The Caller, Page 7

  ‘Silva.’

  ‘Mm?’ It was unusual to see her idle; even in moments of relative repose, her hands were usually busy with something: plaiting onions for drying, shredding herbs, mending a torn garment. Today she was sitting quietly by the goat, her shawl hugged around her shoulders, and I was reminded of how alone she really was.

  ‘I need to explain more of my story to you. Mine and Whisper’s.’

  She turned her gaze on me; it was very direct. ‘I’ve guessed some of it. I think I know where you come from. People whisper about that place. I won’t say the name.’

  That surprised me. ‘Maybe it’s the same place. I told you before that there’s hope there, a plan to change the future. Winter’s passing, and you need to know more about that plan and where I fit into it.’ Despite the storm, despite our isolation, I lowered my voice to a murmur. ‘You understand how dangerous it is to speak about these things. If I haven’t told you everything earlier, it’s been because the more you know, the more it endangers you.’ Silva nodded, saying nothing. ‘The plan comes to fruition next summer. My part in it is critical. To be ready in time, Whisper and I must travel south before then.’

  ‘South? You mean to Glenfalloch?’

  ‘Possibly.’ The Master of Shadows could be anywhere. Whisper and I had not discussed how we would set about finding him. But Tali had wanted us to make contact with the rebels in the south, and that would be a good first step. ‘Certainly, we must be away from here as early as we can.’

  There was a silence, then Silva said, ‘You need not worry about me. I’ll be fine on my own.’

  ‘I’m not sure you will be. We’re eating our way through your supplies, using up what could have kept you going for a long time. However hard you work, you can’t set away enough to feed yourself and the animals forever. What about grain for the hens? Where does that come from?’

  ‘I’m not a child.’ Her chin went up. ‘We bartered for it at the village market. Sometimes with eggs; but mostly we offered cures and remedies. Folk were happy enough to trade with us and not ask questions.’ A pause. ‘That was before.’

  ‘And now? Would you go openly to the market in spring, after what happened here?’ She’d be betrayed and handed over to the authorities before she bought her first sack of grain. Besides, how would she find time to make remedies to sell?

  ‘Lassie.’ Whisper spoke at last, keeping his voice soft. Above us on the shelf, the hens ruffled their feathers and shifted their feet. ‘We ken you hae work here, work that’s important tae you. But you need tae see things clear. Faith only takes a body so far, when there’s king’s men bearing down on her wi’ big swords in their hands.’

  ‘If you must go, you must,’ Silva said. ‘And I must stay here; there’s no other way.’

  Spending all day inside the cramped confines of the beehive hut was taking a toll on me, body and mind. But my learning progressed. Now I could hear the subtlest of differences in the vibrations of the drum, and in the movement of the small folk inside the hut and outside, in the broader area of the Beehives. I could detect the movement of one bird in the elder trees, out there beyond my vision. I could identify one insect crawling out from cover at a distance of twenty paces. Without needing to be out in the open, looking, I knew when Whisper came early to collect me; I heard the rustle of his wings up the hill, even when the howl of the wind must surely drown it.

  ‘This new awareness will help ye,’ the Lady said. ‘If ye can hear the voice o’ a wee crawlin’ creature even when a storm’s ragin’, mebbe ye can gather your wits in the clamour o’ battle and send a message tae the ears that must hear it. Do ye no’ think?’

  I imagined the battle: my friends and allies falling, dying before my eyes; the noise of clashing metal, the crunch of bones breaking, the screams. I had only witnessed one such conflict. This one would be ten times bigger, twenty times. ‘I can only pray I have learned enough to do it.’

  ‘Aye, weel, ’tis no’ a thing ye can practise. Ye wouldna be lookin’ for the king’s men and givin’ it a wee try. But there’s ane mair thing I can teach ye. A storm, that’s a bit like a battle, all bluster and turnin’ things upside doon. The next time we hae a real gale, wi’ thunder and sleety rain, ye can practise callin’, and no’ simply callin’ your friend the witawoo, neither. Ye should try callin’ a fighter or twa. Or better still, call someone who can help ye. A messenger, mebbe. Didna ye mention ye wanted tae send word south?’

