The Caller by Juliet Marillier Read Free Book Online Page A

himself. Love brought him back.’
    ‘Ye callit his lady, ye say.’ The tone was flat with disbelief.
    ‘I did. My gift is not yet fully developed, and it was challenging to do that, but it seemed the right way to bring him back.’
    ‘Oh, aye? Why didna ye ca’ the Lord himself? Wouldna that hae been quicker?’
    The voice had changed again; I heard a lively intelligence there, a genuine wish to hear the truth. Perhaps we were no longer playing games. And if I had correctly understood what this being had hinted at before, my response was all- important. ‘I have never been told that a Caller must not summon a Guardian,’ I said. ‘But I think attempting that would be unwise. I feel . . . I feel in my bones that such a call should be made only in the very last extreme.’
    ‘If ye were facin’ death, ye mean?’
    ‘I’ve faced death before and saved myself, and others, by calling one of the Good Folk to help me. But a Guardian? Not if all that’s in the balance is the life of one human woman. That’s what I am, Caller or not. If the long story of Alban was a river, I’d be only one drop of it. And if I’m killed along the way, in time another Caller will step up to take my place.’ It hurt to say those words, for I’d been told it could be several hundred years before that might happen – while canny gifts were not uncommon among the populace of Alban, mine was a rare one. ‘But I plan to stay alive at least until next midsummer,’ I added. ‘And I have faith that our challenge to Keldec will succeed, and that Alban will be remade as the peaceful and just realm it once was. I have a part to play in that, and I need your help to do it.’
    ‘Ye canna mend a pot that’s smashed in a thousand pieces,’ murmured the unseen presence, sounding old and tired now. ‘Ye canna sew up a butterfly’s wing when it’s torn and shredded. Ye canna make hope frae despair. Alban’s far gone.’
    ‘When I first set out to find the Guardians,’ I said, choosing my words carefully, ‘I was told they had all gone away, gone deep, and would wait out the time of Alban’s darkness. I know that to such ancient and magical folk, human lives seem very short and human affairs slight. But the way Keldec has changed Alban is not slight. He might reign for another twenty years, thirty even. He plans to change the law so his son can succeed him as king, and he’ll likely mould his child in his own image. For us human folk, that is a long time to wait. Too long. Alban might then be like that smashed pot, beyond mending. We need to act while we still have strength to do so; while we still have hope. You spoke of despair. But you are still here.’
    ‘A’ the bittie pieces o’ me, aye.’
    I looked again at the tiny, bright beings clinging to the walls of the cairn or perched in its niches. Each seemed as fragile as a butterfly. Might not each little light be snuffed out as easily as a candle flame? If that were to happen, would the White Lady herself be gone forever? I must tread delicately here. ‘While those women come and perform their ritual, you still remain,’ I said. ‘If the rebellion succeeds and Keldec is overthrown, Alban will become a place where such practices are allowed again. Ordinary folk won’t be afraid to observe the old ways. People like me won’t be called smirched anymore; our canny gifts will be accepted. And . . . the bittie pieces of you . . . they would surely be able to come together again. You could shine as brightly as you did before, in the time of peace.’
    I sensed, rather than heard, a deep sigh. The light from the little beings wavered then steadied again.
    ‘Ane thing I’ll say for ye, ye hae hope enow for a hundred lassies,’ the unseen being observed. ‘Whatever drives ye, ’tis a force tae be reckoned wi’. Ye ken the winter’s almost on us. Were ye plannin’ on stayin’ here at the Beehives through the dark o’ the year? Would the witawoo be catchin’ mice and voles