Raven Flight (8 page)

“My grandmother was a wise woman; what she taught me went into the making of this. Eva, who is expert at sewing, helped me. And every person who lives at Shadowfell—every human—contributed something. A strand of hair. A thread from a favorite garment.”

“We offer it as a token of thanks and respect,” Regan put in. “I hope our meeting will be one of amity and goodwill. Please come into our hall. The human folk of Shadowfell are gathered for our council. Afterward, we invite you to share our midwinter feast.” He did not ask them for their names. I had warned him that the Good Folk were slow to reveal such details, especially to humankind.

“I tellit ye,” the whisper from somewhere among the Northies was all too audible, “nae guid can come o’ this. Soon as we’re in this ha’ the fellow mentioned, they’ll be shuttin’ the doors, and it’ll be a wee knife in the back for every last one o’ us.”

“You will be safe here,” Regan said. “We have no reason to wish you ill. If not for your support and generosity, we could not have made our base at Shadowfell. Now we seek your wisdom; hence the council. Will you come?”

The Northies entered warily. Our own folk, who had moved back to stand around the walls so our smaller guests could sit in the center on the blankets, did their best to look calm, but even though I had warned them, the sight of the more unusual beings made brows lift and eyes widen. Whispering went around the chamber.

Our visitors seated themselves in a circle. At Regan’s nod, our own people formed an outer circle. Sage and Red Cap sat on either side of me, with Fingal and Regan next. The five tiny folk were in front of us.

I made a quick count and found that there were exactly as many Northies in the chamber as rebels. We had two on door guard; but perhaps they did too. I did not see the being that had challenged Sage and me on the day I called the Folk Below.

There was a silence. Perhaps Regan was waiting for me to speak; I had thought he would address the visitors first. Then the little woman of the Northies, who had given the ritual greeting, rose to her feet. “We’re no’ here altogether o’ our ain free will,” she said, looking at Regan, then at me. “Ye ken that, I expect. ’Tis not our way tae mingle wi’ humankind, nor tie ourselves up in your disputes and difficulties. There’s twa things have drawn us tae your council. First, the Caller; we canna ignore her voice. Second, we had a visitor. No’ the Caller or the Westie. Another visitor, frae the north. Trouble’s brewin’. The Master o’ Shadows is up and walkin’, and him that should be keepin’ the Master in check canna be woken frae sleep. Seems the time for bidin’ awa’ and waitin’ for the shadow tae pass ower is gone.”
After a pause, she said, “Because o’ that, I’ll dae what we seldom dae, and gie ye some names tae make this simpler. I’m Woodrush. This is Hawkbit”—she gestured toward the wee man with cobweb hair—“and that is Pearl-Wort.” She pointed to the catlike being. “And now,” Woodrush said, “ye can tell us why that fighter o’ yours, the one wi’ the pretty patterns on her skin, isna sittin’ doon like the rest o’ ye, but standin’ there wi’ her staff in her hand, ready tae sweep around and fell the lot o’ us.”

Tali was standing in the shadows behind Regan. The other female fighters had changed their clothing for the winter feast—even Andra was in a gown—but Tali still wore her trousers, tunic, and boots.

“I’m doing the same thing that fellow of yours is,” she said crisply, using the staff to indicate the tall Northie, the one who somewhat resembled a badger. He stood on the opposite side, in a position that exactly mirrored hers. She was guarding Regan; he was stationed behind Woodrush, Hawkbit, and Pearl-Wort. “Protecting what’s most precious.”

“Oh, aye?” Woodrush’s gaze was searching. “Wouldna that be your spears and knives?”

“I’m a warrior.” Tali’s voice was perfectly calm. “I value my weapons, don’t doubt that. Both the iron ones and the others. But swords and knives can be replaced. Some things are irreplaceable.”

“A man dies,” observed Hawkbit. “Another steps up tae tak’ his place. Isna that the way of it for your folk?”

“It’s not so simple,” said Tali. “For now, I will lay down
my staff if your guard does the same, and if you give me an undertaking that both Regan and Neryn will be safe from any harm for the duration of this council.”

“Tali—” Regan made to say something, perhaps to tell her no such promise was required. But the Northie guard was already setting his staff on the floor. He met Tali’s gaze across the double circle, and there was respect in his eyes. After a moment she too put down her weapon. Neither of them moved to sit in the circle. Trust, it seemed, went only so far.

