The Caller

by Juliet Marillier

  Now here he was, sitting at the head of Ruarc’s pallet with his hands on either side of the injured man’s face, in an iron-barred cell. His eyes made even familiar friends into shadows. Rohan, who had been so stalwart in his defence; Toleg the healer, a shorter figure, standing close in case he might be needed; Galany, looming at the back, with Tallis beside him. Ruarc’s two comrades from Bull Troop, and by the door, Brocc. Brocc, whose allegiance must be to the king. If Neryn had not obtained Keldec’s permission for this, Ruarc would have been culled. The cure must succeed, or Ruarc would die. As simple as that.

  The change in his comrades was startling; it gave him hope even in this dark place. Not only Rohan and Tallis, but those others – Galany, who according to Rohan would have arranged this without the king’s permission if necessary, and Ruarc’s friends, and the men of Stag and Wolf troops who had supported his unconventional approach with the Good Folk, knowing Brydian disapproved. There was an undeniable will for change among the men. Perhaps it had begun even before the king made Buan kill Duvach last midsummer; before Buan’s lonely death at his own hand. How it would play out at the Gathering was anyone’s guess.

  As for what Rohan had whispered to him, the secret plan, he could not think of that until tonight was over and he knew if this had worked. The plan was audacious. Perilous. The thought of it made his heart career on a wild course of its own. It was something he had long wondered about. Could it be possible? Could he begin to make good his betrayal of his craft? He could not explain to Rohan that he did not want to escape. He needed to be here. He had to be at Summerfort for the Gathering. To lift his voice. To speak the truth at last, if he died doing it. Neryn was over there beside Tallis. He did not need his eyes to see her; she was in his heart every moment of every day. She had chosen to stay. Despite everything, she would be here with him tonight, watching. What must that be costing her? I love you, he told her silently. I honour you for being here.

  ‘I’ll begin now,’ he said. ‘This may take a long time. Go in and out if you wish, but stay quiet and leave me to get on with it. Brocc, there needs to be a man at the main door.’

  ‘It’s done, Owen. I’ve a pair of guards outside. There won’t be any interruptions.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He drew a long breath. Heard Neryn’s silent voice: You can do this. I believe in you. ‘Thank you all for your presence. If Ruarc could be healed by goodwill alone, he would be restored to himself even now.’

  It was long. Longer, perhaps, than it might have been if he had carried out the procedure in the time when he was full of hope and energy and goodness. When he had not yet set foot on the path that had led him here, to this keep, to this cell, to this particular time of darkness. He made his way step by slow step into Ruarc’s mind. Like a fine embroiderer unpicking a ruined tapestry and remaking it thread by broken thread, he moved through the shards of Ruarc’s hopes, the shattered remnants of his dreams, the hot path of his furious frustration, the baffled hopelessness, the fighting spirit now turned back on himself and those he trusted. He found the child from long ago, a sturdy boy who loved nothing more than helping his father on the boat; he found the lad of ten or twelve who watched warriors ride by and dreamed of becoming one of them. He found the proud new Enforcer, polishing his silver troop badge, grooming his long-legged mount, laughing with his comrades over a jug of ale. Other memories, too, he found, images that were less wholesome, but still essential parts of the man Ruarc was.

  Ossan had trained him to tread softly; to go carefully. The pieces must be put together with a gentleness of touch, as if one were tending to an orphaned lamb or a newborn babe. Rush this, and there was a risk of losing control and doing more harm than good. He coaxed out the good things, the fine memories, the pride and love and contentment. He wove new dreams, using what would make Ruarc stronger: hope, comradeship, courage, brotherhood, his father, the village, the boat, the sea. He wrapped Ruarc’s mind in a fine net of all the man loved, all he valued, all that made him what he was; and he breathed into his patient’s dreams strength for the future, no matter what came. A hope that would stay with him even if his injury meant he would never fight again; never ride his horse; never serve with the king’s men. Your comrades love you, or they would not be doing this. Your family loves you. You can be a son, a father, a brother. There is a life for you, my friend. And as long as you need us, we will stand by you.

