Raven Flight Page 32

  “Tell me what you saw,” I said to Whisper. “Please.”

  “Three fighters. Twa men, one woman, bearing a wounded warrior on a stretcher fashioned o’ bits and pieces. Ane verra tall fellow; ane wi’ the same raven markings as the lassie here. Frae that, I knew them as some o’ your band. The woman was big and strong-looking, wi’ red hair. I didna get a guid look at the fellow on the stretcher. Going quick, they were, even wi’ that burden.”

  “Big Don,” I said, with a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Fingal. Andra.” On a new mission, begun after midsummer. Fingal would have been traveling with Regan. “Where?”

  “Coming ower frae Wedderburn, that’s my guess.”

  “We have to go.” Tali’s voice was uneven. “Now.”

  The Lord nodded at Whisper, and said quietly, “Farewell, Neryn. Farewell, warrior. You have done good work here. Whisper will convey you to Shadowfell. May you find better news there than these tidings suggest. Know that when the time comes to put your plans into action, the North stands ready to support you.”

  “Thank you, my lord. For everything,” I managed. But Tali, caught in the nightmares of her imagination, did not say a word.

  WHISPER’S MAGIC GOT US TO SHADOWFELL BY morning. Standing in darkness, silent, while he worked his long charm, I felt my mind filling with unwelcome possibilities. That had been Regan on the stretcher, surely. Had they been attacked by the wayside? Fallen foul of the Enforcers? Regan’s Rebels were skilled in crossing country unseen, in avoiding danger, in staying out of trouble even when the risks were high.

  In the enforced silence of traveling Whisper’s way, I could not ask Tali the hundred questions that were in my mind. But I had seen the horror on her face when Whisper spoke the name. Wedderburn. Wedderburn, whose chieftain, Keenan, was the son of the man who had massacred Regan’s family. Had he gone there, ignoring her wise caution, and precipitated a disaster?

  He was alive, at least, and perhaps not too badly hurt. If his injuries were serious, they surely would have stopped somewhere, not attempted to carry him all the way home.

  But maybe I’d got it all wrong. In the back of my mind was Flint, and the risk he had taken to get Tali away from Summerfort. Perhaps the rebels had not gone to Wedderburn at all; perhaps Fingal had persuaded Regan against such rash action. This could have been a rescue mission. The injured man could have been Flint: Flint uncovered as a spy, Flint pursued by his own.

  Light came, and awareness of time and place, and we were on a different mountain, on the threshold of Shadowfell. It was day, and winter-cold. Blue shadows lay across the fells. All was quiet. Before my eyes had time to adjust to the sudden brightness, Tali strode ahead, not prepared to wait even an instant. Whisper and I followed more slowly.

  As we walked up to the door guards, it was plain that something had gone terribly wrong. Gort and Dervla were on duty, with wooden staves in hands, suggesting some of the Good Folk were close by. As she saw us approaching, Dervla rested her staff against the wall and walked forward with hands out, almost as if to fend us off. Gort went inside; I heard him calling for Fingal. So they were home already.

  Dervla had taken hold of Tali’s arm. As Whisper and I came up behind, she said, “There’s bad news. You’d best come inside and sit down.”

  Tali shook her off. “Tell me! Say it straight out!”

  “Tali,” I said, trying to stay calm though my heart was thudding, “we should do as Dervla says, go in, hear the whole story.”

  “Say it!” shouted Tali, and raised her hand as if to strike Dervla across the face. Dervla lifted her staff.

  “Tali.”

  Fingal was in the entranceway. Behind him was the taller Brasal, and beside him Bearberry, the badgerlike warrior of Shadowfell’s Good Folk. Their faces told of a loss greater than those I had dared to imagine.

  At the sight of her brother, Tali lowered her hand. “Tell me what’s happened,” she said in a tone like a barbed blade. “Now, straightaway.”

  “Regan’s dead,” Fingal said, and for a moment I closed my eyes, willing this to be a nightmare from which I would soon wake. “Killed. Cian and Andra were both wounded in the same action, Cian seriously. We got him home; he’ll live. But Regan is gone.” He delivered the news flatly, as if he were too tired and sad to care much about anything.

