I had hoped there might be a high vantage point somewhere within the keep, a window, a patch of flat roof, from which I could get at least a partial view of the Good Folk’s encampment by the river mouth. Given the right spot, I should also be able to see down into the practice yard where Stag Troop would be doing their training. But while such places undoubtedly existed – the lookout tower, for instance, where guards from Wolf Troop were stationed on watch – I could not get to them without drawing suspicion.
I did not dream of Flint now. Perhaps his being so close, yet out of reach, had altered the way our minds worked together. He had not told me much about his canny skill of mind-mending. From the first I had shrunk from that, since I had more reason than most folk to loathe and despise what it had become: the vile art of enthralment. But I knew that Flint’s gift, used in the way it should be, would allow him to heal tormented minds, bring comfort to the grieving and peace to the troubled. It had made our dreams of each other especially vivid, often reflecting something of the truth. The dreams could be disturbing, but also useful. It was a dream of me alone out on the windswept skerry that had brought Flint rushing back to the isles and allowed us our only night together, a beautiful night we had spent in each other’s arms. We had not lain together as husband and wife; we would not take that final step until Alban was free, and we could believe in a future spent together.
Seeing Scia’s situation, I was even more glad that we had made that choice. We had made ourselves vulnerable enough by falling in love. To add a child to the picture would make our situation untenable. I understood, better than I ever had before, why soft feelings were forbidden among the rebels of Shadowfell. For Flint and me, those feelings had grown despite our efforts to stop them; they had been like a tenacious plant that sets down roots between the rocks and shoots up high, raising a triumphant flower to defy the autumn frost, the winter gale. A smile came to my face, thinking of it. That plant would be a thistle, strong-stemmed, spiked with defensive prickles, holding aloft its purple bloom. And that was only right, since Regan’s rebels had chosen the thistle as their emblem. A love as strong as Alban itself. A love as enduring as the glens and mountains and silvery lochs of this poor, damaged land of ours.
Chapter Ten
Barely two moons had passed since Gill had taken over as leader of Wolf Troop, after the unfortunate death of Murad from a wound turned foul with ill humours. Gill was still establishing his authority with his men, and was far more ready than, say, Galany or Abhan would have been to let Flint take the lead in handling the near-impossible job the king had given them. That made things easier.
Then there were his own men. Rohan he trusted with all but the most perilous secrets, and he suspected his second-in-command had an awareness even of those. Tallis could be relied on not to rush off to Brydian every time Flint took a risk or bent a rule. The others still seemed to respect and trust their troop leader, even after what had happened at the last Gathering.
Flint had not been the only Enforcer called on to perform that day, though he was the only one still standing. Keldec had no idea what a profound effect that fight to the death between Duvach and Buan had had on the men; all the Enforcers, even the enthralled ones, went quiet when someone spoke of it. Since he’d come back to Summerfort, Flint had seen how the men went to the spot where Buan had hanged himself after the fight. There’d nearly always be one or two of them there, keeping silent vigil as if to reassure Buan’s shade that they understood he’d had no choice. Every Enforcer present that day had seen him kill his comrade as quickly and mercifully as he could. What he had been obliged to do, he had done well; his fellow warriors would have forgiven the act. But Buan had not been able to forgive himself.
Something had changed in the men’s attitudes that day, not only in Seal Troop, from which those two comrades had come, but in most of the fighting men. It extended even to the troop leaders; Flint had sensed it at that council before he left Winterfort, when Abhan, a combat veteran of many years, had supported his suggestion that the captive Good Folk not be culled. Perhaps the change would be short-lived. For now, he welcomed it. If it helped him convince his men that the Good Folk could be spoken to, listened to, negotiated with and perhaps made into something like allies, so much the better. A plan was forming in his mind, a plan that would allow him to continue with the king’s work while at the same time preparing for the rebellion. For it to succeed, he had to stay one step ahead of Brydian.
He’d been shocked when Neryn arrived at Summerfort, though, to his immense relief, she’d come with a convincing cover story. She was never far from his thoughts, no matter what he was doing. He believed she’d approve of his plan. It was a pity there was no opportunity to explain it to her, but her coming to court was so fraught with risk that it was probably just as well his duties kept them apart. He could have manufactured excuses to visit the infirmary, but he did not; surely, however well the two of them dissembled, someone would see how it was between them. As for why Neryn had taken the perilous step of coming here so early, with only the one companion, he did not understand that at all. He could not see Tali approving such a plan. But he had been out of contact for a while. Maybe the situation had changed.
For his own plan, he took advantage of supper time. Brydian and Esten always ate in the relative luxury of the keep. Stag Troop took its meals in the Enforcers’ communal living quarters, entered through the practice area. The Good Folk, under Flint’s rules, were responsible for preparing their own food; the household provided them with rations and wood for their fires. They took their supper in the encampment.
Esten was so worn out by each day’s work, Flint judged he would only leave the keep after supper if there was an emergency, something nobody else could settle. Brydian might, he supposed, take it into his head to spring a surprise visit, but generally where Esten was, Brydian was also. Thus had arisen the idea of the Twilight Councils.
