‘A quick and covert disposal at dawn. No due process, no hearing, no case.’ What business was it of his? ‘Are you going to tell me who you are?’ I blurted out. ‘Did Mathuin send you?’ Unlikely; a fey nobleman would hardly act as messenger boy for a human leader.
‘I have a proposition for you,’ the man said. ‘If a name will help you trust me, I will give it. I am Conmael.’
It meant absolutely nothing. I couldn’t for the life of me imagine why the fellow would have any interest in what happened to me. As for offering my own name, I’d had one when they’d locked me up, and another one before that, but I wasn’t going to share either with a complete stranger. ‘What proposition?’ Under the circumstances, only one kind of proposition was of any interest, and that was one that would see me survive the dawn and stand up before the council as I’d expected. How this Conmael would achieve such a thing, and why he’d bother, was quite beyond me. Lies, all lies – what else could this be? ‘I’m growing weary of tricks,’ I said. ‘These days, I lose my temper quickly.’
Conmael smiled. He folded his hands on the table before him. His fingers were long and graceful; he wore a number of silver rings. ‘It is no trick,’ he said. ‘Nor is it an unconditional offer of freedom. But you can leave this place safely, no longer in fear of your life, provided you agree to my terms.’
Despite everything, my heart leaped at the word freedom. I clamped down the sudden elation. He wanted something from me, no doubt of that. I couldn’t imagine what it might be, since I had nothing at all to offer. The whole thing was deeply suspect. I might be exchanging my present hell on earth for something even worse. But you’d be alive, said a little voice inside me. ‘Terms. What terms?’
‘You had a calling before ill luck visited you. A profession, a direction in life. Yes?’
If he thought I was going to talk about the time before, he was wrong. That was past, over, forgotten. All that remained was Mathuin, and vengeance.
‘You have certain talents by which you can provide for yourself and do good in the community.’
‘Had. Not have. That time’s over. That woman’s gone.’
‘If you were free now, this moment, what would you do?’
‘Why would I tell you that? You could be anyone. You could be in Mathuin’s pay.’
‘I am in no man’s pay. Answer my question, please.’
‘I’d do what I thought I’d be doing until the guard kindly brought me the news that my execution was imminent. I’d stand up before the midsummer council. Explain what it was that got me locked up. Tell them what Mathuin does. Tell the story of the young woman who fell pregnant with his child when he took her by force, and how her husband abandoned her when he found out, and how she asked me to help her get rid of the child. How I spoke out publicly against Mathuin, and found that there were a dozen other women whom he’d treated in the same way. How he locked me up for smearing his name.’ Mathuin should be brought to account for his behaviour, most certainly. But it was not this wrong that burned in me, crying out for vengeance. It was a far older evil. I would not tell of that. When the chieftain of Laois had imprisoned me, he had not known who I was. I’d planned to tell him when I spoke out before the council. ‘I want that man exposed for what he truly is. I want him punished. Mathuin is not fit to be chieftain.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘After you expose the chieftain of Laois as an evil-doer and have him removed from his position of power, what then?’
‘Don’t mock me!’
‘Answer the question, please. Dawn is fast approaching.’
‘Then nothing. All that matters is . . .’
‘Vengeance?’ Conmael’s voice was very quiet. ‘This is not simply a case of standing up for those women, is it? It’s more, far more. It’s a burning need to right a personal wrong. An old wrong.’
I stared at him, and he gazed back, eyes blue as deep water, handsome features perfectly composed. ‘How can you know all this? Who are you?’
‘A friend. Someone who would rather not see you destroy yourself.’
‘Destroy myself? It’s Mathuin who’s doing the destroying.’
‘If you want me to help you, you must set your need for vengeance aside.’
‘Then the answer is no.’ If I could not make an end to Mathuin’s ill-doing, what point was there in anything?
Conmael was silent for a little. Then he said, ‘Life is a precious gift. It seems you set a low value on yours. Consider what you could do with this opportunity. You could help people. Free them from pain and suffering. You could heal your own wounds.’