  “He can’t be dead,” Tali said. “You were carrying him on a stretcher, Whisper flew over and saw you, why would you carry him all the way home if he—”

  “He’s dead, Tali. It was Cian we carried back; his ankle is broken. We had to leave the others behind.”

  She stood frozen, staring at him as if he were speaking a language she did not understand. As tears pricked my eyes, I asked a question whose answer I did not want to hear. “Others?”

  “Little Don. Killen. Young Ban. They’re all gone. Tali, Neryn, come inside.” Fingal cast a glance at Whisper. “And your companion. The place is clear of iron.”

  “Where did this happen?” Tali’s tone was sharp and cold now. “Who killed them?”

  “It was simple enough. Regan was sent information from within Keenan’s household. Strategic information of some value, with a promise of more. It seemed reliable, though we had our doubts. Regan was confident that we could get in, speak to the informant, and get out again without arousing suspicion. He insisted on going himself, despite all our arguments. He wanted to do it as a two-man mission; we convinced him to take a bigger team. Three went into the household: Regan, Andra, and me. The rest waited in concealment beyond the walls of Keenan’s stronghold. Bearberry acted as messenger, using his special abilities to go unseen.”

  “And?” It was like an interrogation; had Tali forgotten that the rest of us were shocked and grieving too?

  “We went in openly, as folk seeking a few days’ work. It’s a big establishment; there was plenty for us to turn our hands to. We shoveled dung and hauled bags of oats, and Regan spoke to his informant, who happened to be working in the stables alongside us. Regan was confident of maintaining his cover. He never thought someone would recognize him as the island heir everyone believed had been killed alongside his father, years ago.”

  “You let him die,” Tali said, staring straight at her brother. “You were his guard, and you let him be killed. You failed him.”

  Fingal was chalk-pale, the raven tattoos standing out sharply against his skin. “He found out he’d been recognized, not by Keenan but by one of his councillors, an older man. He sent me off to find Andra; our escape plan had us crawling out through a drain that ran under the wall, down from the stables. We waited for him under cover, as planned, and he didn’t come. While we were down there, thinking he was just waiting for his moment to get away, they’d apprehended him and dragged him off to account for himself to Keenan. He …” Fingal’s gaze faltered; he looked down briefly, then with a visible effort of will, met his sister’s eyes again. “He was decapitated, Tali. Our comrades out in the woods saw his head displayed above the gates of Keenan’s fortress. Bearberry came to get us out. There was no choice but to leave Regan behind.”

  Tali might have been made of stone.

  “The others,” I managed. “What happened?”

  “Keenan’s sentries spotted us slipping across his border and gave chase. There was a skirmish. We accounted for Keenan’s men, but we lost three more of our own. Andra’s shoulder wound was superficial, but Cian couldn’t walk. Bearberry sought out the Westies; they made us a stretcher, brought food and water, helped us to get away safely. And they gave us a solemn promise that they would bury the bodies of our slain, to keep them safe from wolves and from human predators. For Regan, there could be no such promise.” Fingal drew a ragged breath. “Once we were well clear of Wedderburn, Bearberry enlisted the aid of some strong, fleet-footed beings of his acquaintance, and we were conveyed home with speed. Andra’s recovering well. Cian’s ankle will mend, thanks in part to the Folk Below, who sent their healer up to assist me. That is the story. We lost fou
r fine men, among them our leader. Regan made an error of judgment, and now he’s gone. Yes, I failed him.”

  At this point Brasal stepped past both Fingal and Tali, put his arm around my shoulders, and ushered me in through the doorway. I was aware of Bearberry moving out to speak long-overdue words of welcome to Whisper and to draw him inside.

  “Tali—” I said, glancing over my shoulder. She looked as if she might never find the will to move again.

  “Come,” Brasal said in my ear. “You, at least, I can look after. We’re working on small things; that’s the best we can do right now.”

  They had hoped that with our return, Shadowfell might begin to come back to itself. They had expected that Tali would take charge, make sure everything continued as usual, rally the shattered household, and make plans for the future. She was so strong, so certain, that she could be relied on even in a catastrophe like this.