  When dawn came, beyond the tiny high windows, he rose to his feet, shaky as a new-hatched chick, and felt pain lance through his body, crippling in its intensity.

  ‘Careful, lad.’ Someone caught him before he fell; someone eased him over to a bench. Gods, the light was blinding. ‘Easy, now.’ Toleg’s voice; Toleg’s hand around his arm, reassuring him. ‘You’ve been sitting still a long time. Go slowly. Ellida, some water.’

  Ellida . . . who was Ellida? His eyes burned.

  Now someone was holding a cup to his lips, someone was murmuring, ‘It’s all right, Owen. One sip at a time.’

  ‘Neryn?’

  The moment the name left his lips he knew what he had done. But it was too late to take it back; all of them had heard it.

  ‘It’s Ellida,’ came a firm female voice. ‘Toleg’s assistant. Don’t try to talk, you’re exhausted. You’ve been sitting there all night.’ The same voice went on, ‘He’s too tired to think straight.’

  ‘I should be here when he wakes.’ His voice was as weak as a child’s.

  ‘You’ll lie down on your own pallet and rest.’ Toleg again, taking charge. ‘We’ll wake you as soon as he stirs. That’s a promise. Come, lad, let’s get you over there.’

  Someone – Galany? – half-carried him over to the other cell, put him on the pallet, covered him with a blanket. Darkness spread over him, and he slept.

  Toleg made me go back upstairs in time for breakfast in the hall – Tallis went with me – and told me not to come back to the cells. Someone had to be on duty in the infirmary, and he wanted to stay with Ruarc until the result of the mind-mending was known. As for sleep, we’d have to snatch it when we could.

  I’d hoped Scia might be well enough to return to work today, but she was not at breakfast. Tallis went to sit with Stag Troop, to tell them the news, such as it was. I took my usual place beside Devan. I ate my bowl of porridge, then a sizeable hunk of bread and cheese. I noticed Brand was looking uncharacteristically sombre; he had dark shadows under his eyes.

  ‘Do you know if Scia is still sick?’ I asked Devan. ‘We had a difficult patient last night and Toleg and I are both short of sleep.’

  ‘You haven’t heard?’ Devan’s voice was hushed, though it was unlikely anyone else would hear her over the general din. ‘I thought you’d be the first to know, since you were the one who tended to the prince when it happened.’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘The queen ordered Brand to whip his son for what he did to Ochi. She told him that if he wouldn’t, she’d get someone else to do it. So Brand had no choice. Ten lashes, that was what she ordered, with Brydian present to make sure they were hard enough.’

  My heart was cold. Little Dai was only five, and the apple of his father’s eye. ‘Is he all right?’ I murmured.

  ‘I don’t know. But Scia’s a healer; she’ll know how to tend to him.’ Devan turned an assessing gaze on me. ‘You do look tired, Ellida. I don’t think Scia will be there to help you today.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’ By all the gods, I would manage every day and every night until midsummer, so I could see the queen removed from her position of power. There she was at the high table with the king, laughing and gesturing. Brydian was on her other side, and beyond him Esten. On midsummer day every one of you will be gone. We will sweep through this place of wrongness like a cleansing tide; like a great tempest; like a purifying fire. We will show you a strength as deep as Alban’s bones. That I promise.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Devan was frowning.
‘You look quite odd.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said grimly. ‘But I’d best get back to the infirmary, if I’m to cope on my own today.’

  I was busy all day and fighting to stay awake, but I managed reasonably well. A man from Stag Troop brought me food and drink, and with it the news that Ruarc had awoken and had seemed a little confused, but not distressed. He had taken a light meal, spoken with his keepers, then fallen into a natural slumber. Toleg would be back soon.