The Northies were quiet for a little. Then a being pushed back its hood, revealing that it was another catlike creature, black as night, its eyes an icy blue.

“We ken ye hae big plans,” it said, looking at Regan. “And we ken ye seek tae involve our kind, force us tae help ye if we willna agree tae what ye propose.” A glance at me. “Set it out for us now; let us hear it.”

“Wait a bit.” The warm voice was Milla’s; she had come out of the kitchen corner with a tray of little cups, and behind her was Brasal with a jug. “Councils make thirsty work. You’ll take a wee drop of my honey mead? And we have some morsels here to nibble on while you talk.” Eva was there too, kneeling down to proffer an earthenware platter laden with cakes delicate enough for the tiniest fingers. “The food is safe,” Milla added. “You must be aware that I get a good many of my ingredients thanks to your generosity, and I’m happy to be able to return the favor in a small way. Please enjoy it.”

The Good Folk helped themselves; there were murmurs
of appreciation all around the circle. The basket Eva and I had fashioned was passed from hand to hand and admired. When both Northies and rebels had been served with food and drink, Regan stood up and the chamber fell into an anticipatory hush. What Woodrush had meant about the Master of Shadows and someone needing to be woken from sleep, I did not know. But it seemed the Good Folk had their own reasons for agreeing to talk to us at last.

“I won’t draw this out too long,” Regan said with quiet assurance. “Thank you again for agreeing to come out and show yourselves, and to sit with us in this hall and listen. I understand why your kind chooses to remain largely invisible to ours, and I salute you for taking this risk.”

“We wouldna hae done it, but for the Caller,” someone muttered from the Northie circle.

“Hush your mouth, Vetch,” said the wee man, Hawkbit. “Dinna interrupt the laddie, he’s just gettin’ goin’.”

“I am Regan, as perhaps you know, and I formed this band with a group of like-minded people some years ago. Our mission is to remove Keldec from the throne of Alban, to end his reign, and to ensure fair rule until such time as the heir is of age. In fifteen years as king, Keldec has transformed our peaceable realm into a place of fear and oppression, where nobody is truly free. The chieftains are cowed into obedience; they know that to speak out against the king’s might is to risk the destruction of everything they hold dear. There’s not a soul in all Alban untouched by this. Each autumn the human inhabitants cower under the scourge of the Cull, and in the seasons between nobody
can trust his neighbor.” He paused to draw breath. In the packed dining hall, there was not a sound. “The old rituals are all but forgotten; folk no longer trust in gods. Your kind have been driven into hiding by Keldec’s fear of the uncanny. He has little understanding of the Good Folk, but he distrusts your influence, hence his laws forbidding our kind and yours to meet and speak together. Above all, he fears human folk with canny skills—people like Neryn here, and certain others among our band.” His gaze rested briefly on Tali; on Sula; on one or two other rebels who had skills unusual enough to be considered canny. “But Neryn in particular, since she is a Caller.”

Woodrush asked, “Why is this king afraid o’ magic? In older times, human folk used hearth magic, such as went into the makin’ o’ that wee basket, and thought little of it. Did the king’s mother and father no’ teach him right ways as a bairn?”

“Folk talk of a foretelling,” Regan said. “An old woman spoke over his cradle, saying he was destined to die by a canny hand. Keldec grew up in fear of that. It is possible all the ills that have befallen Alban under his leadership have stemmed from that fear. The folk of his inner circle support and encourage him in his actions against the people of Alban. He and Queen Varda will do whatever they can to prevent the prophecy from being fulfilled, at least until their son is old enough to assume the throne.”

“Their son?” This question came in many fey voices.

“An infant,” Regan said. “And yes, I know a son does not take the throne on the death of his father; at least, not
here in Alban. It is a wise law that gives the right to contest the kingship to all the sons of women in the royal line. But Keldec does not care for that law; he sees no reason why it should be followed. And he will deal harshly with anyone who dares challenge him on the matter.”

“Who is the true heir?” asked the fey guard, whose eyes were bright with interest.

“He’s a child still,” said Regan. “There could be other claimants, but he is closest in blood: the grandson of the king’s maternal aunt.”

“The laddie would be needin’ verra careful keepin’,” the Northie guard commented.

There was a brief silence, then Regan said, “He is in a place of safety.”

It was a measure of his audience’s understanding that nobody asked where.

