Shadowfell (33 page)

Down at the cave I wiped off my vomit-spattered gown. I scoured the cook pot, the bowl, the spoon. I picked up the blankets and folded them precisely. Just last night I had lain there beside him. I had felt comfort in his warmth; this morning I had not wanted to get up and face the day, for it had felt good to be close to him, sheltered by him. It set my stomach churning to think of it, to picture that thing around his neck, that accursed vessel only Enthrallers wore. How could I not have seen it before?

I built up the fire and sat down by it. I drank some water from the flask. Beyond the cave mouth the sky was duller now, and the air had the strange warmth that means snow is coming.

My hair. He had cut that lock from my head that night at the farm in the Rush Valley, when I’d been fighting to get a comb through the tangles. But he could have worked his foul magic on me long before that, on the very first night we were together, encamped on the hill near Darkwater. How easy for him to take advantage of my exhaustion and change my thoughts so I would trust him. So I would see him, not as an agent of the king, but as someone who could be my friend. If not on that first night, then surely he had worked his magic on one of the many nights we had spent in the little hut above Corbie’s Wood, when I had been too feverish to be aware of much at all. What a complete fool I had been, how gullible, how stupid! No wonder my dreams had been so confused, no wonder they had been full of dark and threatening things I had no names for. No wonder I had dreamed so often of Flint himself, as a child, as a man; no wonder his story had woven its way into my sleep, as if he and I were two parts of the same whole. I had been all too ready to forgive him and to see in him a good man, despite everything he was and everything he did. He had twisted my mind with his so-called mind-mending. The Enthrallers’ work was to turn strong-minded folk, folk with canny gifts, into loyal subjects of Keldec. To make them think the king worthy, a great leader, someone whose will they were honoured to work. But it would be easy enough for a mind-scraper to make a person follow
him
instead. That was what Flint had done. Made me care about him. Rendered me blind to his faults. Wound my hair around his wretched vial like a trophy.

‘How dare you order me to hear you out!’ I muttered. ‘How dare you try to tell me that your gift is something noble and good! How can it be, when every village has its own ruined victim wandering about dazed and hollow and frightened? How dare you say you wouldn’t lie to me? Everything you’ve said, every single thing you’ve done is a lie!’

I sat hunched over the fire, shivering. Images filled my mind: Flint striding away down the mountain; Flint looking out into the night with tears spilling down his cheeks; Flint, always so neat with his hands, butchering a marten and spilling blood everywhere. Flint sleeping, warm against me. Flint’s beautiful eyes, shining in the firelight, full of falsehoods. Flint shouting my name, his voice broken and exhausted. In my mind, words from the trickster’s rhyme repeated themselves over and over.
To your lost, your slain, your broken, grant forgiveness.
But the rhyme was nothing to do with Flint. He was not lost, slain or broken. And some things could never be forgiven.

I sat there until the fire had burned down to nothing. I spread out the ashes and sprinkled earth on top. I packed my bag. I took the last of the oatmeal, the precious supply of dried fruit, the remains of the hard cheese that we had brought from the hut. Let Flint find his own food. I rolled up one blanket and strapped it atop the bag. I put on my cloak. Time to go.

‘Do what you want,’ I whispered, taking a last look around the cave. The place was as lonely as a tomb, its corners full of shadows. ‘Meddle with my dreams, put your own poxy thoughts in my head. I’ll fight you. I won’t be anyone’s puppet. A man who lies to me will never be my friend. I don’t need you. I don’t want you. I’ll get to Shadowfell on my own.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
HE GOOD FOLK OF
the north were subtle beings. I sensed them as whispers on the icy wind, as creakings among the stones, as half-glimpsed, fleeting shadows, here then gone. I had wondered if I might see them more clearly when I camped for the night. But when my long day’s walk was done and I crept into a makeshift refuge under the roots of a great fallen tree, the best bolthole I could find in the gathering dusk, no small creatures pattered in to greet me.