The first few evenings he went on his own, without a scrap of iron on him. The usual contingent from Wolf Troop was guarding the camp. While Esten slept, it was necessary to maintain control with iron, distasteful as that was; if he ordered Wolf Troop to set aside their own swords and knives, he suspected these captives would overwhelm their human guards and escape before reinforcements could arrive. In practical terms, setting them all free would not serve the cause well. It would see him and probably Rohan as well either executed or imprisoned. Besides, now that he had Esten, the king could simply order that a new army of Good Folk be formed to replace the others.
His own plan was far subtler. If it worked, and with Neryn at Summerfort already he thought perhaps it might, then the hideous thing Esten had been made to do could be turned on its head; these captives might, in the end, be called to fight not as a display of the king’s might but as part of the rebellion. Could he do it? There was no telling, but Sage had spoken to him of her own accord, not once but twice. He could at least try.
During his visits to the camp, he ordered the Wolf Troop men to back off a certain distance, hoping that might reduce the discomfort cold iron caused even the strongest of these folk. This did not win him instant trust among the Good Folk; he had not expected that. But he took his own food, day by day, and waited to be invited to their fireside. He asked one after another, much as he might ask his own men after a long day’s hard fighting, how they were faring, whether they were well, whether the rations were proving suitable. Many of the captives were in a bad way, damaged in body or mind by the constant presence of iron. Of those still strong enough to answer, some offered growls or invective, some spat at him, some threw stones. But as the days passed and he kept up a steady pattern of visits, first one then another was prepared to give a nod of recognition when he came among them.
On the seventh evening, the owl-like creature flew over to walk by him as he crossed the open ground from the practice area.
‘Time’s short,’ the owl-being said. ‘So I’ll give
you my name. I’m Whisper, and I come frae the North. These folk are Southies; they hae a good resistance tae iron, or they wouldna hae lasted sae long. But even a Southie has his breaking point. There’s folk wi’ maybe three, four more days in them before they fall victim tae its destructive power. Is that what your king wants, an army o’ dead folk?’
‘Thank you for talking to me, Whisper. I am Owen Swift-Sword, as you know.’
‘Aye, I heard that was ane o’ your names.’
Flint gave the being a sharp look. Both of them stopped walking.
‘I have a question for you,’ Flint said, lowering his voice, though none of Wolf Troop was within earshot. ‘I know little about how a Caller uses his gift, but I see the influence Esten has upon all of you. He can make you act against your true nature, I believe.’ He looked straight into the big owl-eyes, wishing he could be sure it was safe to speak. Any one of these folk might pretend a truce, then report every word he said back to Brydian.
‘Aye,’ Whisper said. ‘The Caller can dae that. You mentioned a question. But you didna ask it.’
He lowered his voice still further. ‘By night, when the Caller is asleep, is your mind free of him?’
Whisper said nothing, only dipped his head in a half-nod.
‘What of the others? Would they flee if there were no guards? Or no iron?’
‘I canna answer for Southies. They make their ain rules.’
‘You could give me an informed guess.’
‘The iron keeps them in, aye. There’s fighters among these folk who could overpower your guards, if there wasna sae much iron. But . . . we all fear the Caller. You’ve seen what that fellow can dae. He’s got a charm that can turn a body tae jelly wi’ pain. Tae rise up against your folk is tae risk that man coming oot here o’ a sudden, or calling frae within those walls, and setting his terror on us. When he does . . . It’s the pain o’ your worst nightmare, like having your skin peeled off bit by bit, or finding yourself trussed up ower a fire, slowly roasting tae death. And at the same time your heid blasted tae splinters. The threat o’ that, even when the fellow’s awa’ inside and fast asleep, is enow tae keep the bravest among them obedient.’ Whisper fell silent a moment, glancing around the encampment.
‘But you’re not obedient. You’re saying things that could get you in a lot of trouble.’
‘Aye.’
‘So you’re capable of thinking and acting for yourself, even with that threat over you. Why don’t you fly away, over the heads of my guards, out of reach of their weapons?’
Whisper looked especially grave. ‘Wi’ me, it’s a bittie mair complicated. I could, aye. But I wouldna. There’s a responsibility, you ken?’
‘To the Southies?’ From what he had heard of the Good Folk, this sounded unlikely. Could Whisper be hinting that he was an ally? Part of the rebellion?
‘A bigger responsibility than that, laddie. As for how it is that I can speak my mind, it wasna that way when the Caller first dragged us under his influence. It scrambled up my mind; I lost myself awhile. But something’s changed; I started tae feel it as you were bringing us along the loch. Someone coming close. She’s here now, at Summerfort. A friend I was parted frae when I was taken. A body whose voice I hear even when she doesna speak. Wi’ her sae close, my mind’s clear again. The others are no’ sae open tae her; they’re well beaten doon. But . . . if she called, chances are they’d hear.’
Flint’s heart was pounding. Neryn. Whisper meant Neryn. ‘Don’t breathe a word of this to the others,’ he said. ‘You risk her safety if you do.’
‘Nae need tae tell me that, laddie, I’m nae fool.’ A pause; they regarded each other. ‘I hae a wee suggestion, if you care tae listen.’
