Fingal had gone to crouch by the fallen man, touching his brow, his neck, giving calm instructions to one or two others. As for the fight, the rebels had rallied and were swiftly accounting for the last of their opponents. The battle seemed all but over. You’ve won it for us, Fingal had said. Rebels victorious. King’s men routed. But this was no victory. Beneath those rocks lay six dead men, and I had killed them. That they’d been Enforcers made no difference at all. A moment ago they’d been standing there fit and well, and now they were crushed and broken. This was the worst deed of my life.
Bile welled in my throat; my heart beat a furious rhythm of denial. If this was what it meant to be a Caller, I didn’t want it. How could I ever risk this happening again? Forget Shadowfell. I would move on alone, I would find somewhere to live all by myself, as I had once told Flint I intended to do. I was not fit for the company of man or beast.
The sounds of battle were dying down. Since I was no longer under guard, I moved, making myself walk over to the fallen rocks and witness the result of my blunder. I watched quietly as someone brought Fingal a bundle, which when unrolled proved to be full of healer’s supplies – knives and other implements, rolled cloths, stoppered jars and little linen bags of herbs. An intense discussion was taking place not far off, to do with rocks and levers and ropes.
Regan strode over to us. He had a long jagged cut across his brow, and his handsome face was shiny with sweat. Blood was trickling down into his eyes. The front of his tunic was stained red. ‘I told you to stay under cover,’ he said, looking from Fingal to me. ‘You could both have been crushed.’ He squatted down by the trapped man. ‘Garven,’ he murmured. ‘You fought bravely, lad. Lie quiet now, we’ll get you out.’ He rose to his feet, and a look passed between him and Fingal. ‘Give him something for the pain,’ Regan said, ‘and then we’ll talk about what comes next.’
Fingal was already measuring something from a little vial into a cup, adding what might be mead, stirring it with a bone spoon. ‘She did it,’ he said, glancing up at Regan. ‘Neryn. She said a verse and the rocks fell down. She made it happen.’
Regan’s attention was suddenly all on me, the blue eyes narrowed. ‘Is this true?’
‘It’s true.’ I wondered how I was going to tell him that I never intended to use my uncanny gift again. For the expression on his face told me he saw its possibilities and thought them good. It told me he saw me for what I could be: a weapon, and a powerful one at that. I found that I could not say what I knew I should, for the look in his eyes was all hope, and hope was in short supply in Alban.
‘Tell me what you did,’ Regan said. ‘What kind of gift is this, that you have the very rocks at your command? We heard from Flint that he might have found a Caller, but none of us was quite sure what that meant, only that it was a gift of great potential. I see that much is true. The battle was all but lost. You intervened and it was won. We owe you a great debt. If you stay with us, if you aid our cause, victory may be closer than we ever imagined. What you did . . . how did you make it happen?’
It was hard to find words. Was this a win or a loss? A remarkable exercise of magical power or a disastrous attempt to do something I barely understood? Perhaps it was both. I only knew it made no difference whether I killed ally or enemy; he was still just as dead.
‘Fingal spoke of a rhyme,’ Regan said. ‘What kind of rhyme? A spell, an incantation? Is this a charm like those sung by mind-menders?’
Gods, I wished to be somewhere far away, all alone, and for my deed to be undone. Yet if that were so, Regan and his comrades would be dead. I cleared my throat. All across the open area the rebels were finishing the day’s dark business. Knives moved with swift purpose across throats; swords stabbed efficiently downward. There would be no prisoners taken in such a conflict. Rebels were stripping the dead Enforcers of anything useful: warm garments, weaponry, boots. Their own dead they carried to one side of the area. Here the fallen were laid down gently and covered each with a cloak. Four at least; grievous losses for such a small band.
There was Flint, kneeling by the form of a dead Enforcer. He was very still, his face ashen pale. What was he doing? Someone moved across, blocking my view, and I saw him no more.
‘Tell me, Neryn,’ Regan said, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘This gift of yours is remarkable. It’s critically important to us. A rhyme. Surely not just that.’
