Raven's Edge

by Alan Ratcliffe

  (click)

  In her mind, the final tumbler fell into place and the box flew open, the entire affair laid bare. It would have been impossible for two people to pull off a trick as elaborate as the hag’s appearance at the feast. Even for a group as skilled at performance and artifice as the players it must have been challenging, requiring that every guest had been given a dose of the same toxin and relying on its unsettling effects to gloss over any flaw in their illusion. She thought about her own strange visions that night in their camp, now certain that she too had felt the touch of the Dreamer’s Kiss. He knew who I was, could have killed me then and there... but he was so sure of himself, he even showed me how it was done! She bit her lip. And I was too blind to see it.

  Raven’s anger flared and she tore the playbill from the bookcase. The top part of the sheet ripped away, taking most of Zhao’s smirking face with it, but no matter. She had what she wanted from it. “Conall, have you got a map?”

  * * *

  Meara’s hooves raised clouds of dust as they pounded along the dry earth of the road. Horse and rider were already a blur by the time they shot through Strathearn’s eastern gate, and freed of the winding city streets Raven dug her heels into her steed’s flanks, urging her on even faster.

  Less than ten minutes had passed since she’d raced from the castle, a perplexed Conall in her wake and barely breaking stride as she jumped into Meara’s saddle. Fortunately the guards at the portcullis leading down towards the town had quickly raised it at the sight them galloping towards it, or they would both have been diced into cubes while barely slowing.

  Despite the sense of urgency pulling her inexorably onwards, Raven had made one stop in the town before resuming her charge for the city gate. The surprise on the apothecary’s face at seeing her burst through his door for the second time in two days was as nothing compared to his shock at what she then laid on his counter.

  “Is that what I think it is?” she’d asked.

  The bewildered apothecary reached out a tentative hand and touched the small blue flower Zhao had given her gently, as though it might crumble under there merest pressure. His mouth worked silently for a few moments, before at last he asked, without raising his gaze from the object of his fascination, “Where did you get this?”

  But Raven was already leaving. “Keep it,” she called over her shoulder before the door closed behind her.

  After her revelations with the playbill, Raven had once again looked through the journal the apothecary had lent her and this time compared Zhao’s bloom against the sketch within. She judged them to be the same, and the bald man’s reaction had confirmed it.

  The Dreamer’s Kiss... and he had given it to her.

  He was taunting me! The thought burned within her as she galloped eastwards. But even worse was the knowledge that had she only looked in greater detail at the journal the day before then she might have caught him after his moonlit assignation with Niamh Dunmar, before he could flee. He’d as good as confessed the truth to her long before she even reached Blackrot Mire, but she’d failed utterly to see it. How could I be so stupid?

  At least she had an idea of where he might be headed, and she hoped that here his unassailable confidence would finally be his undoing. But if her guess was wrong then the chance would be gone and the adversary she’d pursued across half the north would vanish like morning mist.

  She really hoped her guess wasn’t wrong.

  The map of the duchy, once Conall had fetched it, had been yet another clue of Zhao’s involvement, though she didn’t berate herself so much for missing this one. Like many clues, its use was only really apparent once you already knew – or at least strongly suspected – the truth.

  Comparing the names of the towns and villages visited by the players against their locations around the duke’s lands, she was not at all surprised to find they formed a near-perfect ring around Strathearn. Over the past month or more, the company had never been more than a day’s ride from the city.

  Raven recalled the duke’s words to her that first day inside Kester’s room. He comes and goes as he pleases... he was given chambers in the castle, but barely uses them.

  She wondered whether it had been a game for him, capering for the common folk, then riding through the night to perform another act, one altogether darker in nature, for the duke and his family. During her pursuit she’d gained a sense of how devious her adversary was, but it was only now she saw the full extent of his cunning.

  She now had the truth of how it was done, she was certain of that. Not the finer details perhaps, but there seemed little doubt the company of players had staged the hag’s appearance at the feast by poisoning the guests; Zhao then returning every few days as they toured the surrounding countryside to administer regular doses of that same poison to Kester. But the why still eluded her. What could drive someone with no connection to the duke or his family to concoct such a nefarious scheme? Niamh at least had her reasons for allowing herself to be recruited to their cause, as twisted as those were. But though their causes had aligned, Raven remained convinced the blonde noblewoman was only a convenient tool to be used and discarded when she was no longer of use, not their ringleader.

  While the map of the players’ tour of the duchy had helped her understand what they’d done, it had also served an even greater purpose; as well as showing where they’d been, it told her where they were going.

  It was possible Zhao, feeling the net closing around him, had truly fled leaving all behind him. But something told her he would return to his cronies. Someone who would knowingly flaunt such clues in front of their pursuer had an unshakeable belief in their own invulnerability.

  How long he might stay was another matter entirely.

  Raven dug her heels into Meara’s flanks once more, and the creature responded by lurching into an even greater speed. It felt like they were flying.

  They were out there somewhere, the ones who had orchestrated such a vile plot. She knew their identities at last... all that remained was to find them.

  * * *

  In the end it proved surprisingly straightforward.