‘I’m not after personal redemption. I want justice. I want that man to admit to his misdeeds. I want him to pay the price.’
‘Refuse my offer, and you’ll be the one paying the price.’
‘What do you want from me?’ My temper was hanging on a fast-fraying thread. ‘Get to the point!’
‘Ah, so you will hear my terms, then?’
‘I’d be stupid not to.’ Letting him set out his conditions, whatever they were, would at least keep me out of the cells a bit longer. Was that the first trace of dawn light coming in around the edges of the door?
‘Very well. I’m offering you a chance to be safely out of here before they come for you. You’d leave the district and travel north to Dalriada. There’d be help along the way, and a place to stay when you got there. After that, you’d need to earn a living doing what you did before. There’s always a need for skilled healers.’
‘Travel north. When?’
‘Straight away.’
As I made to speak again, to say I couldn’t go anywhere because I had to appear at the council, Conmael gestured me to be quiet. ‘There are three conditions you must agree to meet before I grant you this opportunity. Firstly, the considerable skill you possess must be used only for good. You will not let bitterness or anger draw you down the darker ways of your craft. Secondly, if anyone asks for your help, you will give it willingly. I do not mean solely those who come to you for assistance with their ailments, but anyone at all who seeks your aid.’
‘And thirdly?’ It occurred to me that I could be as good a liar as anyone. What was to stop me from agreeing now, and once I was out of here, doing whatever I pleased? I might yet live beyond dawn and see Mathuin brought down before nightfall. My heart began to race.
‘Thirdly, you will not seek vengeance. You will remain in Dalriada and stay away from Mathuin of Laois.’
That, I could not do. But I bit back the no that sprang to my lips. ‘Is there a period of time attached to this ridiculous proposition?’
Conmael gave a cool smile. ‘Seven years,’ he said. ‘That is the term for all three conditions.’
I opened my mouth to say yes, but he got in first.
‘You understand what I am, I believe. Although you may not always see me, I will be watching. You will not break the terms without my knowledge. Each time you do so, one further year will be added to the seven.’
‘What?’ Morrigan’s curse, I’d be lucky if I managed seven days, let alone seven years! Walk away and leave Mathuin behind me, his crimes not only unpunished but not even reported? Agree to every single request for help? As for using my gifts for good, all the good had been beaten out of me long ago. My spirit was as stained and foul as my reeking, vermin-ridden body. But then, what did it matter if I was bound to his stupid plan for my whole life, provided I saw Mathuin brought to justice first?
‘Mathuin has done ill deeds,’ Conmael said. ‘He’s also a powerful chieftain who enjoys the support of many fellow leaders. You are a prisoner, without family, without resources, with no home to go to and no friends to help you. Even if you did stand up at the council, even if you did make these accusations before the assembled chieftains, who would take your word against Mathuin’s? All you would achie
ve is your own destruction. So let us set a limit on the number of times you may break the rules. Five, I think.’
‘Or what happens?’
‘Or you find yourself back here, filthy, worn down, defeated, with the executioner knocking on your door. And this time, no reprieve.’
I gaped at him. ‘Are you telling me you can turn back time?’ He was fey, no doubt of that, and the fey had powerful magic. I had seen it, long ago. But this – the fellow must be out of his mind.
Conmael’s gaze was wintry. ‘Try to exact vengeance now, and you will surely fail. You are no fool; in your heart, you know that is simple truth. Exercise patience and self-control for the period I have set out, and you may have some small chance of success later. My proposal is your only way forward. It would be a mistake to believe I cannot, or will not, do exactly what I have told you.’
‘You’re proposing that instead of being Mathuin’s prisoner I should be yours.’
Conmael rose to his feet. ‘That comment shows a wilful misunderstanding of the situation. I thought I’d made myself quite clear. I’m offering a home, safety, an opportunity to do some good. I’m giving you the chance to remake your life. You’d be the first to say what a wretched, broken thing it has become.’
I found myself unable to speak. Conmael moved toward the door. Almost dawn. He put his hand on the latch.