Garven had had his dose and was quiet now. Four or five rebels were grouped around him, one offering a water skin, a second supporting his head, the others speaking softly. Fingal got up and came over to us, his face grim. ‘There’s no way we can lift those rocks,’ he said to Regan, ‘though the men want to try with ropes. I’ll have to take off Garven’s leg. But he’s trapped high. I don’t like his chances.’
‘Black Crow save us,’ muttered Regan.
‘He’s trapped because I didn’t know what I was doing,’ I made myself say. ‘If I had full mastery of my gift, I might have been able to control the stanie mon’s fall more precisely. I didn’t realise how perilous a Caller’s ability was until today, and I’m more sorry than I can say.’
‘We’re fighting a war,’ Regan said. ‘We have wins and losses. Some of us are injured, some of us die. We can’t think of this in any other way or we’d be unable to go forward. But for you I would have lost my entire battle group today, and likely I’d be lying in my own blood alongside them. What did you call it, a stanie mon? Isn’t that a creature from a children’s game?’
‘Regan?’ Fingal was waiting for some kind of command, some acknowledgement from his leader.
‘If it’s the only way to get him out, then take the leg. We’d best let the fellows try the ropes first, though anyone can see those stones are too heavy to move.’
With a curt nod, Fingal headed back toward the trapped man. It would be a grim choice. I knew enough from helping Grandmother in her healing work to realise how unlikely it was that anyone would survive such an injury, let alone survive with a leg that could bear any weight. Garven had been a fighter. He would fight no more.
Tali had come up behind Regan; she was as tall as he. She had taken off the cloth that covered her lower face, revealing a decisive jaw, a neat, straight nose and a full, curving mouth. She was younger than I’d thought, perhaps only a year or two my senior. She had a tattoo around her neck that was the same as Fingal’s, a pattern like flying birds, perhaps crows. ‘They’re saying you did this,’ she said, and the gaze she turned on me matched the bitterness of her tone. ‘A charm. Magic. It’s a pity your magic makes no distinction between theirs and ours. We were told a Caller would be a priceless asset. If this is a demonstration of your gift, it makes you more trouble than you’re worth.’
‘Enough, Tali,’ Regan said. ‘Neryn, is this really as simple as it seems? You speak a rhyme and the being obeys your command?’
‘It’s not just that.’ I struggled to find the right words. For as long as I could remember, I’d been keeping my canny gift secret. I’d scarcely let myself breathe a word about the Good Folk, or the power of cold iron, or the special knacks and tricks that some human folk possessed. Even with Flint I had been guarded. Speaking of such things openly felt as perilous as leaping from a cliff top into empty air. ‘I mean, with a stanie mon it is mainly just the verse, and the magic doesn’t work unless the rhyme is in the correct form. But only a Caller can summon uncanny folk in this way, or so I believe. And there is a . . . there’s another part to it, but I can’t describe it to you. I have no words for it.’
It was a sensation I had felt only on those occasions when I’d been conscious of calling directly to the Good Folk. I had reached down, reached in, touched something deep and old . . . ‘It’s a feeling,’ I said. ‘Ancient and powerful. Stronger in some places than others. It’s being connected with earth and water, wind and flame. Understanding what exists within those things. It links me with the uncanny folk of Alban, no matter what form they take. I see them when other people can’t. If I ca
ll, they will come.’ I hesitated. ‘It’s said that a Caller can be far more than this, but only with special training.’
‘A stanie mon.’ Tali’s voice dripped scorn. ‘Could you not have bid this stanie mon spread itself only over our enemy? Could you not have given a little thought to what you were doing?’
‘You think I’m happy that I hurt one of your comrades?’ I snapped, unable to hold back my anger. ‘I did what I did because Fingal asked me if I could help. It did look as if you might be losing the battle. And although you may not think much of me, I believed Regan’s Rebels were worth saving. I’ve wanted to join you since my brother was killed fighting the Enforcers three years ago. I had to act quickly just now. I did the only thing I could think of that might turn the tide for you. But I’m new to using my gift. I haven’t learned how to harness it. What happened . . . As I said before, I deeply regret it.’ And when neither Tali nor Regan said anything, I added, ‘A stanie mon only responds to the simplest verses, the kind children make up. You can’t ask such a being to do anything complicated. I bade him fall, and he fell.’
