Den of Wolves Page 4

  ‘Anything special?’ He set the pot on the flagstones by the hearth, found a ladle and began filling two bowls. A platter of bread and cheese was already on the table. Ripple settled in her favourite spot close to the fire.

  ‘The usual. Flannan. Mathuin. What might happen. If I could find Conmael I’d ask him about it. About the seven years, and whether he might be prepared to compromise. And other things. But I haven’t seen him since we came home from Bann. Going out into the wood and wishing he’d appear doesn’t do the trick anymore. Either he doesn’t want to talk to me, or he’s gone away somewhere.’

  ‘What other things?’ Grim put a bowl of soup in front of me. ‘Careful, it’s hot.’

  ‘Smells wonderful. I’d ask him about the past. I’d tell him my theory about how he and I might have met as children, unlikely as it is. Because if I’ve guessed correctly, that could make him readier to help me. I’d tell him I think five more years is too long to wait for justice. Conmael may be right about my needing all that time to learn self-restraint, much as it galls me to admit it. But I’m not the one who matters. Every day that passes, Mathuin destroys more folk’s lives. How can it be right to let that go on for five more years instead of stopping it now?’

  Grim dipped his bread in his soup, saying nothing.

  ‘And what about Flannan’s wife and children, supposing that story was true? What happens to them when he never comes home? What happens to them if Mathuin finds out I’m still alive? Flannan said they would pay the price if he failed in his mission.’

  ‘Sad if what he told you was true,’ Grim said. ‘No woman deserves to have that happen. But it could be there never was any wife or children.’ He chewed on a crust, small eyes thoughtful. ‘Say you could track his wife down, anyway. What would you say to her? Sorry, your man was a liar and a killer and we had to make an end of him. Now let us rescue you. She’d spit in your face.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting we do anything. Only . . .’ I could not say it. If Flannan had been telling the truth about having a family, and about Mathuin having made their safety the price of his delivering me back to Laois, then that woman and her children might be facing the same fate my little family had faced. They might die in terror as my husband and son had. They might be added to the long list of Mathuin’s victims.

  ‘Hard to stand back.’ Grim wiped out his bowl with a piece of bread. ‘Not to do anything. Harder than running forward with a big stick in your hand, screaming your head off. But this is something you can’t run at. If you do, you get rubbed out. Gone as quick as a snap of the fingers. And Mathuin keeps on doing what he does.’ When I did not reply, he added, ‘Hard to choose. Wait, and let the bad things go on. Act, and maybe waste your chance anyway, because the timing’s wrong. The best plan in the world can fall apart. Like Flannan with his pigeons. A hawk happens to spot the chance of a meal, and just like that a message falls into the wrong hands. Mine, as it turned out. If it hadn’t been for that, he would have got what he wanted, and so would Mathuin. And we’d be . . . somewhere we didn’t want to be.’

  A shiver ran through me, deep down. We’d had some very strange adventures, Grim and I. We’d driven each other half-crazy at times. We’d saved each other’s lives more than once. We’d solved some knotty puzzles; we’d dealt with the uncanny and with human evil-doers. We’d become used to each other. Only . . . just as there was unfinished business between me and Conmael, so there was unfinished business between Grim and me, something neither of us would put into words, something that had lain between us since Midsummer Eve, when I’d been cursed into a monstrous form, and Grim had – so it seemed – broken the curse by holding me in his arms and letting his tears fall on my face. At the time it hadn’t mattered a bit to me how I’d become myself again, only that the hideous experience was over. But the wee folk that lived in the woods around Bann had been hinting for a while that true love’s tears would be vital to the success of my mission there. I’d thought they meant the herb that went by that name; had even gathered some and taken it with me. Later on, the wee folk had made it clear they had meant a different kind of tears.

  I wasn’t sure I believed in true love, the kind of grand sweeping passion told of in the ancient tales. Oran and Flidais came close. Then there’d been Lady Geiléis of Bann and her bespelled sweetheart. But they were extraordinary. Grim and I were . . . we were ourselves. Friends. Good friends. Companions who slept in the same bedchamber, but not in the same bed. He looked after me, kept me safe, saved me from my own rash impulses, stood by and let me rant and throw things when I needed to. I gave him a home. A purpose. That was the way he saw it. I stayed with him at night so that when the burdens of the past became overwhelming he would not find himself alone in the dark. I valued his hard work, his gentle nature, his strength, his quiet wisdom. But that wasn’t true love. I’d loved my husband. We’d been tender toward each other, back in the time before Mathuin, when I’d still been capable of softness. What I felt for Grim was . . . different. Different from anything else.

