The Caller (25 page)

They broke the journey on the shore of Brightwater; Enforcers from Stag and Wolf troops took shifts guarding the captives. As ordered, they kept their distance. Iron weaponry remained sheathed. Flint knew his men well; should there be some kind of attack, they could be ready in an instant. The horses were led down to the loch to drink, then provided with oats. Food was distributed among both human folk and Good Folk: plain bread, cheese, dried fish.

Esten and Brydian had seated themselves on the bank, a little apart from the captives. The councillor was coaxing his Caller to eat. Brydian’s face was set, his lips tight. He didn’t need to say a word to show how he felt about Esten leaving Winterfort and the powerful influence of the queen. But when an idea caught the king’s imagination, as had happened with his trusted Owen’s solution to the courtyard full of unruly Good Folk, Keldec became deaf to the objections of all around him. Flint had often found this difficult.

If only this Caller had tried to do as Neryn had. If only Esten had treated the Good Folk as equals, beings with their own hopes and fears and desires, their own families and clans and territories, to be respected, if never fully understood. If only Esten or Brydian or one of the troop leaders who’d ridden out on the expedition had bothered sitting down to talk to them. Instead, the Good Folk had been seen as a commodity to be taken and used as their captors saw fit, and discarded if they proved inadequate to the task.

And now, Flint thought as he watched the great crowd of them on the shore, circled by guards and picking without enthusiasm at their rations, it was probably too late. The Caller had used his rare and wonderful gift to hurt and intimidate them. That he had done so under Brydian’s orders made this no less heinous. Which of them would listen if Flint tried to talk to them now? And what was there to say? He wore the king’s colours. Step out of line, and Brydian’s despatch would be off to Winterfort with the next messenger.

They’d need to be on the way again soon. Some of these folk walked slowly; some had short legs. Many of the winged beings had perished in the courtyard at Winterfort before they could be moved on; this was a far smaller company than the throng that had marched in through the great gates. None now attempted to fly. Perhaps Esten pulled them to the earth. It was not clear in what way the Caller commanded them as they travelled. In the courtyard they had raged and fought until he’d performed his quelling magic. Now they seemed so weighed down there was little fight left in them. Perhaps they were in such dread of that particular call that they would comply with orders rather than endure it again. Not much of an army. But then, perhaps all Esten had to do was command them to fight and they would, using the magic Keldec believed he could harness to make himself great.

Flint glanced up toward the wooded hills that rose above Brightwater. Sage’s clan of Good Folk lived further west, but others of their kind might be watching. He hoped they would not be drawn by Esten’s presence. There was a strong desire in him to break all the rules; to order his men to lay down their weapons and set the captives free. Would they obey? Not quickly enough to stop Esten from freezing the Good Folk in place, then making them march on.

‘Chief.’

He’d been deep in thought; too deep. Tallis Pathfinder was standing right beside him and he’d hardly noticed. ‘We should move on, yes?’

‘They’re ready.’ A hesitation. ‘Owen?’

‘Mm?’

‘Heard them talking. The three big fellows.’ Tallis gave a slight jerk of the head, indicating the formidable trio of fey warriors who had, all along, appeared the most likely to be useful in any future army.

‘And?’

Tallis lowered his voice. ‘They were talking strategy. Exchanging theories about what you’d do, what Brydian would do, what lay ahead. Just the way we would if things were the other way around.’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘You don’t sound surprised.’

‘Later. Get the horses moved back up and we’ll be on our way.’ It was Tallis who had come with Rohan to stop him when he’d made his attempt to escape the king’s service. Tallis must have some inkling that his troop leader was not the loyal subject of Keldec an Enforcer was supposed to be.

Stand by me and you walk into deadly peril
, he thought, watching as Tallis strode off.
Oppose me and I might have to kill you. What sort of leader does that make me?

Someone was watching him. Not Brydian, who had gone into the woods with Esten, presumably so they could relieve themselves. He felt the gaze as a prickling on his skin, a warning. The Stag Troop men, under Tallis’s instructions, were fetching horses, stowing gear, preparing to depart. Gill’s men maintained the guard over the captives. The Good Folk were rising to their feet. Flint narrowed his eyes, scanning the crowd.

There. One of the smaller ones, a creature like a bedraggled owl; it had perhaps been white before the turmoil of recent times had turned its plumage a tattered grey. One taloned bird-foot; one foot clad in a little felt boot. Great eyes fixed on him in unwavering scrutiny. It was as if the being could see straight into his mind. Its face was owl-like, but with subtle differences that made it disconcerting. How had such a fragile creature survived the long journey from the south and the time of blood and fear within the walls of Winterfort?

He made a slight movement with his head, indicating the forest in which, surely, an owl could lose itself quickly. He checked that nobody was observing him, then mouthed the word
Go
.

The creature blinked, then turned its gaze away. Even if it had been able to speak to him – and after meeting Sage he had learned to expect surprises from the Good Folk – it was not close enough to make itself heard. Esten and Brydian walked out from under the trees, and the moment was over. Had the being been trying to tell him something, or was his imagination making him see what he so badly wanted to see, some sign that the captives might be prepared to speak with him?

They moved on. With the Good Folk on foot, they’d be needing to camp overnight at least once on the journey. Maybe, while Esten and Brydian slept, he might try to speak with the Good Folk out of earshot of whoever was on sentry duty. He might tell them, at least, that there would be no culling on his watch. If there were any folk here who lacked adequate resistance to cold iron, he would set them free.

Perhaps
, he thought as he watched the owl-like being limping along with the others, one foot shod, one foot bare,
perhaps some kind of bargain could be made
. He imagined the little creature flying free, purest white, gliding across a night sky spangled with stars. There was such beauty in Alban; such wonder. Under Keldec’s rule, people had lost sight of that.