  Instead, she went to ground like a wounded animal. There was, first, a hideous shouting argument between her and her brother, in the infirmary, which could be heard throughout the network of caverns and passages that made up the rebel headquarters. I sat in the dining chamber with the much-reduced household—apart from the recent losses, many were still out across Alban on their autumn missions—holding a cup of ale between my palms and willing the nightmare to be over. Around me sat Milla, Eva, Brasal, and Big Don, all of us silent as Tali’s excoriating words to her brother rang in our ears, bitter, accusatory, furious, cruel. That they were not in any way justified only made it worse. It had been plain from Fingal’s story that Regan had instigated the mission to Wedderburn, and that Regan’s own lapse in judgment had taken the team into deadly peril. But she kept on shouting: You should have been there, you should have saved him. And worse: If I had been there, he would have lived. Fingal was not saying much, but when he did speak, his voice was harsh with grief.

  “This isn’t Tali,” I murmured. “Has losing him sent her completely mad?”

  “Give her time,” said Milla, who, like all of them, was looking wan and exhausted. “She hasn’t accepted that he’s gone yet. She needs to weep, and rest, and think about it on her own. By morning she’ll be back to herself and giving orders, see if she isn’t.”

  Milla was wrong. Tali took her weapons, a waterskin, and a blanket, and climbed to the ledge at the top of the Ladder. We left her undisturbed awhile, thinking that if she planned to throw herself down, she would not have taken anything at all. When the day was beginning to darken toward dusk, we discussed who should go up to talk to her, and I was chosen.

  As I climbed, the memory of midwinter morning and Regan’s stirring prayer was strong in me. His shining blue eyes; his face, bright with dedication, courage, and hope. Farewell to the dark. Hail to the light. Lead us into a new day.

  Tali was huddled at the very back of the ledge, her arms around her knees, her head down. The blanket was wrapped around her. I suspected she had not moved in a long time.

  “Go away!” she snarled as I approached.

  I sat down on the rocks a few paces from her. “It’ll be dark soon,” I said. “Could be sensible to come down before then.”

  “Go away, Neryn!”

  I waited awhile before speaking again. “Regan wouldn’t want this,” I said quietly. “He would expect us to grieve, of course. But he wouldn’t want anger. He wouldn’t want us to turn on each other.”

  She lifted her head, revealing in the fading light a ghostlike caricature of her true face. “What would you know?” she snapped. “If it hadn’t been for you, I’d have been with him, and he wouldn’t be dead! Get back down those steps before I throw you down!”

  I retreated. I knew how strong she was, and I thought I saw madness in those haunted eyes.

  She was not down by morning. We kept a vigil at the foot of the Ladder, taking shifts, so there would be a friend close at hand to help her when she moved. The longer this went on, the weaker she would be when she finally gave it up, and the Ladder was dangerous. Ordinary work, already neglected since the news of Regan’s death came in, was now almost abandoned, though Milla and Eva kept us fed, and a pale, silent Fingal continued tending to the injured Cian. Bearberry and Whisper had gone down the spiral stair into the domain of the Folk Below. We sat around the table and spoke in low voices about the future, and I heard one or two of the rebels saying maybe it was all over; that they might head south before winter, in search of work or the scattered remnants of family. When Milla turned on them for so quickly losing hope, one man pointed out that without a leader, the rebellion could not go ahead; without a vision for the future, folk soon lost the will to fight. How could we maintain the push toward midsummer, how could we retain the support of the loyal chieftains without Regan? There was nobody like him.

  We did talk about it. We thought of folk who might lead: Milla, who had been with Regan almost from the first; Big Don; Fingal. But Milla, for all her strength of character, was no warrior; Big Don had the presence to lead, but lacked a gift for strategy; Fingal could not do the job with the weight of his sister’s scorn on his shoulders. Others we considered, trying to see a way out of the darkness, but we knew in our hearts that there was only one choice.