  ‘Brew?’

  I started. While I’d been wrapped in my thoughts, Grim had cleared away the bowls and put the kettle on the fire, all without saying a word.

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Conmael will turn up when he’s ready,’ Grim said. ‘No point worrying about it.’

  I wrenched my mind back to our conversation. ‘Something might have happened to him.’

  Grim gave me a sideways look. ‘You planning to go hunting for him in the Otherworld? Might be a bit much, even for you.’

  ‘Of course not. I wouldn’t know where to start. Only, if he’s gone somewhere and isn’t coming back, then . . .’

  ‘Might be a sort of test. Maybe he’s waiting to see if you rush off south again, soon as you think he’s not looking.’

  ‘A pox on it!’ I thumped my fist on the table, making spoons rattle. ‘I’m sick of waiting! What am I doing here?’

  Grim went on making the brew. The movement of his big hands was measured, careful. After some time, he said, ‘You want me to answer that?’

  ‘No. I know already what you’ll say. Doing good. Helping folk. Just like Conmael told me to. That’s one side of the scales, I know. But it can never balance five more years of Mathuin doing what he does.’

  There was a pause. ‘Could be,’ Grim said in a voice that suggested he was treading very carefully, ‘it’s not your job to fix that. Could be it never was.’

  I made myself wait before speaking. Drew a breath or two. ‘If everyone took that attitude,’ I said, ‘scum like him would rule the world. If we don’t stand up for what’s right, we’re no better than he is.’

  ‘You might feel that way,’ Grim said. ‘But you’re one woman. One woman can’t fix every wrong. One woman or one man can’t help every soul in trouble. Doesn’t matter how much you want to.’

  ‘I don’t want to fix every wrong. Only this one.’ I knew even as I spoke that this was no longer true. It had not been for some time. There had been other wrongs, smaller ones maybe, but to the folk involved, as big as life and death. Between us, Grim and I had fixed some of them, or gone a certain way toward doing so. An abused girl; a prince trapped in someone else’s lie; a woman with a sick child, on her own and struggling. If I said those were not important, I would be denying the value of a human life. If I said I’d helped them only because my vow to Conmael demanded it, I’d be lying. Which put a new idea into my head. ‘Maybe Conmael would think I’ve changed enough by now. Seen the error of my ways. Maybe, if I could find him, it wouldn’t be so hard to convince him.’

  ‘So you tell him you’ve changed. He says yes, forget the seven years. And you rush off south again and get yourself killed.’

  ‘Even you don’t believe in me.’ In my mind, for some reason, was the look on Flidais’s face as she played with baby Aolú. Had I ever been like that, full of hope, lit up by joy? Had my eyes held that same delight as
I played with my own son? ‘A pox on all of it,’ I muttered, fishing for a handkerchief. What was wrong with me? Where had the brave Blackthorn gone, the one who knew her own mind?

  Grim moved to sit beside me on the bench. Put an arm around me. ‘Not true, and you know it,’ he said. ‘Believed in you from the first, when they brought you into that place of Mathuin’s. All us poor godforsaken sods did. That hasn’t changed.’ When I said nothing, he went on, ‘Have a cry, if you want. You’ve seen me bawling like a baby. No shame in that.’

  I wasn’t thinking about shame. I was thinking how remarkable it was that something as simple as human touch could lift a person’s spirits so quickly. My tears were still falling, but with his arm around my shoulders I felt . . . safe. Safe from my own anger. Safe from my own sorrow. Able to imagine a future like the one Mathuin had ripped away from me. For a moment I closed my eyes and let myself drift. Then I got up, shrugging off Grim’s arm, and moved over to the fire, where I pretended to warm my hands. ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Nothing wrong with me.’ A pity my voice made such a lie of the words. I changed the subject; hauled myself out of deep water. ‘Flidais is sending a girl here, maybe tomorrow. A young woman who’s staying in the prince’s house. Wants me to talk sense into her, I think. Will you be here?’