  ‘Yes, but . . . the uncanny messengers we’ve used in the past . . . they’ve been bird-like in form. If I called such a being, it would have to fly here through the storm.’

  There was a silence. The wee folk were all clustered in one of the niches within the cairn, the glow of their lights turned on my face. Their scrutiny was uncomfortable.

  ‘And when that battle comes,’ the Lady said eventually, ‘willna folk need tae hear your ca’, and follow your orders, through a storm o’ swords and clubs and sprayin’ blood, a whirlwind o’ shoutin’, screamin’ fighters? ’Tis the best way for ye to learn, Neryn. Ye’ll be havin’ tae mak’ choices. Which is mair important, winnin’ the battle or keepin’ your folk alive? Ye’ll be havin’ tae let some gae. Ye willna be able tae spend time savin’ ane life or another. Ye dinna win a war wi’oot losin’ good comrades. ’Tis the nature o’ things.’

  I knew this, of course. That didn’t mean I had come to terms with it. ‘Is this a test?’ I asked her. ‘Calling a messenger to me during a storm?’

  ‘’Twould be mair testin’ for the one who’s bein’ called, seems tae me.’

  ‘I mean a . . . a formal test, to show I have learned enough to move on.’

  ‘You wouldna be wantin’ tae move on in a storm. Unless you were half oot o’ your wits.’ When I said nothing, she went on, ‘Could be ye mak’ your ain test, Neryn. Think on that a while. But no’ too lang. The storm’s comin’ soon enow.’

  Maybe she meant a storm with thunder, lightning and rain. Maybe she meant another kind of upheaval. When I crawled out of the cairn, knowing it must be time for Whisper to escort me back to our place of shelter, the light was fading and there was no sign of him. It was the first time he had not come to fetch me before dusk.

  I walked back on my own, hoping nothing was wrong. Just before I reached the spot where I’d be visible to anyone down at the burned-out house, I stopped walking. I lifted the drum, holding the ox-hide surface horizontal and putting my ear close. I used my new learning, tuning myself to every small vibration.

  A voice came. Not Silva’s; not Whisper’s. A man’s voice. My skin prickled; my heart thumped. Go forward or flee? Risk discovery or leave Silva in danger? I knew what Tali would say. I was Alban’s salvation, or would be when I was fully trained. My safety must always come first.

  But Tali was not here, and Silva was my friend. She had offered her support without reservation; she had shared all she had with us, virtual strangers.

  ‘Can’t stay here . . .’ the man was saying. He sounded young. ‘. . . dangerous . . .’

  ‘I can manage.’ Silva’s tone told me this was someone she knew, and knew well. ‘I don’t need help. You shouldn’t have come here, Ean.’

  ‘Why didn’t you let me know where you were? I could have –’

  A flurry of wings, and Whisper was on the path beside me.

  ‘Who is it?’ I hissed.

  ‘Fellow came not lang since. I would hae fetched you, but I wanted tae be sure he was on his ain. Her brother, I’d be guessing. Like twa peas in a pod.’

  The young man spoke again. ‘Listen. Silva. I can get you safely away . . .’ His voice went down to a murmur, and the only word I caught was Glenfalloch.

  ‘How much has she told him?’ I whispered.

  ‘She spoke o’ the deaths o’ her friends.’ A pause, then he added, ‘The door was open. He couldna fail tae see someone else was living here. She told h
im there were twa survivors: herself and another woman, and that her companion was at the cairns. If no’ for that, I’d hae told you tae keep under cover until he was gone.’

  ‘There’s a storm coming,’ I said. ‘Or so I’ve been told.’

  ‘Aye.’ Whisper gave me a direct sort of look; in the dim light, his big owl-eyes were bright with knowledge. ‘But no’ before morning. You’d best gae in and introduce yourself. I willna let him see me save as a creature, unless there’s trouble the twa o’ you canna handle. The fellow willna gae anywhere tonight; it’s near dark.’ He paused for thought, then said, ‘He’d be doing us a favour if he took the lass awa’ tae a place o’ safety, as he’s offering.’