Tali’s expression changed. The bitterness and hurt were replaced by the look of someone who is thinking hard. ‘But –’ she began. ‘Doesn’t that mean you can –’
I realised what had occurred to her. ‘Maybe,’ I said, my heart beginning to race. I looked over toward the great prone form of the stanie mon and the little group crouched by the trapped man. ‘I didn’t use the rhyme fa’ doon deid – I could hardly tell the stanie mon to kill himself. So perhaps I can get him to stand up again.’ At Regan’s soft whistle I added, ‘I don’t promise this will work. As I said, I’m new to doing it. But I will try.’ I never wanted to use my so-called gift again. I did not want the power of life and death in my hands. But I must try this. If I did not, that man would die or, at the very least lose his leg. And what about the stanie mon? He might lie there for hundreds of years, unable to move until another Caller came to chant a new rhyme in his stone ear.
‘Gods save us,’ murmured Regan. I saw him thinking, What if it goes wrong, what if this ends with more deaths, more injuries? But he did not say it. He glanced over toward the trapped man again. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’d best try this charm.’
Folk were busy all around the open area, dealing with the aftermath of the battle. Flint was by another dead Enforcer now, kneeling again, his face ashen white. As I watched, he reached with gentle fingers to close the eyes of his fallen comrade. He was murmuring something. Words of farewell, I thought, and words of regret. There were ghosts in his eyes. Understanding came to me. How crushing a burden Flint must bear as he lived his double life, friend turning to foe as he crossed the line from one loyalty to the other. I did not know how a man could rightly bear such a load. No wonder his head was bent. No wonder his shoulders were bowed. No wonder his face bore an expression that jolted my heart. My own misgivings were nothing to his.
‘It’s hard for him,’ said Regan quietly, following my gaze. ‘Neryn, will you try this now? We must get our wounded away quickly if we’re to reach Shadowfell before dusk.’
I eyed the great pieces of the fallen stanie mon. It seemed impossible that any force could ever shift them.
‘You’d best clear everyone well away,’ I told Regan, ‘in case something goes amiss.’
Regan looked at Tali, and Tali, after giving me a sideways glance, went off to issue a few crisp orders. The area cleared immediately, the rebel forces moving well away from the rock fall. Flint rose slowly to his feet. He looked straight at me, and I looked back, my feelings in turmoil. I dropped my gaze; I must think of nothing but the stanie mon, the call, the opportunity to put right a small amount of the damage I had done.
‘We’re ready,’ Regan said.
There was nobody close now except him and the trapped man. And one more: for beside the prone form of Garven, Fingal still crouched, one hand holding the warrior’s wrist, the other laid on his brow.
I asked a question with my eyes. Regan answered it with a slight shake of the head.
‘You should move back,’ I said, and the rebel leader did so without a word.
I tried to clear my mind of everything: Flint’s white face, my guilty conscience, Tali’s scorn, the carnage of the battlefield. I tried to find the part of me that could reach out and touch the heart of a stanie mon. I had wronged this peaceable creature. His life moved with the long, slow order of stone; his great shoulders bore the summer sun, the winter snow, the storm and sleet and rain of this lonely place; he lived with the thunder and the torrent and the high, sad cries of owl and eagle. I had made him kill. I must not leave him lying here, sprawled and broken. I must see him safely back to his rightful place.
‘Help him, Neryn.’ Fingal spoke softly from where he crouched beside the injured man, right by the massive stones. His dark eyes met mine without a trace of fear.
I gave him a nod; drew a long breath; summoned the strength deep inside me. I should be explaining to the stanie mon, expressing respect, gratitude, apology. But I couldn’t. What I had to say must be contained in the brief lines of a rhyme, or he would not understand it. ‘Stanie Mon, Stanie Mon, fine and braw,’ I chanted, ‘Stanie Mon, Stanie Mon, stand up ta’!’
