Raven Flight (41 page)

The Lord gave a slow smile. “I wish you were staying,” he said, almost as if he were an ordinary man.

I had expected a test, like the one to which the Hag had subjected me before I left the isles; something that would require me to demonstrate mastery of all he had taught me. But the only thing he made me do was send Whisper away without using words. My call was to be quite specific: Whisper was to fly over the Rush valley, from Shadowfell to Summerfort, and return with a report as soon as possible. I knew there were other winged beings, lesser ones, that regularly carried out this kind of task. But I did as I was bid, and one morning Whisper flew off across mountains whose peaks sparkled under the rising sun; already, in the highest places, there was snow. How long such a journey would take, I did not know. The instruction had been to fly, not to travel the quick way, in darkness and silence, by magic.

Once Whisper was gone, it seemed the formal part of my training was over. The next morning the Lord took me walking on the mountain, just the two of us, without even
Constant or Trusty. I wore my fur-lined cloak and carried my staff. We climbed a steep and perilous path. He made me walk on the inside and hold on to his arm.

The sky was gray; ominous clouds massed in the north. Shadows lay over the peaks and the land was eerily still. Our path led to a broad shelf, behind which rose a sheer cliff face, dauntingly high. At its foot a little cairn had been erected, white stones placed with precision, and over the cairn crept a mountain plant dotted with five-petaled yellow flowers. We halted beside it.

“This is where she fell,” said the Lord of the North. “Here she lies, under the stones. Some lessons, a person can grasp quickly, if he has a mind to it. Some are harder, learned over long years of struggle and confusion. The lessons of loss are hardest of all. Take to heart what you taught me, Neryn; cherish what you have, for in an instant it can be gone. And when it’s gone, let the memory not be a weight that drags you down, but a bright light leading you forward. She was like that. Gem. A light. Quick and shining and full of life.”

His words conjured an image of Flint, white-faced, white-knuckled, standing tall before Keldec’s hard questions. I remembered our night on the island, a precious gift in a world of doubt and hard choices. Tears brimmed in my eyes.

And there beside us was Lady Siona, come from nowhere. She wore a white fur cloak and carried a little lantern shaped like a cat. I had hardly spoken with her, immersed as I had been in the long days of learning. Now she smiled at me, and reached out a hand to wipe away my tears.

“You have brought such happiness, my dear,” she said. “I think you have touched the heart of every man and woman in our dark old hall. As she did, our lovely daughter.” She bent to place the lantern by the cairn. “You do not weep for her, I believe, but for a dear friend of your own. Perhaps Whisper will bring news of him.”

But Whisper, when he returned, brought news of a different kind entirely.

“Neryn! You need to get up, now, quickly!”

“Whaa …?” It could not be morning yet, surely. I closed my eyes again, burying my face in the pillow.

“Wake up, Neryn! We have to go, now, straightaway!”

I forced myself to sit up, rubbing my eyes. The lantern was lit, and I saw that Tali was fully dressed. Our staves were propped together against the wall, my old one and her fine new weapon crafted of old oak, a gift from the northern warriors. Beside them were two bags, one full and strapped up, the other—mine—apparently packed, but open.

“It’s the middle of the night,” I protested. “What is this?”

“Get up. I’ll tell you while you get dressed. Here.” She even had my clothes ready—gown, tunic, cloak, walking boots. Something had happened. Something bad. I heard it in her voice.

“What?” I said, shivering as I took off my warm night-robe, a gift from Flow.

“Whisper. He’s back, and he’s brought ill news. He saw …” She was struggling to get the words out.

“
Say it
, Tali.”

Tali shook her head. I saw her take a deep breath and gather herself. “Some of our people, making their way back to Shadowfell. They were in trouble. Bad trouble. Hurry up, Neryn, get your boots on.”

“Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” I wrenched my hair into a rough twist and knotted it at the nape. I thrust my feet into my boots, then gathered my small items and shoved them into the pack.

“You needed sleep. It made more sense to get everything ready before we woke you.” She gathered her pack and staff. Flow was in the doorway now, picking up my pack, motioning to us that we should follow her. The place seemed full of flickering shadows as we walked along the passageways to the Lord’s council chamber. The door stood open; within were the Lord of the North and Whisper, the Twa, and the warrior Scar.

It was all happening so quickly; too quickly. The Lord bade me a grave farewell and kissed me on the forehead. He reminded me that I was welcome to return whenever I wished. Scar and Tali thumped each other on the shoulder without saying anything. Flow embraced me. Constant and Trusty bent to hug me in turn. I was crying and so were they. And still nobody had explained, not properly.

“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 four fine men, among them our leader. Regan made an error of judgment, and now he’s gone. Yes, I failed him.”