft of enthralment.’ That seemed safe enough, since everyone here, with the exception of Esten, knew that he had learned his own craft the old way.
‘I don’t see the point in this,’ Brydian said shortly.
‘We seek a way to keep better control of our . . . captive army,’ said Flint, working on a calm, detached tone. ‘Our Caller is tired, he’s struggling, and the king has asked us for a solution. One solution might be for Esten to seek out further training; to polish his skills and his strength under the tutelage of . . . an expert.’
‘What expert?’ The king was beginning to sound impatient.
‘That I cannot tell you, my lord King,’ Flint said. ‘But Master Brydian is the most learned member of this household and known to be skilled in the interpretation of ancient lore. What do the old tales tell of Callers, Brydian? Perhaps they provide advice on harnessing the Good Folk to work for human rulers.’
‘There is a very old story of a Caller bringing out an army of brollachans to fight alongside humankind against a common enemy,’ Brydian said.
‘Brollachans,’ said the king flatly.
‘Yes, my lord King. Only a tale, of course. In that story, the Caller travelled away from home as a youth and did not return until he had learned his craft. Where he went and who taught him, the tale does not tell.’
‘Did they win their battle?’ the king asked.
‘Yes, my lord King.’
‘Esten.’ Queen Varda spoke for the first time, her voice low and pleasant. She did not look at the Caller but across the table toward Flint and, behind him, Rohan, who had asked the first question. ‘Do you know anything of such training? Do you know who might offer it and where? Or how long it might take before your skills were sufficiently polished to provide the king with exactly what he needs?’
‘No, my lady. What I can do, I do by myself. Nobody knew of my gift before Master Brydian found me.’
Whether this was true or not, it would take more than polite questioning to find out. And one thing was certain: nobody was going to get the chance to apply pressure to the king’s Caller.
‘Thank you,’ Flint said. ‘My lord King, as you’ve said, the current state of affairs cannot be allowed to continue. I believe Rohan Death-Blade was going to suggest the uncanny folk be moved away from the fortress, to a place where they can be held safely. Somewhere they can receive training without presenting a daily obstacle to the functioning of your household. Should it be possible for Esten to exercise control over them at a distance, from a place where he could not see them, that could be achieved quite quickly. Otherwise Esten would need to accompany them and remain close at hand while they were trained.’ Stop there, he told himself. But the next part had to be said sometime. Surely the king had realised what this meant. ‘The Caller would need to be present every time these folk were deployed in battle, my lord King. That would be quite a heavy burden for him.’
Several of the troop leaders spoke at once and were silenced by the king’s raised hand. But it was Varda who responded, her tone silken smooth. ‘Are you volunteering the services of Stag Troop to oversee this exercise, Owen? Making sure that under your capable hand everything is done as well as it possibly can be, including taking appropriate steps to safeguard our Caller’s welfare?’
He swallowed; made his features calm. ‘Stag Troop is currently training a group of aspiring Enforcers, my lady. And Rohan tells me we’ll also be responsible for the human contingent of this new force. The uncanny folk, I believe, will need to be housed and trained separately, at least until we have a better idea of their potential as fighters. That would be best done away from Winterfort. We will, of course, follow the king’s orders.’
‘Where would you put them?’ asked red-bearded Corb, leader of Eagle Troop. ‘You’ve seen what a rabble they are. You’d need somewhere very secure. And you’d need to house and supply them; they can’t live on air.’
‘It would tie up at least two troops,’ said Frossach, frowning. ‘That might leave us short of men to perform the usual patrols, my lord King.’
‘It’s tying up two troops now,’ said Rohan. ‘I concur with Owen. The uncanny folk should be trained separately. Completely apart. And not at Seven Oaks with those young lads, who’ll have enough difficulty shaping up as half-competent fighters without needing to do it alongside Good Folk. If they’re to be mixed up later, so be it. But let’s get the lads up to a good standard of skill before we complicate things.’
‘Makes sense to me,’ said Frossach. ‘Whichever troop is given the task of making that mob in the courtyard into some kind of fighting force, they’re going to do a better job if they need not also concern themselves with an ongoing threat to the king’s household. Provided Esten can keep control – and it does sound as if he’ll need to be right there, alongside whoever’
s doing the training, to achieve that – this has at least some chance of success.’ He paused, then added hastily, ‘No criticism intended, my lord King, my lady, learned councillors. It’s a worthwhile venture, new, bold, exciting. A challenge we all look forward to.’
They had become expert liars, every one of them, Flint thought. There were no enthralled men among the troop leaders. Enthralment rendered a man faultlessly loyal. It also reduced his capacity to think for himself. Every Enforcer in this chamber knew the king’s plan was a grand folly, a venture more likely to end in disaster than the brilliant display of might Keldec anticipated. But not one of them was prepared to say so.
‘I have a question, my lord King.’ Galany of Bull Troop spoke.
Keldec nodded for him to continue.
‘The Good Folk are afraid of iron. More than that, it’s a kind of poison to them. Weakens them, hurts them, can kill them. Seems the tales are true in that respect at least. We’ve used that weakness to keep them under control. But what about when they’re fighting for us? The first sniff of a knife and they’ll be falling like ninepins.’
‘I hope you are not suggesting the entire venture is misguided, Galany.’ The king’s tone was all frost.
‘No, my lord King. There must be an answer to this, of course, if we’re to believe the old stories. If an army of brollachans fought alongside an army of men and vanquished their enemy, those brollachans must have been resistant to iron. Unless men in those days carried weapons made of wood or bone.’
There was a ripple of amusement around the council table; not quite laughter.
‘I brought you here to provide solutions,’ said the king. ‘Not to raise further problems.’
‘The issue of iron is easily dealt with,’ said the queen. ‘Whichever troop is given responsibility for training these creatures must first test each of them for its ability to withstand iron. Those with good resistance will be retained. Those without such resistance will be culled.’
The Caller Page 17
