Shadowfell, Page 3

  He had been kind tonight, in his brusque fashion. But everything in me rejected this suggestion. ‘I don’t know you,’ I said. ‘I’d be a fool to trust you.’

  ‘You’d be still more of a fool,’ Flint said, ‘to go on alone. I said before, I want nothing from you. This is a simple offer of help. You need help.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ll do well enough on my own.’

  My lids were drooping. The fire flickered strangely and beyond the circle of light I saw figures darting in and out of the shadows, slender winged beings with hair like streams of light. I heard their voices: Neryn! Oh, Neryn!

  ‘What?’ Flint turned his head, following my gaze.

  ‘Nothing.’ My heart was suddenly hammering. Let him not be able to see them, let him not realise what I had been looking at. I must divert his attention. ‘You said you were giving me a choice. Is that the choice, stay here or go on?’

  ‘The way things turned out down there, the choice was between life and death,’ Flint said levelly. ‘But yes, you have another choice now. I hope you’ll leave your decision until morning, and make it after some consideration. All I’m asking is that you wait for me here one more day. Stay safe, lie low until I can come on with you. After what’s just happened, it makes perfect sense for you to take a day to rest. You’re exhausted. Not thinking straight. Lie down, sleep. I’ll keep watch. Tomorrow you’ll see this differently.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Rest,’ Flint said. ‘You’re safe here.’

  Keep away from me, I willed the uncanny presences. Don’t let him see you. I dared not glance back to the place where I had spotted them. I wished, not for the first time, that I was an ordinary girl with no canny gifts at all.

  I lay down with Flint’s big cloak wrapped around me and my shawl rolled up as a pillow. In my mind, I saw myself at four or five, in the garden of Grandmother’s cottage, sitting quiet by the berry bushes as two of the Good Folk filled a tiny basket woven from blades of grass. The basket took four berries, no more; but they were small folk and this would be a feast.

  ‘A blessing on your hearthstone, wise woman,’ said the little man, doffing his cap.

  ‘And a long life to your wee bairnie there,’ said the little woman, looking at me and bobbing a curtsy.

  Grandmother only nodded, and I was too enthralled to utter a word.

  The two of them walked away under the bushes and vanished between a pair of white stones, as if they had stepped into another realm. Which was precisely what they had done, Grandmother explained. That was the day she told me about sharing, about kindness, about secrecy. It was the day I began setting out bowls of milk and crusts of bread, and hoping I would encounter the Good Folk again soon. I had not yet learned that other people could not see them as easily as I did. Nor did I know, innocent as I was, that under the king’s law, speaking to uncanny folk was punishable by death.

  I would remember all my loved ones tonight. It seemed especially important to do this, to keep them in my heart, now that Father, too, was gone. Mother had left us long ago. My memory of her was always the same: the two of us on a pebbly beach, I making a creature from weed, sand and shells; she sitting by me, gazing out to sea, dreaming her dreams. Her hair was lifted around her head by the breeze, a soft nimbus of honey brown. I remembered how happy I had been that day. I had thought the sun would shine on us forever.

  My brother, Farral. One year my senior, and cut down fighting to protect his own. I remembered a time when, at the age of three or four, I had come upon a little bird that had perished in the sharp cold of winter. As I’d held the tiny frozen corpse in my hands, my brother had gently explained that the spirit of the little creature was winging overhead, safe in a realm beyond cold and hunger, and that I should lay its remnant in the earth to feed and nourish the new life of spring. My brother had dried my tears and helped me dig the hole. And he was right: in spring, a little plant with feathery blue-grey flowers had grown there. Grandmother taught me its proper name, but I always called it birdie-wings.

  ‘Father,’ I murmured, struggling to conjure up a happy memory in place of the hideous, screaming image I could not erase from my thoughts. ‘Oh, Father, I’ll miss you . . .’ And I saw a man walking away down a long, long road, so long that the end of it was lost in the grey distance. As slow tears bathed my cheeks and soaked my makeshift pillow, I sank into sleep.

