‘Flint,’ I made myself say, ‘doesn’t the king expect you to use your gift for his purposes? Why else would he want you at court?’
There was a silence. ‘I have done that, yes,’ he said heavily, and my heart sank. ‘He has a number of Enthrallers, none of whom has been trained as I have. Perhaps two in three times, they succeed in winning a person’s loyalty for the king while keeping the victim in his right mind. The third . . . I have no need to tell you what can happen if that particular process is applied without due care, Neryn. I will give you the truth, whole and unadorned. I have never done what was done to your grandmother; my teacher made sure I had mastery of the gift before he let me go out into the world. Once or twice I have used my ability to turn men to the king’s way of thinking. Regan and I spoke of this, long ago. To do what I do, to provide Regan with a window into the heart of Keldec’s court, I must have the king’s complete trust. That means there are certain commands I must obey. If I did not, Keldec would soon begin to doubt my loyalty. I do not perform such deeds lightly. I wear the weight of them every moment of every day. But it seems to me the cause of Alban’s freedom is more important than anything. If I began to question his orders, the king would have no choice but to destroy me. He knows how strong I am, and what my gift allows. He could never let me go. I would make too powerful an enemy.’
‘Besides,’ I said, torn between horror and sympathy, ‘if you did not perform the enthralment, the job would be given to another, with one chance in three that the victim would become . . . what my grandmother became. Gods, Flint. This is hideous. Regan expects more from you than any man should be asked to offer.’
‘I want to see Alban free. I want that place where you and I can sit by our fire and talk about anything that pleases us, and sleep under the stars with our hearts at peace. If I must tread a dark path to reach that place, I will do it. Not for Regan. Not for myself. Only because the alternative is unthinkable.’
‘But,’ I said, trying to understand, ‘if your gift allows you to change people’s inner convictions, their long-held beliefs, why can’t you perform an enthralment on Keldec himself? Couldn’t you turn him into a good man, a king who would rule Alban with fairness and justice? And if not that, don’t you have the skill and opportunity to . . .’
‘To assassinate him?’ Flint’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. ‘I have the skill and opportunity to do so; enthralling him would be somewhat more difficult. But if you remove a tyrant in anything other than an open and visible way, another tyrant soon stands up to replace him. Keldec has influential retainers. I’m not speaking only of the Enforcers, but of councillors and family. Regan and I have discussed this. We want to remove him fairly, publicly, with the support of Alban’s chieftains. That will take time. Today’s was a small victory. Winning Alban back is the work of many years and many people. We’re only at the beginning.’
We climbed some way further; it seemed to me the slope was levelling out.
‘We’re nearly there,’ Flint said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Flint.’
‘Mm?’
‘You didn’t perform an enthralment on me?’
‘No, Neryn, though perhaps, now that I have told you my story, you will not believe me when I say that. It’s a common belief among the folk of Alban that Enthrallers wear stolen dreams around their necks. That belief is fostered by those who work for Keldec: fear of such charms keeps people compliant. But in truth, most Enthrallers wear a glass replica of the traditional dream vial, and it holds nothing at all. Some add one vial each time they use their craft, as if keeping score.’ He lifted his fingers to touch the little object that swung on its cord. ‘Mine is no replica. It is a crystal taken from a particular cave in the isles, a place of deep spiritual power. What you see in this is the movement of water, of mist, of clouds. In the old times, each mind-mender was given a shard from that cave when he completed his training. Thus we carried out into the world a token of light and goodness. My mentor passed this to me when I left him.’ Flint hesitated. ‘I do not think I will see him again,’ he said. ‘But while I wear this, I feel his wisdom, and that gives me the strength to go on. Sometimes he comes to me in dreams, and I wake with new heart.’ He glanced down at me. ‘You’re crying,’ he said.
I could not speak. There was too much in me. I raised a hand and dashed the tears away. ‘Why is there a lock of my hair wound around the vial?’ I asked when I had my voice back.