His hand moved to touch the talisman that hung against his breast, under his shirt: the dream vial worn only by those who had learned the ancient craft of mind-mending. When he lost faith in himself, this token pulled him back. When he came close to despair, it whispered of hope. He had been cruel, violent, destructive; his conscience would be burdened until the day he died.
But the talisman spoke of good things. Neryn’s love and courage; the wisdom of Ossan, his old mentor; Regan’s bright flame of hope, shining in this ruined realm.
Until the vial is shattered forever, until the last drop of kindness drains from Alban, I must hold on to that.

Two days after we left Callan Stanes we rode across a bridge and into Brightwater village, a substantial settlement among wooded hills. The river we had crossed flowed eastward to the sea; follow it the other way, and a traveller would come to the chain of lochs that ran across Alban like a bright girdle. The village looked prosperous, with many stone buildings alongside those of mud and wattles. On a hill a short distance to the west loomed a high fortress wall of weathered stone. Atop this massive barrier were watchtowers, and I glimpsed the roof of a keep. Winterfort: King Keldec’s main residence. We were almost there.

‘Best if we find somewhere in the settlement to spend the night, and I’ll make a few casual enquiries,’ said Brenn over his shoulder as we came into the settlement. ‘I dare say you could do with a good sleep.’

‘Mm.’ I had made sure I did not complain about my aches and pains, but my discomfort must have been obvious when we camped on the way here. Sometime in the future, I promised myself, I would learn to ride properly, so I need never again be jostled around on the back of someone else’s horse like a piece of baggage. The future . . . It was hard to imagine what Alban might be like if the rebellion succeeded. Regan had spoken of a place at peace; a realm without constant fear. I thought every rebel must have dreamed of that. But even if we did win, even if Keldec was deposed, Alban would not change overnight. When I tried to think about that future world it retreated into a haze, as insubstantial as a dream. What I felt most right now, apart from my bruises, was the chill of complete terror. So close. The king, the queen, the Enforcers, the Enthrallers, everything I feared most was no more than two miles away, and we were heading straight into the middle of it.

‘Not far now,’ said Brenn. ‘You all right?’

‘Fine.’ What a lie that was. But I had to be fine, I had to be brave and confident and stick to the story, no matter what happened. He was Morven. I was Ellida. Married three months. Previously both in the household of Gormal of Glenfalloch, he as a man-at-arms, I as an assistant healer and herbalist. Each of us from a different, obscure part of the far south; each of us without living kinsfolk, though Morven had had an older brother who had fallen in Gormal’s service. Now Gormal had given us his blessing to come here, so Morven could seek admission to the ranks of the king’s Enforcers. Neither of us with any sort of canny gift; neither of us with any knowledge of such things. The offering we brought, our key to acceptance, was Morven’s outstanding fighting skill.

We reached an inn and clattered into the yard. Brenn lifted me down, spoke to a couple of grooms, ushered me inside. I was so stiff and sore I could barely walk; Brenn was as solicitous and tender as if I really were his new wife. His manner with the inn workers was easy and confident. This, along with his imposing physical presence – he was a tall, well-made man, his dark hair and beard helping draw the eye – meant folk provided for our needs swiftly and without question.

There was space for us in the communal sleeping quarters; the innkeeper apologised for the lack of privacy. A few coppers changed hands. A meal was provided, with good ale. Brenn was reassured as to the welfare of his horse, Bolter. We sat on our own in the dining chamber, not wanting to be drawn into conversation unless we must. I made myself sit close to my husband and smile at him with what I hoped was convincing fondness, but all the while I was becoming aware of something odd, something I had not expected in this place full of humankind. A prickle of magic; a familiar sensation that told me Good Folk were somewhere near.

I was hungry after the long ride and enjoyed my hot supper. It was only after I had finished eating that I noticed a little dog running about the dining chamber, getting under people’s feet as she hunted for scraps of bread or cheese or sausage on the floor. This creature was of striking appearance. All down one side, from nose to tail her hair was night black; all down the other, pure white. The colour might have been painted, so neat and exact was the division. Could there be more than one such animal? I did not think so. Last time I had seen this dog, she had been with the Master of Shadows.

I must stay calm; not make it too obvious I was looking
.
There were several old men in the chamber. Some were silently nursing their ale cups. Two were talking to the innkeeper. One sat alone in a corner. Was it the Master? If so, should I approach him? My heart thumped; my palms were clammy. There had been a question nagging at me since I had seen the captive Good Folk driven north under duress. I knew they were not the White Lady’s folk; most likely they came from the Watch of the South, of which the Master was Guardian. He must know what had happened, surely. Had he done nothing to protect his own people?

‘Here, girl.’ I clicked my fingers as the dog came near, wishing I had left some of my mutton pie. ‘Here, little one.’

The dog let me scratch behind her ears, but once she realised I had no food, she was off into the crowd. Brenn had gone out to use the privy. I looked across the room again, and the old man sitting by himself raised his head to look at me. Or not to look, exactly, since he had the milky eyes of a blind man. But he saw me. I was in no doubt of that. It was him: the Master of Shadows right here in Brightwater village.

What now? Even if I hadn’t been playing the part of a shy young newlywed, I could hardly walk over and confront him in public. But what if this was the only chance I ever got?

The old man’s mouth stretched in a slow, mocking smile. He had not taken his eyes off me. And now Brenn was back, seating himself beside me again.

‘One of the fellows said I should ask for Rohan Death-Blade when we get up there,’ he said. ‘But he said the troops are being shifted around, so they may not be taking on anyone new for a while. Hope that’s wrong.’