  I made up the double dose of Oblivion that Rohan had asked for. Each dose was only half a cup; it was possible to use the same corked jar as I would for a single dose. I tidied everything away. When Toleg came, Rohan was with him and it was an easy matter to hand the jar over with no questions asked. Ruarc was doing well. Owen was tending to him. Perhaps a fresh poultice later. Toleg would take it down. There had been a discussion, the details of which they did not give me, but it seemed a decision had been reached that I should not go back to the cells. However, Owen had asked that I be the one to brew the Oblivion he needed for the next three nights, as he wanted the draught to be exactly the same each time. I did not tell Rohan this was nonsense, and nor did Toleg, though each of us knew we would brew it the same way, with meticulous measurement of all the ingredients. I did not allow myself to be hurt by the decision, though it kept me from seeing Flint again. Ruarc was mending; Flint was, if not well, at least strong enough to consider repeating the mind-mending if he had to. It was as much as I could hope for.

  In the days that followed, a greater than usual number of Enforcers visited the infirmary, not because they needed the services of a healer, but to thank me for helping their comrade. We were not yet sure Ruarc was fully healed, but he was making steady improvement. The men knew I was the one who had obtained the king’s permission for the mind-mending; they knew I had stayed up all night while Owen carried it out. They seemed to think I had worked a miracle. Men brought me posies of wildflowers from the woods beyond the fortress wall. They brought me sweetmeats from the kitchens. One gave me an embroidered kerchief I was sure must have been intended for a sweetheart. I thanked them all and prayed that Ruarc would fully recover. And I prayed for Flint. If a miracle had been performed, it was his miracle, not mine. And while I might win praise, gifts, even affection from these men, Flint won nothing. He was still a prisoner; he still awaited the king’s punishment. For him, this was a road of no return.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Ruarc was well enough, his comrades moved him quietly to the annexe where Wolf and Bull troops had been housed since they’d taken over the job of training Keldec’s so-called special forces. It was a part of Summerfort seldom visited by Brydian or the queen, and there, Brenn told me, Ruarc could be housed in a private area and supported by his friends until it was clear whether he would ever be fit to resume his duties as an Enforcer. If he was not, Galany would find a way to get him out of Summerfort and back to his home village. But not until after the Gathering.

  Now that I’d acquired a large number of friends among the Enforcers, I heard all the news. The Good Folk had been moved to a hastily constructed shelter alongside the annexe. It was well screened so visitors to Summerfort could not see them. The Good Folk were restless there; their human minders were using iron to keep them under control. But it was necessary if Keldec’s uncanny army was to be unveiled only at the Gathering.

  It was drawing close to midsummer; the days were rushing past. One by one the chieftains rode in. They and their families were accommodated in the keep; their retainers slept in the area by the river. The encampment where, under Owen Swift-Sword’s rules, the Good Folk had sat by their little fires was expanded to cater for the large crowd.

  The king’s table filled up with richly dressed folk, and the meals became more elaborate. I learned to put names to faces. Erevan of Scourie was a tall, spare man with watchful eyes. Gormal of Glenfalloch, whose support had made possible Brenn’s and my safe passage to court, was a solidly built man, more given to smiles than frowns. I could not look at the tow-haired, youngish Keenan of Wedderburn without a shudder, for this was the chieftain in whose stronghold Regan, beloved founder of the rebellion, had been done to death. Sconlan of Glenbuie and Ness of Corriedale were yet to arrive, as was the powerful northern leader, Lannan Long-Arm.

  The infirmary remained busy, and there was no further opportunity to leave the keep. With so many folk about, I had wondered when the endless combat drills would cease. As more folk came to Summerfort, it would surely become impossible for those drills to continue without everyone guessing what Keldec planned for the Gathering. Even without the combat practice, it would be hard to go between outer and inner gates without knowing there was someone, or something, housed in that concealed part of the yard. Uncanny voices could often be heard, wailing in distress.

  Esten was still appearing at supper, with Brydian a constant presence close by. The king’s Caller looked old beyond his years. He looked like a man pursued by nightmares.