‘I do.’ Flint squatted down to be nearer Whisper’s level.
‘If you want something frae a Southie, dinna ask him straight out for a favour. Offer him a bargain, a deal. Food and firewood, and the absence of stone walls, that’s a first step, aye. They ken that’s your doing, and you hae that act o’ kindness tae thank for your chance tae walk among them wi’oot getting your head ripped off by one o’ those three fellows, the biggest ones. You’re looking for fighters? Believe me, they’ve shown you only the smallest part o’ what they can dae, Caller or no Caller.’
‘I see. Offer them something, you say. What would they want? I cannot send them all home.’ No doubt that if he put the question to them, every one of them would say freedom. And that was something he could not give; not yet.
‘Freedom for those likely tae perish under the iron before your king can make use o’ them; cooperation frae the others as the price. And a skerrick o’ hope, if you can get that in wi’oot spilling any secrets. Simple. And I can tell you which tae put the proposition tae.’
‘The three you mentioned, the big warriors?’
‘Them first. Leaders among their own clans. Not natural allies, but drawn intae a kind o’ alliance by adversity. Call a Council; make it formal, though it’d be only yourself and them, unless you hae others o’ your kind that willna slash out at the least sign o’ disobedience.’
‘It has to be out here, at dusk or later.’
‘While the Caller sleeps, aye? And his minder.’
Flint nodded.
From down in the encampment, many eyes were now turned in their direction; he could not see the Wolf Troop guards, who were in the shadows beyond the firelight, but he imagined they, too, were watching and wondering. He must bring the conversation to an end quickly. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured. ‘And if it helps, I can reassure you that at present the friend you spoke of is safe and well. But I have little opportunity to speak with her. I have one last question for you.’
‘Aye?’
‘Esten. Controlling the Southies, and yourself, with the threat of using his especially painful call. If word got to him, or to the minder, that you and I had been talking at length, could he not extract the details of our conversation from you by using that same call?’
‘I might ask you the same question,’ Whisper said. ‘There’s a lot o’ your guards wi’ their e’en on us, nae doot wondering what we might find tae say tae each other.’
‘Enforcers answer to their troop leaders, not to councillors. I am the troop leader. Those men – carefully chosen men – respect my way of going about things; they share my view that the preparation of fighters is not the work of a councillor, or indeed of a Caller. I trust them not to tell; and if they break that trust, I am ready for what might follow.’
‘Why doesna that surprise me?’ The owl-eyes held the trace of a smile. ‘As for me, if it came to it, I might dae as you suggested: fly oot o’ trouble. I wouldna tell. I gie my solemn word.’
Flint nodded acceptance.
‘Come wi’ me, then,’ Whisper said, ‘and we’ll hae a word wi’ those big fellows.’
The meeting that followed was the first of the Twilight Councils. The guards from Wolf Troop were too far away to hear, and he explained it to them later as a discussion of how they could all cooperate better over the training, which was the truth, as far as it went. With Whisper smoothing the way, he spoke to the three big warriors, each shaped much like a man, but with certain features that marked him out as something else. One had a pelt like little flickering flames; he gave his name as Scorch. Another possessed the normal complement of eyes, nose and mouth, set in a face that resembled a chunk of rock, complete with crevices and holes from which, from time to time, jets of pungent steam emerged; he was called Fume. The third had feet like those of a huge bird, the toes tipped with scythe-like talons, and on his head a crest of exuberant crimson feathers in place of hair. His name was Blaze. Each of them was fearsome in combat, capable of destroying a human opponent in moments. As a result, all three had been subject to Esten’s tightest control, and none greeted Flint with any enthusiasm. It was, Flint suspected, only Whisper’s moderating presence that stopped
them from burning, steaming and ripping him to death without a word spoken.
Knowing the opportunity might come only once, he set out the situation clearly for them, then made his offer. He told them the king had no immediate plans to send them into battle, but wanted them to put on a display at the Gathering, one mixed troop of fey and human warriors against another, demonstrating their skills. He had no doubt, he added, that they had the capacity to deliver this, provided everyone was prepared to work together.
‘After what’s been done tae us,’ Fume growled, ‘why would any o’ us be wantin’ tae work wi’ ye? Or did ye miss the fact that we’ve been hauled up here against oor will? That we’ve been forced tae stand by while wee folk were tortured and murdered a’ alang the way? That we’ve been fenced in wi’ cold iron, mocked, shamed and tormented till some o’ the little ones went oot o’ their minds? Why would we trust a word ye say?’
‘Because I’m here, outside the walls,’ Flint said quietly. ‘Because I came on my own, without any weapons, knowing you could kill me if you chose to. Because the alternative is to go on with what you just described until even more of you are destroyed. And because I have something to offer you.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Scorch’s tone was of complete disbelief. He folded his massive arms. ‘And what might that be? Extra rations tae nibble on while we watch oor folk drop deid under the Caller’s evil spell? A wee pat on the heid before ye deliver us up tae this king o’ yours?’ He spoke the word as if it was poison on his lips.
The Caller Page 22