  When a third day dawned and Tali still had not come down, I climbed the Ladder again. This time, before I went up, I talked to the others and had them make some preparations; if I did not hold on to hope, then I could hardly tell Tali to do the same.

  I took another waterskin with me; hers would surely be empty by now. I took a bannock wrapped in a cloth. In my pouch I took something else.

  Tali appeared to be asleep. She lay against the rock wall, long lashes soft on her pallid cheeks, blanket over her. Her face was gaunt and gray; she looked ten years older. As I came out onto the ledge, her eyes sprang open. “Are you deaf?” No angry snarl this time, but a harsh whisper. “I told you to leave me alone.”

  “If you wanted to die,” I said, my heart thumping, “you’d be dead by now. If you plan to live, it might be a good idea to eat and drink. I’ve brought you something. And I’m not going away, so there’s no point in snarling at me.” I set the food and drink beside her, then settled cross-legged not far away. “You could do with a wash,” I added.

  “I don’t want this, Neryn.” Her voice was a thread.

  “Yes, you do. Sit up. Here, let me help you. I’m the leader today, and the leader says eat. Slowly, or you’ll make yourself sick.”

  She sat; I could see she was dizzy from hunger. When I put the waterskin in her hands, she almost dropped it. She drank.

  “Good. Pass it to me. Now, one mouthful of bannock.”

  “You don’t have to feed me,” she muttered, taking the morsel I had broken off and putting it in her mouth.

  I waited until she had eaten half the bannock and taken more water. “Good,” I said. “Without this you won’t be able to get down the Ladder, and I imagine you don’t want the entire household watching as Big Don carries you down over his shoulder.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “I’m not coming down,” she said. “I can’t. I can’t do it without him. I can’t do any of it.”

  “You know what everyone wants,” I said. “There’s nobody else who can lead us. Not the way Regan did.”

  She closed her eyes as if my words hurt her. “They’ll manage. Someone will step up. Big Don. Andra. Someone. You could do it.”

  “You’re not thinking straight. I’m part of it, certainly, an important part. But my role is quite different. Tali, we’ve talked about this, the rest of us. Nobody else can lead us. Only you. We need you.” I did not add what was in my mind: that Regan would not have wanted her to give up, that what he would have expected was that she step in and take his place. He’d have wanted her to see his vision through to the end. Surely there was no need to tell her that, for she had known him better than anyone.

  “I have something for you,” I said. “I forgot that I’d put this away for safety, or I’d have given it back to you long ago.�
�� From my pouch I took the little wooden raven that I’d retrieved from her belongings after she was taken by the Enforcers. She reached out her hand and I laid the token on her palm. “Remember those ghost-warriors at Hiddenwater? Weapons sharp; backs straight; hearts high. They believed in you. Ultan’s heir, they called you. You come from an ancient family; to those warriors, and to everyone here at Shadowfell, you are a true embodiment of fighting spirit. You think the cause is lost with Regan’s passing. But if you find the strength to stand up again, if you can survive this and march on, the cause stays alive. We have less than a year to achieve this, Tali. You’re the only person who can make it happen.”

  Her fingers closed around the little raven. “Neryn,” she said, her voice shaking like that of a hurt child, “I never told him. I was so strong, so determined to keep to the rule we’d agreed on, I never told him how I felt. Never breathed a word. Not once.” Her lower lip trembled; tears spilled from her eyes. “Oh gods,” she said, scrubbing a hand across her cheeks, “what am I, some foolish girl of twelve summers?” She put her head down on her knees.

  “You loved him,” I said. I had not suspected this, not for a moment. They’d been close; many times I had seen the red head and the dark bent over a map or document, or heard their voices in intense, private discussion. I had known they were old and true friends. But this … This explained much.

  “He died not knowing,” she whispered through the flood of tears. “Alone. Without anyone. And then they butchered him. When he most needed me, I wasn’t there.…”

  I put an arm around her and let her weep. When she had no more tears left to shed, I took out my kerchief and wiped her face. I offered her the waterskin again. “Come down, at least, and have a proper rest,” I said.

  “Neryn.”

  “Mm?”

  “You’re not to speak of this. Not to anyone. You understand?”