  With the day of reckoning so close, I knew I must take some practical steps. I’d already got Toleg’s permission to go out and watch my husband in action on the first morning of the Gathering. Once down among the crowd, I’d need to head for a good vantage point, somewhere I could not only get a clear view but also stay safe until the battle was won. I should try to get to the area where ordinary folk stood, the place I’d been in last year, since that was where Tali and the rebels would be stationed among the crowd. The secret lookout, with its wide view and relative safety, I had dismissed as too far away from the practice area. My instincts told me I would need to be close to Esten if I wanted to counteract his call with one of my own. I had seen the devastating power of his gift on the day when Flint surrendered his authority as troop leader. Before midsummer day, I wanted to watch Esten at work again.

  Osgar was busy with training now, along with the rest of Wolf Troop. And the Stag Troop men were on guard duties in the keep, though I had heard that some of the Wolves had the job of guarding the king’s special prisoner. So much for the remarkable work Flint had done in drawing Ruarc back from the nightmare of his head injury. That miracle had won him no favours from the king, and I wondered if I had imagined that look in Keldec’s eye when he’d spoken to me, a look that suggested a deep and genuine affection for his once-trusted friend.

  On a day when the infirmary was reasonably quiet, I got Toleg’s approval to take my midday meal with Brenn, who along with the rest of Stag Troop was now part of the household guard. Instead of heading down to the hall, we made our way to the secret lookout.

  ‘I’ll open the trapdoor for you, then I’ll stand guard down here,’ Brenn said at the foot of the steps. ‘Don’t stay up there too long. If any of those men in the yard happened to look in the right direction he’d see you, and it could be hard to find a credible explanation. It’s hardly the spot for a tryst with your husband.’

  ‘I’ll keep it as brief as I can.’

  We climbed; he opened the trapdoor; I clambered through it and out onto the narrow ledge, making myself breathe slowly. It was so high. The wind caught at my garments, doing its best to unbalance me. Not unlike the cliffs of Far Isle, I told myself, and felt steadier.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Fine. You go back down.’

  ‘If I see anyone coming, I’ll whistle.’

  Nobody in the practice yard save a couple of men sweeping with heavy brooms. I guessed they were levelling the ground after the disturbance of combat training. Both inner and outer gates were closed; the place was not in public view. I practised the patterns of breathing the Hag had taught me, trying to imagine how it would be down there on the first day of the Gathering. By nightfall on midsummer day, if everything went to plan, Keldec’s rule would be over. In future years the Gathering could be restored to what it had once been, a celebration, a coming together of the clans, an opportunity for bonds to be strengthened and difficulties solved amica
bly. That future Alban was hard to picture.

  My careful breathing failed to quiet the churning feelings in my heart. So much hung on my call; what if I got it wrong on the day? Beneath that terror, I was full of sadness for the evils of the past, and for the losses we’d endure in the winning of this battle. For our rebels would fall in their blood down there, both humankind and Good Folk. Nothing was surer than that. Even if my call was the very best I could manage, even if I used absolutely everything I had learned, I could not prevent that: the Guardians had made it quite clear. And Flint, still immured in the cells . . . what dire punishment did Keldec plan for him? Would I have to stand by in silence, waiting for the right time to call, while he was humiliated, tormented and killed out there? Would I have the strength to hold back? I could not use my gift until Tali stood up and declared herself. That was the plan we’d agreed on, and I must follow it. No matter what.

  Tears filled my eyes and spilled hot down my cheeks. I’d been told often enough why Regan’s rebels had a rule against letting love develop between comrades, and I’d seen the wisdom of that rule even though Flint and I had broken it. But I had not really understood what it meant until now. ‘The cause,’ I muttered to myself. ‘The cause comes first. Alban. Peace. Justice.’ In only a few days, we could change our country’s future. We could begin to right the wrongs and heal the wounds of fifteen years of tyranny. We could achieve the dream that had sustained Regan and his comrades through their long struggle; we might see humankind and Good Folk share the realm of Alban in a new spirit of amity and goodwill. ‘I’ll be strong enough,’ I told myself. ‘Even if . . . I will be, I have to be.’