  ‘Got a job on,’ Grim said. ‘Big job, up at Wolf Glen. Wanted to talk to you about that.’

  ‘Mm-hm?’ Wolf Glen. That was where Flidais’s girl came from. ‘Talk away, then.’

  ‘Been asked to help with the building up there. Some kind of house or hall, special job. Might take a while; could be right through summer, the fellow said. Good pay. We could put quite a bit by.’

  I thought of all the reasons Grim would not want to go and stay at Wolf Glen over a whole spring and summer.

  ‘Ride up in the morning, ride back before dark,’ he said, as if he could read my mind. ‘Sleep here, work up there. Told the fellow that was the only way I’d do it. Told him any day the weather’s not right I won’t go.’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘He said fine by him. Said he’d lend me a horse.’

  ‘That’s generous.’ It was generous enough to make me suspicious. Was someone trying to separate us? My mind filled up again with Mathuin, with plots and traps and perilous lies.

  ‘Fellow said he wanted someone who doesn’t need telling what to do all the time. And he wanted someone big and strong. Lot of heavy lifting. Fancy thatching to do later on. Said he’d asked around the district and everyone told him I was the man for the job.’

  ‘It sounds like he needs a whole team of men.’

  ‘Didn’t talk about it much. I told him I’d go up there in the morning and have a look. Said I couldn’t give him a yes or no till I’d seen it. Be gone most of the day.’

  ‘Oh. All right.’

  ‘Sure?’ He was looking at me rather more closely than I found comfortable.

  ‘I’ve got Emer coming over, and maybe this girl of Flidais’s. It seems an odd coincidence. Flidais’s girl is from Wolf Glen. The daughter of the house. She sounds difficult. But she may just be homesick.’

  ‘Give her a job to do,’ Grim said. ‘Work for her hands. Helps, most times.’

  ‘A long day for you,’ I said, thinking that if he decided to take on this building work, he had a lot of long days ahead. Perhaps more time apart would be good for the two of us. ‘I’d been thinking of a writing lesson.’

  ‘I can catch up after supper.’

  ‘If you say so.’ He’d likely be so tired he’d fall asleep the moment supper was over. Building a house would be hard work. A hall, even harder. On top of that, there’d be an hour’s ride each way. ‘We’ll see how it goes, mm?’

  4

  ~Bardán~

  They’ve given him a shelter. Not in the house. Not in the barn or the outbuildings. But not too far away. That man would leash him if he could, that man he cannot look in the eye, the one whose words sting like a scourge. That man would treat him like a vicious dog. The master. That’s what he calls himself. Master Tóla. The name sticks in his craw.

  Gormán has found him the old hut among the pines, a place where the foresters store bits and pieces. Cleared it out, got him some blankets, a few pots and pans, shown him where the stream is and where he can safely make a fire. As if Bardán knew nothing at all. The past is misty, true. This place, this world feels not quite real, something he’s wandered into by mistake, somewhere he doesn’t belong. He’s been here before, he knows that . . . but the rest . . . Where’s it all gone? He remembers the master, and Gormán, and the heartwood house. There was a howling grief; he wanted to plunge a knife into his own belly and cut it out. There was a night of running, running, the trees flashing past like tall ghosts, the monsters closing in, his throat raw with shouting. Running to the end of the world.

  The heartwood house is a wreck, too far gone to save. The master has let it go, let it sink back into the earth. A sad ruin. Like himself. But the master wants it built again. Wants him to finish the job he started long ago.

  They told him that the day he first came back; the day he saw the girl in the tree. It made him laugh, though the laugh came out as an animal sound, a grunting bray that made them flinch. He showed them his hands, the clawed fingers, the joints stiff and knobby as old juniper.

  ‘We’ll get you a helper,’ the master said. ‘Someone to do the work. As long as you remember how it’s to be made. As long as you can show him how. Can you remember?’