  More than an hour had passed since leaving the city, and Raven had allowed Meara to slow her pace at last when she began to snort loudly and flecks of white foam appeared at the corners of the mouth.

  Raven smelled the smoke before they saw it. An acrid stink filling the air, unmistakable and alarming, its presence conveying an instant sense of danger. Then they emerged from a line of trees and she saw it hanging over the land to her left like a gigantic exclamation mark.

  She tugged Meara’s reins and steered her from the road, heading for the billowing column like an arrow, paying no heed to the uneven bumps and rises of the ground. All her finely honed instincts told her she’d found the ones she was looking for.

  As they rode over the wild grassland, her steed jumping effortlessly over small brooks and through thickets of bracken, instinct told her something else; that this was no mere campfire. She glanced up at the black shapes wheeling around the black smoke, the sound of their harsh, distant cries reaching her ears. Her mouth formed a hard, thin line.

  It was still there a few minutes later when she stood amid the ashes. By the gods... did any of them make it out?

  She turned to look at the devastation all around. The colourful caravans the players rode from town to town were unrecognisable. Now they were little more than piles of charred timbers, the ends of broken planks jutting from the smoking wreckage like shattered ribcages. Of the beasts that had pulled them there was no sign; they at least appeared to have escaped unscathed. The same could not be said of the players.

  Lying here and there among the ruins of their former homes were larger lumps that at first glance might have been burned logs. But a longer examination revealed grisly signs of their true nature; a foot, pink skin still showing through the char on the soles, a hand, fingers still splayed against the ground where they’d fallen... a mouth, dotted with blackened te
eth, hanging wide open in pain and anguish. An unending scream.

  Raven’s mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. The players had plotted an unspeakable crime, one that, had it been successful, might have torn the north asunder once more just as the wounds of civil war had begun to heal. But she knew them... had drunk with them. Laughed and danced with them. She’d been prepared to see them punished. But this... nobody deserved this, even if their actions had led to innocent women across the duchy suffering the same fate.

  It wasn’t just the fact of their deaths that gave her pause. The stink in the air... the cinders, the stench of charred meat and burnt hair... the background hum of flies buzzing around the corpses... it transported her back to another time. When she closed her eyes she could still see the burned-out houses, the blackened remains of their friends and neighbours. She felt again the same anger she’d felt then, fuelled by helplessness. He had done this, she knew. The green-eyed man. He’d taken her father and...

  “No!” Raven’s eyes flew open and the present came flooding back. This had to be Zhao’s work, and for now the why was less important than the when. After taking a moment to compose herself, she knelt down and pressed her fingers to the ashes. Still warm. Just.

  She stood, looking around to take in the full extent of the devastation. Most likely the fire had started in their camp, probably a flaming torch tossed into one or more of the caravans. From there it had spread to the surrounding brushland, which still smouldered, before exhausting itself at last. Depending on how quickly it had spread, it could have burned for several hours.

  If Zhao left the castle after meeting Niamh and rode straight here then, yes, he could have arrived shortly before the dawn. But had he killed his accomplices first, she wondered, or set them ablaze as they slept?

  Raven was just deliberating her next move, likely involving searching for tracks to hopefully reveal in which direction Zhao had ridden, when from the corner of her eye she spied a splash of colour against the black-grey ash.

  Red, still glistening wetly in the morning sun.

  It formed a trail of sorts, leading away from the scorched earth. Raven slid her sword from its scabbard and followed it.

  It didn’t take long to find the source. Just far enough from the players’ camp to avoid being caught in the conflagration was a small grove of birch trees. The trail of blood led right to its edge, ending at a dark shape slumped at the base of one trunk. She approached the shape warily, though she knew the danger was minimal.

  It stirred as her shadow fell over it. Cracked lips set in skin seared an angry red by heat parted in a crooked grin. “So... the raven... flies down... to join... the rook... and the faechein crows.” The voice, which emerged as a croak, was replaced by a series of bubbling, spluttering noises. It took Raven several moments to realise it was laughter. “Maybe... Zhao was right... about us... flocking together... eh, dark one?”

  Raven regarded Rook without pity. It was easier to do when he still lived, though the wretched figure was barely recognisable from the last time she’d seen him. His burns were severe and the pain was surely unbearable, but not fatal. Far worse was the ragged gash torn in his stomach, into which the broken-toothed player had crammed a balled fist dark and tacky with drying blood.

  “He did this to you, didn’t he?” she said.

  “Aye.” He winced at a jolt of pain. “I was... sat having... a drink... when he flew... out of the... night... like he had... all the... demons o’hell... at his heels. Didn’t even... have time to... stand afore he... gutted me.”

  “And then he set the fires before the others woke.” The player nodded miserably. “He wanted to silence you, didn’t he... all of you, for what you did at the duke’s feast?” Rook’s eyes held her own, glittering with a hint of malice. Then another nod. “I have to find him.”

  Another bubbling laugh. “I just... bet you... do.”

