The Tower of Ravens

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Should we stop here?’ Lewen called. ‘I do no’ want ye to get caught in the rain, when ye’ve been so sick. There’ll be an inn where we can take shelter.’

  Rhiannon frowned. ‘Nay, let’s get back. We could be stuck here all night, if the storm is as wild as the last one.’

  ‘Let’s hurry then,’ Lewen shouted back, the wind catching at his words, and kicked Argent into a canter.

  It was tiring fighting against the wind, and the horses reared and whinnied as blown branches whipped against them. Rhiannon was soon so weary she could barely keep her balance. Lewen lifted her from Blackthorn’s back, holding her before him. For once Rhiannon made no protest, huddling the cloak against the bitter cold that struck into the very marrow of her bones.

  As they reached the top of the ridge, they saw the rain sweeping across the valley below like advancing ranks of grey-clad soldiers. Lightning flashed, making the horses rear in terror, and seconds later there was an enormous clap of thunder that seemed to make the ground shake.

  ‘We’ll never make it to the castle,’ Lewen cried, as the first scud of rain spat into their faces. ‘We’re going to get soaked to the skin! Let us go to the tower. Ye can rest while I try to find the Scrying Pool. Sunset is a time o’ power – I can try to reach His Highness then.’

  ‘There’ll be no sunset tonight,’ Rhiannon said through chattering teeth. ‘Only storm.’

  Ahead of them loomed tall stone gateposts, with iron gates lying broken and open. The wind tore the hood from Rhiannon’s head, and sleet lashed her face. She coughed, the paroxysm so severe she could not catch her breath.

  Lewen kicked Argent forward into a gallop. ‘Come on then.’

  They rode helter-skelter through the gateposts, head bent against the vicious wind that seemed filled with thousands of little needles of ice. Within was a rising avenue of dark yew trees, growing so close overhead it gave them some protection from the storm, though they could barely see to avoid the ruts and potholes. The driveway led straight as an arrow up the hill and through a great arched gateway in a wall. As they passed through the archway, the rain hit them again like a hammer and Lewen spurred Argent on, Blackthorn cantering close behind, through courtyards and broken colonnades and blackened ruins, until at last they burst through a doorway and found themselves in a dry, dark place.

  Lewen dismounted, trying to catch his breath, and wiped his face with his sleeve. A sudden sphere of light suddenly winked into existence above his head, making Rhiannon gasp with alarm. ‘It’s all right, it’s just me,’ Lewen said. ‘I wanted to see.’

  He looked about him. They were in a long low building, very grimy and filled with old, cobwebbed contraptions that once would have been carts and carriages. A row of stalls stood empty, but Lewen saw with interest that one near the door was filled with fresh straw and had been cleared of the worst of the spiderwebs. The trough was clean and half-filled with water, and against the wall was a row of clean, shiny bins that must be filled with grain.

  ‘So someone keeps a horse here,’ Lewen said. ‘Let us hope he doesna return soon. There’s no muck heap, so I’d say it’s only an occasional visitor.’

  Rhiannon lifted a tired hand and pushed back her hood. Her cloak was dripping wet.

  ‘Here, let me help ye,’ Lewen said, lifting Rhiannon down. She was shivering with cold, and so he led her to sit down on one of the bins, and unfastened her cloak. Lewen shook it out and spread it to dry over one of the low walls between the stalls. He did the same with his own cloak, then turned his attention to the horses. Rhiannon’s saddlebags and her precious bow and quiver hung from the pommel of her soft saddle-pad. He unbuckled these from Blackthorn’s back, and hung them on the wall, then gave the mare a quick rubdown with a wisp of straw. He unsaddled Argent and rubbed him down too, then put the horses together in the stall. He gave them a bucket of oats to share, and then turned his attention back to Rhiannon. She looked pale and hollow-eyed, and coughed every now and again.

  ‘Let’s try to get ye warm,’ he said. ‘Wait here, I’ll just have a little scout around.’

  He looked out the doorway, where the rain was still teeming down, then went through the stables into the next building, which seemed to have been some kind of quarters for the stablehands. There was a kitchen with a big hearth, and a table and some old broken chairs, a few old pots, filthy with dust and spiderwebs, and a scullery with a sink and pump. After a few energetic jerks, there was a spurt of filthy water that then ran pure. Lewen rinsed out the sink, washing away myriad dead spiders, then tasted the water, which was sweet. He explored a little further, finding a couple of dark, smelly rooms above and what once would have been a kitchen garden beyond, but was now just weeds. The best find was a pile of firewood outside the kitchen door, protected from the rain by the eaves. It was filled with all sorts of creepy-crawlies, but Lewen banged it all together and built a fire in the old hearth, which he lit with a snap of his fingers. With firelight dancing over the walls, the old kitchen began to look almost hospitable.