I did not dare make fire in case Flint was close enough to see it and find me. It would snow by morning; I felt it in the air. Tomorrow, there would be no hiding my tracks. They would lie in the white, an announcement of my presence and a signpost to my destination. But if I waited, if I stayed in hiding, I might still be here next spring, a frozen corpse tangled in the tree roots. Or bare bones, picked over by the wolves; their voices had reached me on the wind as I walked. I wondered how Flint would feel if he stumbled on my remains. Would he be sad, or merely annoyed that he had failed in his mission, whatever it truly was?

Gods, it was cold! Why had I left that second blanket for Flint? I must have been mad. I imagined sharing my refuge with the wolves; I thought how warm that would feel, how welcome their hairy bodies would be against my shivering one. Provided they did not eat me. If the only pickings here were mice and martens, it was no wonder the creatures howled so. They must be ravenous.

No cooking without a fire. I ate a handful of raw oats, nibbled a shrivelled circle of dried apple, drank some water. It came to me that the cold was so intense I might be dead before morning. To die thus, through my own miscalculation, would be a sorry end indeed to my journey. ‘Rise in strength,’ I whispered. ‘Live for Alban’s liberty.’ Those stirring words had filled me with hope. Now they only served to show me my own weakness.

There were the Good Folk, of course. I could send out another call and hope they were nearby. I could ask for a hot, smokeless fire or a magical garment or a big dog to warm me. But that felt wrong. A gift like mine was not only precious, it was dangerous. I had called upon them to hide me from Flint, and they had been quick to help me. But I must not squander my gift on making my life more comfortable. If I was to be in their debt, let it be because there was no other choice.

But perhaps there need not be a debt at all. The transaction could be an exchange. The Giving Hand. There certainly wasn’t much to give tonight, but I did have the remnants of the food and I could share that. If I was on the right track, if I evaded Flint and the Enforcers, I might be at Shadowfell by dusk tomorrow. I need only keep sufficient for one more meal.

In the darkness I found a piece of bark and shook out a small heap of oats onto it. I crumbled cheese at one side and laid three wizened plums at the other. There was almost a disaster as I tripped while carrying this meagre feast over to a flat rock a few paces from my bolthole under the roots.

‘Here,’ I whispered into the night. ‘This is for you. Not much, but the best I can do right now.’ I did not say I was freezing. I did not ask for help. I retreated under the roots, wrapped my shawl over my head, pulled cloak and blanket around me, and tried not to think of the cold.

I waited. Images of roaring flames, of glowing lamps, of fur cloaks and woollen coverlets processed through my mind. Pots of steaming soup. Tubs of warm water in chambers heated by bright hearth fires. Most treacherous of all was the memory of how it had felt to lie under the blankets with Flint’s body close to mine and his arm over me.
Get out of my mind
, I told him.
I despise you. I would freeze to death before I let you touch me again
.

It seemed to me, as time passed and my body came close to the point where it no longer had the will even to shiver, that this really was the end, and a pretty poor one it was proving to be. My mission was a complete failure. Sorrel’s death had been for nothing. The help the Good Folk had given me, Sage’s courage, the selfless aid of Mara, the patience of Hollow had all been wasted. I should have risked a fire. Too late now. I might strike a spark, but there’d be no finding dry wood in the dark.

My chest hurt in an all too familiar way. Each breath seemed to draw cold deep into me, as if it would turn my very bones to ice. How did creatures survive here? How did they carry on?

Nobody would come. The place was empty. I would die all alone. Even the shades of my family, which sometimes seemed to linger close around me, were absent tonight. Perhaps, after Odd’s Hole, they would visit me no more. ‘Grandmother,’ I murmured through chattering teeth. ‘Father. Mother. Farral.’ A charm to keep away the dark. A lamp to illuminate the night. But I had no sense of them at all. There was only the wilderness. Shadows pressed close around me. ‘Flint,’ I whispered, not knowing why I spoke his name.