  When I woke, Flint was gone. The fire had been banked up. Warmth touched my face from coals glowing under their blanket of ash. The cloak was still wrapped around my body, keeping out the crisp chill of early morning. The sun had not yet risen, but the sky was lightening toward dawn.

  Flint had taken his pack with him, including the roll of bedding he’d had strapped on top. But it seemed he’d been speaking the truth about coming back by dusk, for next to my bag was a neat pile of items that did not belong to me.

  I got up, hugging the cloak around me, and went to investigate. A woollen tunic, well worn but serviceable, big enough to cover me to the knees. A cloth bundle which, unwrapped, proved to hold a supply of traveller’s way-bread, a feast that set my belly rumbling. I allowed myself a small piece – the sweetness brought back long-lost memories of home – then rewrapped the rest and stowed it in my bag. And he had left me a knife whose edge, tested on my hand, raised a line of bright blood. My own knife had been traded last winter for a meal and a night’s shelter. Father’s knife had drowned with him. Flint had given me more than a weapon. He had given me the ability to make fire.

  I delved into my bag and found the sheath I had crafted for my old knife. To an ordinary traveller it would have looked like nothing much: sewn hide with a sun pattern pricked onto the surface, and at the opening a decoration made from crow feathers and smooth river pebbles, tied into a cord with very particular knots. Thus I set a layer of protection between the cold iron of my weapon and any being who might be harmed by it.

  It did not take long to pack up and be on my way. I filled my water skin from the nearby stream. I extinguished the fire, spreading out the ashes and scattering soil on top. I checked that we had left no other signs of our presence. I squeezed the tunic into my bag and slipped the knife into my belt. Flint’s cloak, I would wear. It seemed unlikely I would ever get the opportunity to return it to him. When all was to my satisfaction, I stood still a moment to get my bearings.

  North. The place Farral had mentioned lay deep in the mountains, due north of our home village, the village that no longer existed. To reach it I must first travel eastward up the great chain of lochs that girdled Alban’s highlands. I must walk all the way to Deepwater, then skirt the shore of that freshwater loch until I reached the river Rush, and a track that led up to the peaks called the Three Hags. There, I must cross a high pass and go along a valley. At the foot of some formidable mountains there was a rock formation known as Giant’s Fist. Find that and I could find Shadowfell. If it existed. If it was more than a wishful dream.

  Save for the very last part, the way would be familiar enough. Father and I had travelled it in reverse when we fled Corbie’s Wood and the ruins of our old lives three years ago. And I had become skilled at path-finding.

  But it would be a long journey, and the season was turning. Flint had been right: food and shelter would be difficult to find, especially on my own. If I did not reach Three Hags pass before the first snow, I would be in trouble. And yes, the company of a fit and capable man would have made things easier. But it would take more than vague talk of choices to make me throw my lot in with a stranger, however helpful he might seem. Why had he been on the chancy-boat in the first place? And why decide to take Father’s wager when the idea of it was abhorrent to him? He couldn’t have known the Enforcers were coming. Could he? If he had, he’d surely have warned Father and the other men.

  I must set my thoughts on the journey ahead. In summer I might have offered folk a day’s labour in return for a bowl of soup and a night in the shelter of a barn. Father and I had been living that way for
some time. But not in autumn, for autumn was the time of the Cull, and dangerous for a lone traveller. Turn up on someone’s doorstep asking for help and I’d be peppered with questions about why a girl of my age was on the road by herself. If I could not find good answers, folk would leap to the conclusion that I was on the run from the Enforcers. Distrust always clouded the minds of Alban’s people these days. In the seasons of the Cull that distrust reached its height, fuelled by terror. It spread through every settlement, every small hamlet, every lone farmhouse. They did not call people like me canny now. The word they used was ‘smirched’, as if our gifts would sully and spoil if they were not ripped out by the roots. Only the king’s inner circle could use magic.