Flint’s features were suffused with a blush. It was a remarkable sight. ‘That night at the farm, I would have tossed the lock into the fire, but something made me slip it into my pouch.’ He spoke as if it was hard to get the words out. ‘I forgot it was there. Much later, while you were recovering from your illness, I rediscovered it. Perhaps . . . perhaps I anticipated how you would feel when I told you the truth. That when you learned exactly what I was you would turn your back on me forever.’ His fingers went up to touch the little talisman. ‘I wrapped your hair around my mentor’s gift. Thus, I thought, even when you were gone I could hold some part of you close. But it was not mine to keep. If you wish, I will return it to you now.’ He hesitated. ‘I did not take this for purposes of magic, Neryn. But . . . because of what I am, once the token was with me it played a part in opening my mind to you, and yours to me. We dreamed of each other; often each of us understood, without words, what the other was feeling. I did not expect that.’
We climbed on in deep silence. After some time the ground levelled and the land opened out. We had emerged on a high fell, with the snow-crowned peak of a mountain to our north. To the south, far below us, I could see the river, the bridge like a little thread, and the broad, treacherous expanse of stony ground. There was the rising smoke, a duller hue now, as if, after its first fierce hunger was sated, the fire had begun to lose its appetite for human flesh. There was the valley down which I had travelled; I could see, in the very distance, the peaks of the Three Hags. Beyond them, beyond my eyes’ reach, lay the far valley, the road to Summerfort, the chain of forests and lakes that led all the way to Darkwater, where my father had died in flames. So long a journey, and not only in miles.
‘All right?’ Flint asked again.
‘Mm.’
The rest of the party was gathered not far away, waiting until everyone had caught up before moving on. Regan came over, narrowing his eyes as he looked me up and down.
‘We’re almost there, Neryn. The next part’s not such a steep climb, but it’s tricky. Can you manage?’
‘Yes.’ The terrain ahead was gently sloping, featureless, not at all tricky.
‘Watch your step,’ was all Regan said. ‘It’s easy to get lost in the Folds.’
The Folds. The Good Folk had mentioned that name. And speaking of the Good Folk . . . What was that over there? A creature of some kind, hunkered down pretending to be a patch of lichen? And up there – that was no ordinary stone, there were beady eyes peering out of that crack, and a feathery tail was twitching down at the base of that gnarled old tree . . .
‘You’ll need to wear this, Neryn.’ Tali fished a long strip of dark cloth from her belt. ‘Stand still, I’ll tie it for you.’
She came behind me and put the thing over my eyes, pulling it tight. My heart lurched in fright.
‘No, Tali.’ Regan’s voice. ‘Neryn’s one of us.’
A short, tense silence. ‘It’s the rule,’ Tali said. ‘Strangers must come in with their eyes covered.’ I heard in her voice that the rule had never been broken before.
‘Flint has spoken for her,’ Regan said. ‘Would you challenge that? Untie the blindfold.’
Her fingers caught in my hair, inflicting pain that was perhaps not accidental. The cloth came off. I did not see her face as she rolled it and stowed it away.
Everyone was assembled on the open hillside. Men still bore the bodies of their dead comrades over their shoulders; the wounded leaned on their friends. On his stretcher, Garven lay with eyes closed, his face all shadows. Time wa
s passing. The distant hills were darkening and the sky was the hue of a seal’s pelt.
‘Move on!’ Regan called. ‘Neryn, keep your eyes straight ahead and concentrate. In the Folds, the land is not quite as it is in other places.’
It surely was not. In the Folds, nothing was as it seemed. What looked to be an open fell proved to be a maze of twisting, turning ups and downs, where bare-limbed trees and thorny bushes sprang up without warning and unbroken ground acquired treacherous hollows and cracks as we set our feet on it. Sudden waterfalls plunged down the hillside and vanished into crevices; a broad lochan appeared where a moment before there had been nothing but dry stones and withered grasses.