Tap. Tap, tap. Something was pecking at the oats. Something that showed pale in the night, something white, with feathers, about the size of a small dog. Tap, tappity, tap. I dared not move lest I startle it away. I watched, clutching the blanket around me, as it investigated the cheese, sampled a little, then ate the dried plums, one, two, three. What was it, an owl? The shape was rounded, compact, the plumage neat and glossy, the legs sturdy. When it turned its head to gaze at me, its eyes gleamed of themselves, round and strange. A not-quite-owl. Perhaps that was a feather cape, and underneath it . . . I could not see clearly, but the legs seemed to end, not in a set of owlish talons, but in a pair of small, well-crafted boots.

‘G-g-greetings,’ I stammered.

The creature inclined its head. What there was of moonlight showed its face to be somewhat human in shape and form, save for those great eyes.

‘You’ll be dead before morning,’ it observed. Its voice was as much an owl’s as a young man’s.

‘I hope not,’ I managed. ‘If you c-can help me, I’d welcome that. I am . . . almost at my d-destination. One more d-day . . .’

‘You seek the Folds?’

‘No, I –’ Wait a moment. The Folds . . . I’d heard that name before. A name the Good Folk used when speaking of Shadowfell. ‘I am headed for a p-place close to there, yes. B-but without a fire . . .’

‘You’ll soon freeze, aye. I can help. You’re no’ afraid of a few wee doggies?’

‘I j-just need to g-get warm . . .’

The owlish creature let out an eldritch hollow cry that sent shivers up my spine. There was a silence; the very air around us seemed to be waiting. Then came the reply: the howling of many wolfish voices. I rose to my feet, stumbling in my haste. The creature shook its head.

They were here, a circle of them in the darkness, their eyes pinpricks of light as they edged closer. My heart was in my mouth. They were beautiful, no doubt of that; beautiful and deadly. I could smell them now, their hunger, their pride, their wildness. They padded forward, and I could see the white gleam of their teeth. Well, I thought crazily, I would at least provide a good meal for this hungry pack. I would die doing something useful.

‘Go small!’ The voice of the owl-like being rang out in a command, and the wolves obeyed. As they crept into my shelter, they shrank. My knees gave way under me and I sat down abruptly. The wolves settled all around me, a squirming, jostling, licking flow of them, squeezing in close, climbing on my lap, curling by my legs and body. Each was no bigger than a two-month pup. As they pressed against me, my frozen body began to thaw. Gods, what a gift it was to be warm! It seemed I would live until morning, after all.

‘Aye, that’ll do.’ The owl was keeping a firm eye on the pack. ‘No fighting, mind. No nipping and jostling about. Keep the lassie safe till sunup, you understand?’ The big eyes met mine. ‘Stay in there. No going out before first light or I can’t answer for what might befall you. There’s blood on the air. Blood and iron.’

Before I could frame words, the creature spread its wings and took flight, a white phantom vanishing into a darkness through which a few delicate flakes of snow had begun to fall. Cushioned by the soft blanket of a dozen slumbering wolf bodies, I surrendered to sleep.

They left at dawn, rippling out into the brightening world, leaving behind only their wild scent. As they passed the outermost roots of the fallen giant under which we had sheltered, the little wolves returned to their full size, not needing any command. From one breath to the next they were themselves again, their powerful long-limbed bodies flowing away across the new-fallen snow. They moved as one. Almost before I had time to get up, to stretch, to draw breath in this new day, they were gone.

I owed them my life. In return, all I had offered was that poor apology for a meal. An uneven exchange indeed. But I knew enough old stories to understand that what I had given was sufficient. The value of the gift itself did not matter; its true worth lay in its importance to the giver. If a handful of oats represented half of a traveller’s provisions, or more than half, it was a worthy gift indeed.

Perhaps, I thought as I packed my bag once more and shook out my cloak – I would smell of wolf for some time to come – perhaps my life would be worth something to the Good Folk in the long run. According to the Master of Shadows, I had demonstrated all seven virtues. I had stepped onto the road that led to becoming a skilled Caller. Once I had learned to harness my gift wisely, I could play my part in the fight for Alban’s freedom. I could help change the future. But first I must reach Shadowfell.
Today
, I told myself.
Today you’re walking to Giant’s Fist. Time to worry about what’s next when you get there
.