Raven Flight by Juliet Marillier Page B

way.”
    The Northies rose to their feet and joined hands, all but the tiny folk. A ripple went through the air, and I felt my skin prickle with the awareness of magic working all around us. Then someone whistled a few notes, like the start of a sea chantey, and to a collective gasp from the rebels, there appeared in the space within the circle a seascape in miniature: most of it churning ocean, with a hummock of land rising here and there, the larger ones grassed, the smaller mere rocky outcrops against which the waves dashed themselves, sending a fine salt spray into the air. I could feel the droplets on my face; I could hear the wash of the waves.
    “Get on out there, Twayblade,” ordered Hawkbit. By the edge of the map, the tiny folk were emptying out the basket Eva and I had crafted as their gift. One of them climbed in, and the basket, now a boat, headed out across the wavy map.
    “Ye must set out frae a place called Pentishead, down the coast frae Darkwater,” Hawkbit said, setting a shiver in me. I never wanted to go back to Darkwater as long as I lived. “There are high cliffs to the north and hidden skerries to the south. Fix the peak o’ Ronan’s Isle to the north o’ your prow, or ye will founder before ye reach the sheltered moorin’.” The wee boat passed the inner isles,heading westward. “A lang way. A lang, hard row. Beach your craft in the cove on Ronan’s Isle, then tak’ the narrow pathway tae the west, ower Lanely Muir. At the end o’ that path, ye’ll get a sign.”
    The tiny being demonstrated every stage of the journey as Hawkbit spoke: the long row between the isles, the boat drawn up on shore, a steep climb from the anchorage and a walk to the west. It crossed the moorland to the far end of Ronan’s Isle, where sheer cliffs dropped away to the sea. There it sat down, gazing out in the direction of the setting sun. Warm light illuminated its wee features.
    “Done,” said Hawkbit. The Northies released their grip on one another’s hands and the image of sea and islands vanished. The chamber was once more our familiar dining hall, now under the ordinary light of lanterns. Savory smells drifted over from the cooking area. The Northies sat down in their circle, the tiny folk among them. Woodrush retrieved the basket and began repacking the contents.
    “ ’Twere a grand wee boat,” someone said in a tone of regret.
    “That was … impressive.” Regan sat down cross-legged a little behind Hawkbit. “Sit down, all of you.” This was addressed to our own people, who seemed incapable of moving after the startling display.
    “Aye,” said Hawkbit, grimacing. “Dinna loom .”
    “Thank you,” I said. “That was the best map I could ever imagine. Am I right in thinking Ronan’s Isle is not the farthest island to the west? I thought I saw one or two beyond it.”
    “Aye, ane or twa,” said Woodrush. “But dinna gae beyond the spot Twayblade showit ye.”
    “We are deeply grateful,” Regan said.
    “I willna say we’re happy tae help ye.” Hawkbit’s dour expression left no doubt of that. “The lassie seekin’ out the Big Ones, that’s ane thing. Us gettin’ wrapped up in fightin’, that’s different.”
    “It’s not all fighting.” The Northie guard, Bearberry, spoke directly to Regan. “We ken your people head out in spring on their various missions. What’s to stop one or two of ours traveling with every team of yours? While you conduct your business, we could pay a wee visit to our own kind, for they can be found everywhere in Alban. We could pass on the word that things have changed, that we’re all working together now. You won’t find any traitors among our people, though there may be some closed ears and closed doors. There’s ways of knocking on those doors, even those that are barred fast, and being heard.”
    An outraged muttering arose from the Northies at this speech, which was indeed remarkable in its boldness. Bearberry, I thought, had the