  There had been a time before. My grandmother had told me about it: a time when a woman who could weave cloth as soft as thistledown, or a man who could play the whistle fit to rival the soaring lark, was looked on by the community with love and pride, not turned in to the Enforcers as if they carried some kind of plague. Grandmother had spoken of a woman who could set her hands to a broken bone and mend it in a moment, humming under her breath as she sat with eyes closed and head bowed. She had told of a man who could gentle a wild boar so it lay down meekly with its head in his lap. I’d especially loved the tale of a girl who had gone out to the field every morning to talk to the sprouting oats, telling them of sun and wind and rain, and of how well they would nourish hungry children when their time of sacrifice was come. At harvest festival those were the loveliest, sweetest oats that were ever reaped in Alban.

  Sometimes I found it hard to tell which of Grandmother’s stories were true accounts of how it was before Keldec came to the throne and which were ancient wonder tales. Keldec was crowned king in the year of my birth. Fifteen years was not so long for people to have forgotten the old ways of thinking. But they had. By the time I was old enough to begin understanding what canny meant, it had become necessary for me to hide my gift. I learned that fear turned friend into foe in an instant, and I learned to keep secrets.

  So, there would be no working for food and shelter. I was used to foraging in the woods, and I had a fishing line. But in the end I might have to become a thief. An egg here, a bannock there. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Before I reached the track to the north my journey would bring me close to Summerfort, a lesser stronghold of King Keldec and site of the midsummer Gathering. The thought of it set terror in my heart. It brought back the memory I most longed to forget, the dark thing I had seen through a chink in the wall of my grandmother’s house, the day the king’s men came for her. I thrust the images down, for I must start today’s walk strong of heart or I would not get far. Think of good things, Neryn. Think of small acts of kindness, such as a man’s gift of a warm cloak. Think of Grandmother’s love and wisdom, not her terrible ending. Feel her strength in you; follow the journey as she would have done, with courage and open eyes. Fix your mind on Shadowfell.

  Last night I had thought Father quite gone, drifting away from me down that last shadowy path. Now I felt him walking along beside me, stooping to lift drooping foliage out of my path, holding my hand as I traversed stepping stones across a surging stream, telling bad jokes to lighten my spirits. Foolish; those memories were from long ago. Of recent times he had seldom had the heart for such gestures. For many moons now we had walked to the accompaniment of a muttered diatribe, a catalogue of the sorrows and injustices that had left us poor, homeless and outcast.

  I had wearied of his endless dispiriting talk. I had become expert at not hearing him. My blisters and empty belly had made compassion run thin. Now, as I picked my way along a barely discernable track under the pines, I felt his shade close by and regretted that I had not been more understanding. Perhaps, as I had long suspected, he would have preferred that I had died and my brother lived. But he had protected me in his own fashion. For my sake he had kept going.

  I hoped he was at peace now. ‘I love you, Father,’ I whispered. ‘I honour you.’ I tried to say: I forgive you. But the words would not come.

  Despatch: for the eyes of King Keldec only

  Darkwater district; early autumn

  My respectful greetings to you, my lord King. The Cull is under way in the west. Cleansing of all settlements in the area of Darkwater was completed with no resistance. I am confident that this district will cause us little difficulty in future seasons.

  Boar Troop has moved on to Clearwater and points south, with Stag Troop heading northward up the coast. As we discussed at the council, the Cull in the western isles will be delayed for another year. My investigations confirm that the likelihood of finding large numbers of smirched in that remote location is low, while the practical challenges of conducting the exercise in such difficult terrain are significant.

  You will recall, my lord King, a conversation we had on a matter of particular personal interest to yourself. I can tell you that certain intelligence has reached my ears concerning that matter. When last we spoke together, you generously indicated that, should this occur, you would give me leave from my regular duties to pursue that line of enquiry, provided the Cull proceeded to plan.