  A shiver ran through me, as deep and cold as a river in winter. ‘If Silva goes, the Lady is no more.’ Could even the downfall of Keldec justify such a loss?

  ‘A knotty puzzle,’ observed Whisper. ‘Could be there’s mair than a single way tae untangle it.’

  The rain had ceased for now, and Silva had built her cooking fire in a sheltered area between the stillroom and the outhouse that we’d made into winter quarters for Snow and the chickens. She and her visitor were standing in the fire’s glow, arguing. The young man was dressed for travelling and had his back to me; Silva saw me coming before he did. Whisper had flown up to the tree close by. Perching there, he looked exactly like an ordinary owl.

  ‘Neryn, you’re back!’ Silva said as I approached – a warning that she had given the fellow my real name.

  The man turned. He was younger than I expected; only a few years Silva’s senior, and so like her that he had to be a kinsman. The dark wavy hair, the big eyes, the slender build, the heart-shaped face – he was surely her brother. He gave me a very direct look, sizing me up.

  ‘This is my brother,’ Silva said. ‘Ean. I’ve offered him shelter for the night. Your prayers kept you at the cairns late.’

  I came up to the fire, trying to look natural. ‘Greetings, Ean,’ I said. ‘My name is Neryn.’ I can get you safely away, he’d said. And I was almost sure I’d heard him say Glenfalloch. That didn’t make him a rebel, or even a friend. It could be sheer coincidence. ‘Need help with the supper?’ I asked Silva.

  ‘It’s all ready.’ Silva’s cook pot stood beside the fire, and now she filled three bowls with barley broth – Whisper would have to wait. A savoury, comforting smell wafted through the chill air. There were hunks of flat bread to dip. The hot food was bliss after my cold, cramped day at the cairns, and although Ean’s presence meant I could not relax my guard, eating did take away the need to talk. As we shared the meal, I wondered what had brought him here now, nearly three turnings of the moon after the fire. If he lived close by, surely he must have known where Silva was. Why hadn’t he come looking for her as soon as he heard what had happened?

  ‘Ean wants me to go south with him to a safer place,’ Silva said at last, setting down her empty bowl. ‘I’ve said no.’

  Ean’s dark gaze moved to me, then back to her. He said nothing.

  ‘I explained to you, Ean,’ Silva added. ‘I can’t leave Neryn on her own. There were twelve of us before this happened. It’s not a job for one.’

  Ean wanted to say something, I could see that, but he didn’t trust me. It was written all over his face. Fine; the feeling was mutual.

  ‘You can talk in front of Neryn,’ Silva said.

  But he couldn’t, any more than I could tell him the truth about what I was. He might go straight out and denounce me to the authorities. If he was somehow associated with the rebellion, or even if he was prepared to risk helping Silva when he knew she was flouting the king’s law, he took the same risk in being open with me. I looked directly at him. ‘How can you be sure Silva would be safer in the south?’

  ‘This place is a ruin.’ Ean’s flat tone served to emphasise that this was the simple truth. ‘You’ll run out of food for yourselves and the stock.’

  Neither of us said a thing.

  ‘You know the risks of what you’re doing, unless you’re stupid.’ Ean’s voice dropped to a murmur. ‘The folk of the settlement know there’s someone here, that’s how I found out where Silva was. They know someone survived. So far, they’ve kept clear because that’s safer for you and safer for them. But you’ll be found. Sooner or later, someone will come looking. You need to get away before that happens.’ He looked at me. ‘You shouldn’t have kept Silva here. She’s only young.’

  And what was he, I thought, fourteen? Younger than me, most likely. A painful memory of my own brother came to me. Farral had believed himself a man at fourteen. At the hands of the Enforcers he had died a man’s death.

  ‘This is not Neryn’s doing,’ Silva said. ‘It’s my choice to stay here. It’s good to see you, Ean, but you shouldn’t have come. What’s dangerous for us is dangerous for you, too.’

  Ean made a sound indicating exasperation. ‘You’re a child,’ he said. ‘You have no idea –’

  ‘Have you forgotten what happened here?’ I asked him. ‘Or did the villagers not explain to you why this house lies in ruins and there are only the two of us left? Of course Silva understands the risk.’ I stopped myself from saying more. If Ean was trustworthy, and if he really did have a safe place to take her, it would make complete sense for her to go with him. But there was the White Lady. We could not walk away and let her fade.