‘Wait!’ My mouth was dry. ‘Supposing I agree to this and stick to the conditions, what happens after seven years?’
He turned his head toward me. His face was grave. ‘Then you are your own woman again, and free to make your own choices.’ He opened the door, and there was Slammer, waiting. ‘We’re done here,’ Conmael said, and before I could get another word out, he had stepped past the guard and was gone from view.
‘Wait!’ I called. ‘Yes! I say yes!’ I rushed out the door and into the immoveable form of Slammer.
But there was no reply; only the plangent note of a bird as it flew across the brightening sky: Fool! Fool!
Conmael was nowhere to be seen.
2
~GRIM~
She goes out and the door shuts behind her. Gone. Not coming back. Not ever. Don’t rightly know how I’ll go on without her. Don’t know how I can keep on breathing through the dark. As long as she’s here I’m still alive, deep down. As long as she’s here I’ve got a job to do. Someone to look after.
When they kill her, I’ll know. I’ll feel it like she does, the moment, the snuffing out. After that it’ll be dark all the time. Nobody to hear me. Nobody to see me. When she’s gone, I’m gone.
‘Shut it, Bonehead!’ someone yells from down the other end. Didn’t think I’d been making any noise. Put my head down on my knees, stuff a fold of blanket up against my mouth, push the words in. Squeeze my eyes tight. Stupid. You can’t see the sunrise in here anyway. But I do see it: the sky getting brighter, the guards holding her still, the knife flashing in the sun. She’ll be brave. She’s been brave from the day they threw her in here. Standing up for me. Talking me through the dark. Snappish and foul-mouthed, but alive. So much alive. Like a flame that never goes out, no matter what. Looking over at me and seeing, not a big lump of nothing, but a man.
Door creaks. Keys jingle. I start the words to shut the bad things out.
‘Get a move on, Slut!’ Slammer snarls. Then, ‘For the love of all the gods, Bonehead, knock it off!’ And, a wonder, I hear her steps along the walkway and the clang of her cell door. She’s back.
Slammer leaves her. I wait till the door down the end shuts behind him. Lift my head; try to keep my voice steady. ‘Lady? You there?’
‘Shut up, Grim.’
‘Who was it? Did they . . . ?’
‘Are you deaf? I said shut up.’
I do as she says. When that door opened, light came in. I heard a bird singing. It’s got to be nearly dawn. Why did Slammer bring her back? I want to ask, Does this mean they’re not going to kill you after all? But they are, or she wouldn’t be hunched up in there, trying not to cry. I can’t see her, but I know that’s what she’s doing. Who came to visit her? She always said there was nobody. Maybe that’s a lie. Maybe there’s a husband, a lover, a sad mother or father out there. ‘Lady?’
She sighs, a little sound in the dark. ‘I was offered a lifeline and I was too stupid to take it. Too slow, too cautious. Missed my opportunity. Nothing’s changed. The sun will come up, just the same as it does every day, and what happens will happen.’ She goes quiet for a bit, then says, ‘If you ever get a second chance, Grim, grab it with both hands. Don’t hesitate for a moment, you hear me?’
‘If I could hold a tune,’ I tell her, ‘I’d sing you a song.’
‘Spare me.’
‘What song would you want, if I could?’
‘Believe me, I wouldn’t.’
‘If it was me going out there, I wouldn’t want one of those trumpet-call, flag-waving things. I’d want a lullaby. I’d want to be sung to sleep quietly.’
‘What are you trying to do, Grim, turn me into a blubbering heap? Don’t sing, I beg you. I don’t want a march, I don’t want a ballad, I don’t want a dance. And I really, really don’t want a lullaby.’
‘Good,’ I say. Funny; my effort to stop her crying has left my own face all tears. ‘Because I’m the worst singer you ever heard. Even Strangler’s a better musician than me.’
‘Not crying, are you, Grim? A big bad fellow like you?’
‘Me? Nah.’