Regan led the way with a confidence that, under the circumstances, seemed nothing short of reckless. The others followed, as sure-footed as mountain goats. The men carrying the stretcher, the fellow with the broken arm, the woman with the heavily bandaged leg, all moved ahead with steady purpose. I wondered if they saw what I saw: that on every surface, under every odd-shaped stone and within every shadow – shadows, under a sunless sky – there were Good Folk. Their bright eyes followed us as we passed. This was a place of potent magic. Even without them I would have felt it, for it hummed in my bones and pulsed in my blood. Alban’s power; Alban’s strength; Alban’s ancient wisdom.
Flint did not say any more, and nor did I. I needed time to consider what he had told me, to come to terms with it, to find the courage to accept that enthralment need not be the vile practice I had witnessed; that a man could be an Enthraller and still, somehow, remain good at heart. That a man like Flint – Flint – could speak tender words and blush like a boy filled me with a treacherous warmth. I must set that aside. Even if I could come to terms with what he had told me, there was another aspect of this that I must confront.
For I would soon face the same choice Flint had faced when he had made his decision to go to Keldec’s court. A man should not betray comrades who trusted him, no matter who those comrades were. He should not lead his fellow warriors into an ambush and help the enemy kill them. But what if that enemy was fighting for the cause of freedom and an end to tyranny?
I did not think I could justify calling the Good Folk to perform acts of violence. But what if those very acts helped restore Alban to what it had been, a realm of peace and justice? Perhaps such questions had no answer. Perhaps the answer was that right could prevail, but only at an unbearable cost.
We moved on. I should have kept my eyes on the deceptive track, but I turned to look back. Nothing of the tortuous path we had taken was visible, and nor were the folk whose soft footsteps I had heard behind us as we walked, the small folk whose murmuring voices I could hear even now. All I could see was the empty fell, featureless and barren. The Folds. I understood why it was so named, for the earth itself changed here to trap, to trick, to isolate. And to hide; how could any man who did not know the right way hope to find those who dwelt in such a place? No wonder the rebels had chosen this as their base, even though it lay so far from human settlements. My mind teemed with questions.
I turned back and almost walked into a rock wall that had not been there a moment ago. Flint put a hand out to steady me.
‘Careful. Stay right next to me. The entrance is through this way.’
A passageway between the rocks. Deep shadow. The pinpricks of eyes in the chinks, the creak of leathery wings overhead. Regan and the others had moved on ahead without looking up.
Before us was a doorway into the mountain. A man-made doorway – it bore the marks of tools – though no door was there, only an opening into a shadowy interior. As our party approached, a very large man stepped out, holding a spear. Behind him stood two more.
‘Regan, Tali, welcome,’ said the spear-carrier, and brought his weapon back from its attack position. ‘What news?’
‘Sad news. Six dead, ten wounded. Garven’s leg is crushed. Flint is with us, and a young woman.’ Regan looked back down the line at me. ‘Flint’s girl, the one we heard of.’
I opened my mouth to deny the name, then shut it again.
‘The enemy?’ enquired the guard.
‘Accounted for.’ Tali slipped this in casually.
‘All of them?’ The fellow sounded deeply impressed.
‘All of them,’ Regan said. ‘We left some of the fellows down there cleaning up; they’ll be here before nightfall. We’d best get Garven inside. Tali, show Neryn the women’s quarters.’
As folk dispersed in various directions, a sombre Tali led me along a passageway illuminated by hanging oil lamps, past several openings, and into a chamber housing six pallets, two storage chests and various items of female clothing hanging on pegs. A lamp stood on one of the chests. The place was warm; a fire burned on a small hearth at the far end of the chamber. Along one wall were three shuttered windows. The sound of men’s voices came to us from somewhere within the network of shadowy passageways.
‘This is where we sleep.’ Tali sat down on one of the pallets and began unfastening her boots. ‘That bed’s free.’ She pointed.
I set my meagre possessions on the foot of the pallet she had indicated, the one furthest from the fire. What was this place, a catacomb in the mountain? These must be caves, surely, for the entry had led straight into the hill. From outside there had been no sign of any house or enclosure, nothing but the rocks. Yet these walls were of carefully laid stones, and the windows . . . Where did that chimney come out? There had been no sign of smoke as we approached.