  Acting on this, I have placed responsibility for Stag Troop in the capable hands of my second-in-command, Rohan Death-Blade. I will operate alone for the foreseeable future. I will report direct to you whenever circumstances make it possible to send a secure despatch. The task I undertake may require me to travel widely through the autumn, and at times I will be beyond reach. Rest assured, my lord King, that I will return to court by the end of the season, or as soon as possible thereafter. I hope to bring with me an unusual weapon for your armoury, my lord, a weapon that should please you very well indeed.

  (signed) Owen Swift-Sword, Stag Troop Leader

  CHAPTER THREE

  Seven days walking, seven nights sleeping in the forest, and I crested a hill in late afternoon to catch my first glimpse of Silverwater, its broad expanse glittering in the sunlight some miles ahead. I moved from the still darkness of the pines into beech forest and found a camping spot by a rocky outcrop among the trees. A small stream gurgled its way down the hill. There was one great oak standing among the beeches, a dark-leaved, broad-armed goddess of a tree. I found a flat rock, set down my bag and spread the cloak beside it. I lowered myself to a sitting position and, wincing with pain, eased off my shoes.

  My feet were afire with blisters. These had been good shoes once, given to me by a girl whose family had sheltered us in a remote village up north. These shoes had carried me many miles, up hill and down, across streams, through bogs, over fields and along steep fells. They had been with me through spring rain and summer heat, autumn chill and winter snow. They had been patched and mended, relined and strengthened. They were too small now, and this season’s hard journeying had tested them to breaking point.

  I wandered, barefoot, beside the stream and came back with a handful of fern roots and a scattering of acorns. I could not make a proper poultice, for my small bag carried only essentials. My supply of powders and salves had run out many moons ago and I had lacked the time and resources to replace it. Perhaps that was just as well. Few healers practised their craft openly in Keldec’s Alban. The line between herbalism and magic went too close for comfort.

  I made a fire, my new knife striking a ready spark from my old flint. Wary of attracting unwanted notice, I kept the blaze small. When the fire was burning well I went foraging, returning with wild onions which I made into a soup. Some of Flint’s way-bread was still in my bag, saved for the times when I could not provide for myself.

  As I stirred my brew I felt eyes on me, watching from the high branches of the oak, from the shadows between the beech trunks, from the bouncing waters of the little stream. I sensed the presence of observers hidden in every chink and crevice of the great rocks that sheltered me. Close. Closer than I had ever felt them before.

  It was said the Good Folk had gone into hiding, fearful of Keldec’s long reach. Rumour had it that the
y had fled Alban altogether, choosing to dwell on the misty islands of the far west or in the cold, empty north. Neither theory was true, or I would not be aware of them now, all around me in this clearing. The little hairs on my neck stood up; my spine tingled with the strangeness of it.

  ‘Best if you don’t come near me,’ I murmured, trying not to look directly at any of them as I sat drinking my onion brew. ‘You and I, we’re trouble for each other. I want nothing to do with you.’ It sounded harsh and discourteous. And I did not even know if they would understand me; I had never spoken to them directly before. Now it seemed necessary to warn them.

  A pointed silence followed, in which I could almost feel their disapproval. In my mind, my grandmother spoke: Always share what you have, Neryn. Look after the Good Folk and they will do you no harm. If you hear people complaining that someone stole the eggs from right under the hens, or drank the cow dry before milking time, it will be because someone forgot that rule.

  Well, there were a few mouthfuls of the brew left. With some regret, I moved to set down the little pan at one side of the clearing, wedging it with stones so it would not spill. It looked a meagre offering, the amber liquid barely covering the bottom of the pot. And there were many of them; I need not look straight at them to know that. Sighing, I took the cloth-wrapped way-bread from my bag, broke off a piece, and laid it beside the brew. ‘I’m a friend,’ I said, my voice just above a whisper. ‘I offer you a share of my meal, such as it is. But I don’t want companions on the journey. Stay in your safe place. There were Enforcers at Darkwater. The Cull’s begun.’ I wondered if any place was safe.