  He wanted to say no. He wanted to say he would not do it, would do no work at all. But something in Gormán’s eyes, a tiny shake of Gormán’s head, warned him. ‘Maybe.’ He forced the word out, fought to shape it. He’d been silent a long time. His voice was rusty, like an axe left out in the damp. ‘If not . . . what?’

  The master’s eyes turned to ice. His mouth was a thin line. ‘Be very careful,’ he said. ‘It’s one thing if you cannot remember how it’s done. But if you do remember, and you lie to me about it, the penalty will be severe indeed. Make no doubt of that. You owe me. You failed to complete the job before. That failure brought down a great misfortune upon me and mine. I had not thought you would come back after so long. But here you are, and now you must keep your promise. You will finish the heartwood house. I want it done thoroughly and quickly, everything correct, nothing left out. Now answer the question. Do you remember how?’

  If he lied, they would kill him. They would take him out into the forest somewhere and make him vanish. He’d be under the earth, fodder for worms. ‘I can do it,’ he said. ‘Not quick. Can’t build with fresh-cut timber.’

  ‘We saved the materials.’ That was Gormán speaking up. ‘They’ve been stored in the barn, under cover. Looked after over the years. The bulk of what you’ll need is there. Anything else, Conn and I can find for you. You just need to tell us what’s still required.’

  ‘So you’ll do it?’ The master, sharp as sharp.

  Stupid question. He was hardly going to say no. He nodded. Didn’t tell them about the roof, how tricky that would be, near-impossible to find what had to go in it. Quick? Hah! Not likely.

  ‘There’ll be rules,’ said the master. ‘Break them and you’ll pay dearly. Keep your distance from the big house. Don’t speak to any of my folk save Gormán and Conn. Not one word, you understand? When we find a fellow to help with the building, you’ll need to talk to him. But only what’s needed to get the job done, no idle gossip. Don’t think of going off anywhere. Gormán’s to know where you are at all times. Stick to that or you’ll be locked up when you’re not on the job. I’m half minded to do that anyway, but I’ll wait. See how this goes. Understood?’

  He made a sound, something close to yes. Nodded again, in case it wasn’t clear enough. Then they found him this hut and a few bits and pieces, and he tried to settle in. Waited for them to find a helper. So far it hadn’t happene
d, and that was no surprise. Who’d want to come and work on this? Who’d want to work for a man like the master?

  Now, lying on his straw pallet in the meagre shelter, he remembers Tóla with dark hair, not grey. A smoother face, fewer lines. A straighter back, squarer shoulders. Gormán, too, is older now, but with him it’s more of a weathering. Like an oak that broadens and deepens and grows stronger with the storms of winter on winter. Master Tóla has his storm inside. An angry storm, churning away in his vitals, hollowing him out. Was he like that back in the old days? Back when Bardán’s hands were strong and straight and nimble-fingered? Back when his world was whole?

  The night is cold. The woollen blanket itches his skin; the walls close him in. By moonlight he makes his way outside, digs out a hollow, gathers pine needles, dry and fragrant. He burrows down; covers himself as best he can. Under the trees, under the night sky, he can feel the heartbeat of the forest. Here, he is not quite alone.

  5

  ~Grim~

  Not sure what I’m getting myself into. Don’t want to leave Blackthorn on her own after last night. She’s edgy. Stayed awake, staring into the dark. She didn’t want to talk. I sat up and kept her company, made a brew or two, waited out the night with her.

  I ask her if she wants me to stay home. She says no, quite snappish. Hates to look weak. At least Emer’s coming, so she won’t be all by herself. That girl too, the one from Wolf Glen.

  I’m away early, get a horse from Scannal’s, head off up there. Not knowing what to expect. Never been to the place before, but I’ve heard plenty about the ride. Big forest, a lot of it pine, some of it different trees all mixed up together. Most I know the names of. Some I don’t. In the deepest parts the trees are like gnarled old giants. Place is all winding tracks that go back on themselves. Sudden dips, steep hills, rocks where you don’t expect them. Patches where you’d go into mud up to your knees if you didn’t watch out. Glad I chose Sturdy. Cart horse, not a riding horse, but steady and strong. Good horse for a big man. Ripple runs beside, keeping away from Sturdy’s hooves. Likes a run, Ripple does. I’ll say one thing for that bastard Flannan, he trained his dog well.