I sat down on my bed. ‘Is this Shadowfell?’ I asked, feeling foolish.
Tali tugged off one boot and bent to remove the other. ‘Mm-hm.’
Someone twitched the door-hanging aside and the chamber was suddenly full of women. Women setting down knives and axes and swords by the door; women striding across to remove their warrior gear, to lay helms, breastplates, arm and leg braces on their pallets, and then proceeding to strip off their clothes with no trace of embarrassment. They threw their discarded garments in a heap on the floor, between the pallets.
They told me their names again: Andra, Sula, Dervla. An older woman came in carrying two huge buckets of water, followed by another woman with a small bathtub. Milla. Eva. I knew I would not remember who was who. I was suddenly so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
‘Best get your things off,’ one of the women said, glancing my way. ‘You look as if you could do with a wash.’
‘I have no clean clothes.’
‘Milla will find you something.’
Sula was unwrapping the makeshift bandage Fingal had wound around her leg earlier. ‘Black Crow’s Auntie, this bites like a creel of lobsters. A hot soak will be just the thing. How’s your injury, Tali?’
‘Fine. It’s nothing.’ Tali had stripped swiftly to her leggings and undershirt, then flung her shirt onto the pile. She had tattooed bracelets all the way up her arms, intricate spirals and twists and snakes. Her hair was shorter than a boy’s, a mere finger’s length, and night-dark. ‘Wish I’d been quicker. I could have saved Bryn.’ Her tone was gruff.
‘You fought like a demon,’ Andra said. ‘You couldn’t have done more.’
‘It was his time,’ added Sula.
Tali’s face was turned away from us; she was studying the wall with apparent fascination. ‘How could it be his time? He was barely nineteen,’ she muttered. ‘Accursed Enforcers! They’re a stain on the fields of Alban. Every man lost is a man too many. Every man slain is a man Regan needs and hasn’t got. I should have saved him.’ Her fists were clenched tight.
Sula raised her brows but held her tongue. Dervla was crouched by the heap of clothing, scooping the garments into a linen bag. She glanced over at me.
‘If you want your things washed, throw them over,’ she said.
I took off my shoes. I set them neatly side by side. I unfastened my cloak; unwrapped my shawl. I felt odd, as if I were somewhere far away, watching this happen to a stranger with my face. Somewhere inside me a dam was waiting to bur
st.
Milla had filled the bath. I saw no sign of steam rising and wondered if these hardy folk bathed in cold water.
Tali rolled down her leggings to reveal a great livid bruise on hip and thigh.
‘You’d best let Fingal have a look at that when you’ve bathed,’ Milla remarked, turning a critical eye on her. ‘You could do with something to bring down the swelling.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Tali said dismissively. ‘That brother of mine is going to be busy enough without tending to my scratches.’
So Fingal was Tali’s brother; that explained the matching tattoos. I cleared my throat. ‘I could dress it for you,’ I said. ‘My grandmother was a healer and she taught me basic skills. If Fingal can give me some materials, I can make a poultice that will relieve the pain and stop your leg from stiffening up. If you like.’
Tali was about to deliver a withering refusal – I could see it in her eyes – but something halted her. ‘Later, maybe. Right now you look too worn out to lift your little finger.’
She stripped off her remaining garment to reveal a lithe body, muscular and rangy. For all its athletic strength, her form was womanly in its curves and hollows. I was staring. I turned my gaze onto the bath, by which Sula now stood, passing her hands over the water in an elaborate pattern. It was almost as if her fingers were dancing. Their intricate movement held all our gazes: Tali, standing like a warrior statue, Andra and Dervla by their pallets, Milla and Eva with buckets in hand.
Sula closed her eyes. She drew in a breath, then let it out in a sigh. There was a sudden stillness in the underground chamber, as if something unseen had drawn breath with her. The fire flickered and flared; abruptly, the room went winter-cold. Before I could reach for my cloak, I saw steam rising from the bath water. Sula opened her eyes, blinked a few times, then reached down to dip a hand in. ‘Just right,’ she said.