  He went back to the stable and gathered together armfuls of straw, cheerfully telling Rhiannon what he had found. She followed him through to the kitchen and he made her a bed on the floor before the fire, then hung their cloaks out over the back of the chairs to dry.

  ‘Are ye still damp?’ he asked. ‘Happen ye should take off your coat and stockings, and let me hang them afore the fire to dry.’

  Rhiannon did as she was told then, dressed only in a loose white shirt and breeches, huddled closer to the fire, her hands held out. The wind moaned and sighed all round the ruins, and they could hear the occasional growl of thunder. An early dusk was falling.

  ‘Happen we’re stuck here for the night,’ Lewen said. Rhiannon looked back over her shoulder at him and smiled.

  He smiled back at her and stripped off his own coat and boots, arranging them over the back of old chairs so they could both stop the draughts and receive some of the warmth of the fire. His shirt was damp as well, but he was too shy to take it off in front of Rhiannon so he simply undid the collar and sleeves, and ruffled his damp hair, and looked about for the cleanest pot. ‘I dinna think to bring any food,’ he said. ‘But I can make us some sort o’ porridge from the oats, and I saw some herbs out in the garden, I’ll go and pick some to make us some tea when the rain dies down a wee.’

  Rhiannon lay back in the straw, looking dreamy. ‘It does no’ sound as if it’s ever going to stop.’

  Lewen looked down at her, and felt an absurd desire to say that he wished it never would. He bit the words back, and busied himself with practical matters. He scrubbed out a pot, then went into the stable to scoop a couple of handfuls of oats out of one of the bins. While it cooked, he quickly whittled them a rough spoon from a piece of firewood, porridge being too difficult to eat with the fingers. He and Rhiannon then put the pot of porridge between them and took turns to eat. It was rather tasteless, but it was warm and filling, and both felt much better after eating.

  ‘I hope there are no ghosts here,’ Rhiannon said. ‘I never want to see a ghost again.’

  ‘I doubt whether anyone died in this room,’ Lewen said. ‘The Red Guards did no’ kill the servants o’ the witches, only the witches themselves. Most o’ the battle would have taken place in the actual Tower, no’ here in the stables.’ He reached out a lazy hand and threw another log on the fire. A small lump of wood fell down from the pile and rolled across the floor and he picked it up, and examined it in the fitful light.

  ‘I think this is rowan,’ he said in surprise, and scratched at it with his nail, then lifted it to his nose and sniffed. ‘Ye do no’ usually burn rowan,’ he explained to Rhiannon, taking his knife and beginning to whittle. ‘Rowan is one o’ the sacred woods. It is thought to be particularly powerful protecting against evil spirits.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I dinna ken. It just is. They plant it in graveyards, along with yew, to stop the spirits o’ the dead from wanderin
g, and countryfolk often hang it above their door to keep the house safe. In the Other World, they often used it to beat suspected witches, or make crosses out o’ it to try to repel the devil. All nonsense, o’ course, naught but auld-fashioned superstition, but still it is a powerful tree. I’ll make ye something from it, a charm against evil.’

  ‘All right,’ she answered, pleased. ‘What will ye make?’

  ‘I dinna ken yet. Something to hang about your neck, I think. That is the best way to wear a charm.’ He lifted the knot of wood, and turned it first one way, then another. ‘A star,’ he said softly. ‘A star for my starry-eyed lass.’

  She smiled at him.

  In companionable silence, they sat together before the fire, listening to the constant wash of the rain, as curl after curl of white wood fell to the floor. It did not take him long to make. As large as Lewen’s hands were, they were deft and nimble, and he wielded the knife with great confidence. A five-pointed star set within a small hoop soon emerged. His focus grew more intent, his movements more careful and studied. Soon the amulet was smooth and silvery-pale.

  ‘I wish I had some beeswax to polish it with,’ he said at last, passing the amulet to Rhiannon. ‘I’ll polish it for ye when we get to Lucescere.’

  ‘It’s bonny,’ she said, turning it in her fingers. The hoop was about as large as the circle made by thumb and forefinger, the star within as delicate as thorns. ‘Will it really protect me against ghosts?’

  ‘Ghosts and sprites and things that go bump in the night,’ he answered with a grin. ‘Ye should wear it against your skin, just here, above your breast bone.’ He touched her gently with one finger, and felt her take a startled breath. ‘See, I’ve drilled a little hole here for ye to thread a ribbon through.’ He reached behind his head and pulled loose the black cord that bound back his unruly hair. It fell loose about his face as he threaded the cord through the aperture and knotted it together. ‘There you are,’ he said, pleased. ‘I’d like to see ye wear it. I’ve noticed ye have no necklace like the other girls.’