  “Would you rather he gets away?” Another sullen stare. “The others are dead, Rook. You’ll be dead soon. All of you are beyond the reach of any punishment the duke could mete out. But Zhao isn’t... not yet, anyway. Wouldn’t you prefer to enter the next life knowing that he got what he deserves?”

  The stricken player said nothing at first. He merely glared at her with the same surly expression. Then, just as she was starting to think he would hold his silence, he stirred once more. “East,” he growled. “There’s a... ruined... watchtower. By the sea. We was... all... to meet there. He... has a boat.”

  Raven nodded. She sheathed her sword and turned to leave. “Wait,” he croaked.

  “What is it?”

  Rook stared at her imploringly, all malice gone from his eyes. “Please,” he murmured. “The pain... it’s too much. I’m... done. End it... for me. Have... mercy.”

  Raven stared at him. For all he and his comrades had done, she had no desire to cause him further hurt. Yet to take his life... she wasn’t sure she could, even if it was a kindness. She reached a decision and left him, returning to Meara and hauling herself back into the saddle. Rather than head east, however, she returned to the grove.

  The broken-toothed player looked up at her hopefully, tears washing clean tracks through the soot covering his face. She reached into one of her saddlebags, drew out a spare dagger and tossed it at his feet.

  “What’s... that for?”

  “An ending.” With that, Raven pressed her heels to Meara’s flanks and steered her back towards the road.

  * * *

  The sun was at her back, sinking towards the western horizon and daubing the sky with streaks of pink and orange, when she at last caught sight of crumbling stone walls perched on a cliff’s edge at the end of the world.

  Beyond that lay the boundless ocean, unbroken for countless leagues until at last it touched the shores of far-off, semi-mythical places unknown to any of the Empire, save the fearless traders who braved storms and the giant sea-serpents said to inhabit the deepest waters to bring back exotic wares alien to their land.

  Too much of the watchtower had collapsed, much of it reclaimed by the very sea it had once stood sentinel over, to divine its exact purpose. However, from the look of the two tower walls still standing, topped by a pointed roof but otherwise open to the elements on all sides, it may have once functioned at least in part as a beacon to guide those self-same traders towards the estuary to the south that led eventually to Strathearn’s docks.

  Set against the pastel sky, the sun and salt-bleached stone warmed by the ruby red rays of the setting sun, in other circumstances it might have been a beautiful spot. But as she rode closer, she could feel the tension in the air. She was not alone.

  Raven jumped from Meara’s saddle, her sword already in her hand before she landed on the grass. The glint of the dying sun on the steel blade was like fresh-spilt blood.

  She left her steed nosing at the ground, its ears rotating anxiously from side to side. She’s no more happy to be here than I am, she thought. Raven’s eyes mirrored the movements of the animal’s ears as edged closer to the fort, darting this way and that in search of her quarry. As she approached she felt a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck. He’s here.

  Warily, Raven stepped around a pile of broken masonry that may once have been a wall. She’d been wrong before, she decided. It wasn’t a pleasant place at all. There were too many shadowed corners, too many fractured walls and floors that might at any moment collapse and crush anyone standing beneath. There was too much debris to block her view; she’d step around one pillar only to lose sight of another part of the ruin. It was the perfect place for an ambush, however.

  “You’re making a habit of following me to such places.”

  The words echoed around the remains of the stone walls, but of the speaker there was no sign. “Afraid to face me, Zhao?” she called back, her eyes roving the ruins for signs of her adversary.

  “Afraid?” The voice was thoughtful. “No. Call it rather... a fondness for the dramatic.”

  Raven’s
eye caught a flash of movement. She glanced up and saw the olive-skinned player standing at the edge of one of the upper floors, exposed after the facing wall had fallen away. The harlequin’s costume was gone, replaced by dark leather jerkin, trews and riding boots. His garb was not unlike her own, though markedly less mud-stained and travel-worn. He stared down at her, arms folded across his chest and a sardonic smile playing about his lips. “I am curious as to how you found me, however.”

  “You aren’t as careful as you think you are. Rook was still alive when I found him. He told me about this place.”

  “Dear Rook, ever resourceful. He’s now with his fellows, I take it?”

  “He’s there, one way or another. But it wasn’t I who sent him.” Raven’s grip tightened around the handle of her sword. “Why are you still here, Zhao? Rook said you have a boat, why have you not used it? You’ve tidied up all your loose ends, it seems.”

  “Not all.” He left that hanging in the air between them a moment before continuing. “A ship is coming for me tonight to take me home. What better place to let them know exactly where I can be found?”

  The beacon, Raven thought. Aloud, she asked, “But where is home for you?”

  “Can you not guess?”

  “How can I, when everything you’ve told me is a lie.”

  He made a so-so expression. “Lies of omission, perhaps. But nothing of what I said was false.”

  “But you said that your blood was half-Imperial, that your father was a sailor-”

  “As indeed he was.” Zhao smiled. “He hailed from a quaint little town a ways south of here. Dunford, I believe it is called.”

  Raven frowned. “So that means your mother...”

  “Was Xanshian, yes. I was raised within sight of the Jade City itself, a little boy loyal to the great emperor. Ours, of course. The true emperor.”