  ‘I can’t go and I won’t go.’ Silva folded her arms. ‘There’s no need to talk about it anymore. Did you bring a bedroll? If you want to stay tonight, you’ll have to sleep in with Snow and the chickens.’

  ‘I’m staying until you see sense,’ said Ean.

  Chapter Four

  At Winterfort, with the entire court in residence, nowhere was safe from scrutiny. When a man already lay under suspicion, the slightest hint of error was sure to reach the ears of the king. Or, more likely, those of the queen. Varda had her eye on him. He was becoming more sure of that every day. And if the queen wanted someone made an example of, the king ensured it was done. It had been so since the day they were hand-fasted. If Keldec had never met Varda, would he have become a different kind of man? What if he had married, instead, a kindly woman with no ambition? Perhaps such women never wed kings.

  Over his years at court, Flint had seen how the queen shaped her husband’s thoughts and influenced his decisions. Varda liked spectacle. Blood excited her. She enjoyed watching people suffer. Above all, she thrived on being in control. And since a woman could not rule in her own right – the ancient laws of Alban forbade that – she made sure her husband ruled in the way she would.

  The Caller was a new plaything for Varda, magnificent in his ability to provide her with diversions. Flint had seen him at work soon after the court moved back to Winterfort. A young man, twenty at most, nothing startling in looks – he might have been any farm hand or fisherman. The queen’s agents in the south had found him in company with a fire creature, all flame and smoke. Brydian, Varda’s councillor, had realised immediately what they had, since Brydian was something of a scholar and versed in ancient lore. So the young man, Esten, had not been summarily executed for breaking the king’s law. Instead, he’d been apprehended, questioned, and brought back to court. Not a traitor. Not a miscreant. Esten would be a tool unparalleled in the queen’s hands. Through him, she would show the people of Alban how much power the king could wield, not only over his human subjects, but also over the Good Folk.

  For a tense few days, Flint had thought the king would order him to enthral Esten, so the Caller’s loyalty could be ensured. What other reason could there have been for Keldec’s insistence that his right-hand man return from the foray to Wedderburn within as short a time as possible? Despite his very public failure at last midsummer’s Gathering, Owen Swift-Sword was still the most reliable of the king’s Enthrallers. The episode with Tali had been the only time his craft had been seen to go awry. Each of the other Enthrallers, l
ess skilled, improperly trained, had a number of disasters behind him: victims whose minds had been destroyed by the process. Most settlements in Alban housed at least one such damaged individual, a grown man or woman turned witless and wandering by an enthralment gone wrong. It was no wonder ordinary folk called the Enthrallers mind-scrapers.

  So, Esten had arrived at court. The days had passed, and the Caller had not only been welcomed and made much of, he had been quickly embraced by the queen’s inner circle. The court had made its customary move from Summerfort to Winterfort as soon as the season changed, and no request for an enthralment had come, either to Flint or to anyone else. It seemed the young man was willing to do whatever he was asked to do. It was hard to believe that Esten’s canny gift was the same as Neryn’s. They were worlds apart. Neryn put her talent to work for the good of Alban, for freedom, for change, for a brave new future. She would not dream of using it to gain power or to wield terror. Neryn loved and respected the Good Folk. She understood them in all their various and wondrous forms. She used her gift only to seek wisdom, to bring folk together, to . . . No longer accurate, of course; he was deluding himself. There was a battle looming, if, of course, Tali managed to pull the disparate elements of the rebellion together by midsummer. When the time came, Neryn would have to call the Good Folk to fight, to wound, to kill, to die. Whatever path next Gathering’s confrontation took, she would come away from it carrying a heavy burden. If she survived. If any of them survived.

  And he . . . he was trapped here, surrounded by comrades loyal to the king, under constant scrutiny. If Queen Varda was not watching him in person, she had her people doing it. He suspected there were some of his own kind, Enforcers, who were doing the same job when the troop rode out.