Nothing stirred. I kept my gaze on the fallen stones, but I sensed the silent audience of rebels behind me, perched up on the rocks and watching with some fascination. I made myself breathe steadily.
A subtle creaking. A shudder in the ground beneath my feet. The stones began to move of themselves, rumbling, rolling.
‘Hold still, friend,’ said Fingal, and moved to kneel over Garven, making of his own body a fragile shield. Tears sprang to my eyes. I scrubbed them away. I would not attempt another rhyme. I must trust that the stanie mon could get himself up without doing any more damage.
‘Move back, Neryn!’ That was Regan, calling from some distance away. But I did not obey. I stepped forward and crouched down close to Garven, taking his hand in mine.
‘You’ll be all right,’ I muttered, praying it was true. ‘We’ll get you out.’
‘Neryn!’
That voice was not Regan’s. I heard running footsteps, and then Regan saying, ‘No. Wait.’
For the stones were assembling themselves in some order, creaking up from the ground, forming themselves into a great figure with stocky limbs, a slab of a body, a chunky square head with holes for eyes, a slit for a mouth, a look that was neither smiling nor frowning, simply . . . there. As the pressure lifted from his leg, Garven let out a howl of pain.
‘All right, lad.’ Fingal’s voice was remarkably steady. ‘Lie quiet.’
The stanie mon raised himself to his considerable height, looming above us. He lifted one massive arm and touched his lumpish hand against the spot where his heart might be, if such a being had a heart. The eyeholes seemed turned in my direction.
I got to my feet and copied his gesture, laying my hand on my heart, then bowing my head. I hoped he understood, for I hadn’t another rhyme in me.
He took two lumbering steps. The ground shook under his great feet. He seemed to lean into the rock wall, in the place where it was gouged and broken, and ease himself against it, and with a knitting and a mending he became once more part of it. A few shards of stone tumbled down; a small cloud of dust eddied up and dispersed. The stanie mon was gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After that, everyone was busy. Fingal splinted Garven’s leg. My offer to help was politely declined; there were plenty of folk to place the lengths of wood and wind the bandages while Fingal held the bones in position. Whether the limb would mend straight, whether this young warrior would ever use it again, I did not know. It seemed to me the bones might be so shattered that no healer could mend them, but Fingal evidently thought it worth trying.
As for those others who lay broken on the ground, I made myself look at their pitiful remains. I made myself bear witness to what my gift had wrought. You will remember this, I told myself. You will
see it night by night, in your dreams. And I looked across to where Flint was standing a short distance away, watching me. I wondered if this image had the power to displace the false thoughts he had put into my mind. I did not know which would be worse. I wondered what horrors walked through Flint’s dreams.
Suddenly I was so weary I could hardly stay on my feet. I sat down on a stone, watching as folk gathered the enemy corpses into a heap. The rebel dead were securely tied into cloaks or blankets, ready to be carried home. Folk were slinging packs on their backs, gathering weapons, getting ready to move on. A makeshift stretcher had been assembled for Garven, who now lay white and silent with his leg neatly strapped.
A steady stream of folk came over to thank me for what I had done, and, I thought, to get a closer look at me. Tali was not the only woman among the fighters; at least three more introduced themselves. Everyone seemed to think I had won the battle for them. There would be a welcome at Shadowfell, no doubt of it. The end of my long journey was in sight. I should have felt happy, but all that was in me was a deep weariness, as if my bones were those of an old, old woman.
Regan was busy giving orders. Tali was supervising the passage of the dead, the wounded and the supplies up over the rocks. I judged that she was Regan’s second-in-command. I wondered where she had learned to fight as if she did not know the meaning of fear. It was people like her the rebels needed, people who were all courage. People who did not doubt; people who did not make mistakes.
Someone was standing beside me. He had come up with barely a sound.
‘Move away,’ I said, not looking up. ‘I can’t talk to you.’ In my heart a small battle raged, for all I could see was his blanched face, his haunted eyes, the gentleness with which he had bade his comrades farewell and safe journey. But he was an Enthraller, and that sickened me.