“With so much held secret and the price of speaking out so high,” said Pearl-Wort, “how can you know so much of the king’s thoughts, his hopes and fears?”

Another silence. “We have eyes at court,” Regan said. “Eyes close to the king.”

“If the heir is so young,” a wizened Northie in a sheepskin coat spoke up, “why do ye trouble tae seek our aid now? Put a wee laddie on the throne and Alban will be a’ brawlin’ chieftains, and worse than ever.”

“We cannot wait until the heir is grown,” Regan said. “The support of our most influential ally depends on our moving against Keldec quite soon. To hold back longer from action would spell the death of the rebellion. We need
this ally; and we need your help. To answer your question about the heir, I believe a joint regency made up of certain chieftains would be adequate until the boy is a man.”

“Oh, aye,” said Hawkbit. “Ye need our help, ye say. Doin’ what, exactly?”

“Until the final stand, we must continue to build support all across Alban. A movement such as ours is not like a conventional army. While we must prepare ourselves as a fighting force, our main role has from the first been to draw together like-minded folk and to win the support of those who love justice and peace. To persuade them that it’s worth taking the risk. An evil is eating at the heart of Alban. We cannot let it consume us. We must make an end to the Cull; we must make an end to the fear and distrust that have marred our once-great realm. We must reestablish the authority of the chieftains and the practices that allowed power to be shared among them. Keldec has a mighty army. We must make one mightier still.”

His voice rang through the chamber, setting goose bumps on my skin.

“Alban is wide,” said Pearl-Wort. “From the green glens of the south to the crags of the cold north; from the western isles to this king’s court in the east. Many chieftains; many clans. And that’s just the human folk. Our own kind are everywhere. Enough for an army, certainly. But widespread, and not of one mind. How could you draw them together?” The creature’s gaze took in Regan himself, then moved to Tali, to me, to the rebels seated in their circle. “A handful, that’s all you have.”

“Shadowfell started with a handful,” Regan said, smiling. “But there are more now. Those of us you see before you make up the heart of the operation; here at Shadowfell our planning is done and our decisions are made. But we have teams elsewhere in Alban, and other loyal folk who shelter us when we cross country, and who bear our messages at great risk to themselves. Of the eight chieftains still remaining in Alban, two have agreed to stand with us when we challenge the king; one of those two, in particular, can provide a substantial fighting force.”

“So ye’d still be fightin’ the king’s Enforcers,” said Hawkbit. “We dinna doubt your bravery. Your sanity, now that’s another thing.”

“You should not doubt Regan.” Tali spoke up for the first time. “This is a different kind of war. At the end there will be an armed confrontation, yes, and you are right—the king’s Enforcers are formidable in combat. But don’t discount our ability in battle; we accounted for an entire troop in the autumn, thanks in part to Neryn’s use of her gift.”

The wee man in the sheepskin coat spoke up. “ ’Twasna your ability won that battle; ’twas the aid o’ a stanie mon, one o’ our folk. Without that, the king’s men would hae made an end o’ ye all.”

“That’s unfair,” rapped out Tali. “Besides, how can you know that?”

“Ye hae eyes at court,” the wee man said. “We hae eyes everywhere. We dinna miss much. As for
unfair
, what’s unfair is this king who’s set all at sixes and sevens, so a body
canna sae much as draw breath wi’oot Callers rappin’ on the door and stirrin’ us all up.”

“Enough!” It was Woodrush who spoke, getting to her feet and turning a ferocious glare on the speaker. “ ’Twas the Caller drew us up tae talk wi’ human folk, aye, and that was against our natural inclination. But we’re here now, and I dinna plan tae waste the time bickerin’. The rest o’ ye, if all ye can do is complain, then drink your mead, eat your cake, and hold your tongues.” She motioned toward Regan. “This man’s a guid man. Ye ken he keeps the auld observances; ye’ve seen him performin’ the rituals in his ain way, season by season, faithful tae the traditions o’ Alban. Why else would we hae bothered tae keep his band o’ rebels supplied ower the lang winters in the Folds? Now he needs help, and he’s runnin’ short o’ time. We know change is comin’ and there’s nae stoppin’ it. ’Tis hard for me to say this, for ’tis no’ the way o’ our folk tae join wi’ humankind in their wars and disputes. But this is different. The fate o’ Alban’s at stake and the time for hidin’ awa’ is ower. If there must be change, let’s mak’ sure it’s change for the better.”