I’m just saying this when there’s a crash like the end of the world, and all of a sudden I’m lying on my back with everything coming down around me, and somewhere above me, above the heap of rubbish that’s weighing down my chest and legs and half covering my face, there’s open sky. Everyone’s shouting.
Takes me a while to get myself out; for a bit I think my leg might be broken, but no, I can move all right. Place is all chunks of stone, bent bars, splintered wood, like a huge storm has hit it, but there’s no rain coming down, no wind roaring over, just that sky calling me to climb up and get out, quick, before the guards come. Scrabbling noises tell me the others have the same idea, and now here’s Poxy clambering toward me across a mountain of rubble, his face all over dust, and after him comes Dribbles, making sobbing noises as if he can’t catch his breath.
The bars of my cell are bent all out of shape; I squeeze between them into what’s left of the walkway, and there’s Lady, white as a ghost, muttering something about not hearing her say yes. Making no sense at all. Need to get her out, quick. Where the guard post door was there’s a big heap of stones. Roof’s broken open up above my cell. From behind us, down the other end, comes an awful muffled screaming. I look that way and all I see is a tangle of bars and stones; the whole place has come down on Strangler, Frog Spawn and the others. Not dead, though. At least one of them’s not dead.
I grab Lady’s hand and pull her over to the spot where the roof’s open. ‘I’ll boost you up,’ I tell her. ‘Crawl across the roof and climb down on the western side. Then run. There’s woods not far off.’ As I’m bending to get hold of her so I can lift her up to the gap, I see it: Slammer’s hand sticking out from under all those stones, with a knife in it.
‘But –’ Lady’s protesting. I make sure she’s got hold of the edge of the broken roof, then push her up so she can scramble out.
‘Shut up and run! Don’t look back!’
She disappears through the hole. I’m not hearing much from outside, no shouting, no hammering, nobody rushing to the rescue, and that’s mostly a good thing; if they’re slow to come, she’ll be in the woods before anyone spots her. Away. Safe. I’ll have done my job.
Poxy doesn’t look too badly hurt. I boost him up high enough to haul himself out. He’s hefty, even on the gruel diet. Then I lift up the bundle of skin and bone that’s Dribbles, and Poxy leans down through the hole to grab his arms and pull while I pu
sh from underneath. Can’t see Dribbles getting far, out there.
‘Look after him, eh?’ I say to Poxy, but the boys aren’t talking; just getting up through the hole’s been enough of a stretch. They’re out of sight, and I head back to the other end, where everything’s come down in one god-awful mess.
It’s Strangler doing the screaming. No sound at all from the others. It’ll take me too long to dig them out, and if they’re still alive, they won’t be in a fit state to run anywhere. But I can’t leave Strangler without at least trying.
Big block of stone leaning up against his cell; can’t see him, only the bars broken and sticking out, and a pile of rubble behind.
‘Strangler! Coming to get you! Try and keep quiet, will you, don’t want the guards in here.’
‘Bonehead! Shit, this hurts!’ Strangler’s voice is all pain.
I try to shift the big block, which is nearly as tall as I am and too wide to get my arms around. I move it a whisker and a pile of stuff falls on me. I look up and see that if I shift this any further, the other half of the roof’s going to come down and Strangler and me will be flat as griddle cakes. Can I tunnel in below maybe, slip him out like a ferret from its hole?
‘Hang on, Strangler. Listen, can you move? Can you get down on the floor?’
He tries, it hurts, he starts to scream and bites it back.
‘If you can get down low I might be able to pull you out under here. There’s a gap, just small. But you always were a skinny runt of a man. Look, here, I’m sticking my arm through. Can you feel it?’ This is taking too long. I can hear someone shouting out there. If the guards spot us going over the roof, they’ll be onto us before we get a chance to run.
A hand touches mine. He’s there, he’s made it.
‘Good man. Can you give me both hands? This is going to hurt a bit.’
The gap’s small. I’d get a child out easily, but a man’s another matter. An injured man, even worse. There’s a broken bar sticking out halfway through, and pieces of the stone wall balanced on each other like some kind of toy, all set to fall at a wrong touch. This could kill him.