  Her face suddenly darkened.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘Naught,’ she said, but he saw how she shivered and he at once built up the fire so sparks flew up the chimney. ‘Ye’re cold,’ he said. ‘Come warm yourself by the fire, and I’ll make ye some tea.’

  She obeyed, huddling her arms about her knees, the pentagram hanging about her neck.

  Lewen pulled his cloak over his head and ran through the storm to grab a few handfuls of weeds. He saw peppermint, thyme, and chamomile, and a woody old lavender. There may have been more, but the rain was coming down so thickly he did not wait to see. He came back into the warm peace of the kitchen, and saw Rhiannon sitting staring down at the star charm in her hands. She gave him a radiant smile as he shook off the rain, and Lewen felt warm happiness well up through his body.

  He sat next to her, poking at the fire and throwing the herbs into the water. ‘I wish we had some honey,’ he said.

  ‘Canna have everything,’ Rhiannon said. ‘I think we doing well, all things considering.’

  He nodded and smiled. ‘Warm enough?’

  ‘Lovely and warm now, thanks,’ she said and rested her head on her hand. ‘Will they be worried about us?’

  Lewen nodded. ‘If I find the Scrying Pool I’ll try to scry to Nina,’ he said. ‘The storm may make it hard, and I am no’ very skilled at scrying. I do no’ ken if it’ll work.’

  ‘What is scrying?’

  ‘Talking mind to mind,’ Lewen said.

  Rhiannon stared at him in amazement. ‘Ye can talk to Nina, when she is there in the castle and we are here?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lewen said. ‘I ken Nina well, and she’ll be listening for word from me. True witches can scry at a distance, but I canna, no’ yet. I’m still learning.’

  ‘I’m amazed,’ Rhiannon said. ‘Is there aught ye canna do?’

  Lewen flushed. ‘O’ course.’

  ‘I’ve yet to see it,’ Rhiannon said. ‘Ye can make a spoon out o’ a lump o’ wood, or a charm against ghosts, ye can light a fire with a snap o’ your fingers, ye can talk to birds and dogs and horses and faeries, ye can make us a meal out o’ weeds and horse food, and ye can outride and outfight any man.’ Her voice was full of pride.

  Lewen leant on his elbow. ‘I’ve only managed to outride ye once.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true,’ Rhiannon said complacently.

  He smiled. ‘Well, at least I beat ye at archery.’

  ‘Aye, I ken,’ she said and flashed her dimple. ‘Ye strong.’ She lifted one hand and felt his arm muscles approvingly.

  Lewen shifted his weight, flushing. ‘The water’s boiling, let’s have some tea,’ he said. ‘Oh, no! We have naught to drink out o’. Dinna say I have to whittle us a cup as well!’

  ‘I have a cup in my bag,’ Rhiannon said. ‘We could use that.’

  ‘I’ll go and get it,’ he said and sat up.

  She frowned. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said.

  ‘I tell ye what, I’ll get your saddlebags and ye can find the cup,’ Lewen said, grinning at her. ‘I ken how ye feel about people looking through your things.’

  Her frown did not lift. ‘No looking,’ she warned him.

  ‘No looking,’ he promised. He got up and went out of the circle of light, into the chilly darkness beyond. When he came back, a few minutes later, he had Rhiannon’s saddlebags in his hands. He tossed them to her, and warmed himself by the fire as she surreptitiously looked through her things. By the time he had swung the pot off the fire and thrown on a few more logs, she had drawn a silver goblet out of the bag. Simply made, it had a wide cup set on a smooth, slender stem. In the centre of the stem was a large crystal that caught the light of the fire and glittered with rainbow prisms.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Lewen said. ‘Where on earth did ye get it?’ She said nothing and he looked at her sharply. ‘Was it Connor’s?’

  She nodded, looking anxious and guilty.

  ‘I thought ye gave my mam all o’ Connor’s things, to give to his family.’

  ‘She asked me for his clothes,’ Rhiannon said.

  He could not help laughing, though the admission troubled him. ‘What else did ye keep?’

  She drew out a pretty music-box that played an ethereal tune when she opened the lid, and the small golden medal with the device of a haloed hand. Lewen touched it with one finger. ‘The League o’ the Healing Hand,’ he said, sounding sad. ‘Ye canna tell a story about the Bright Wars without hearing tales o’ the League. They are almost all dead now.’ He lifted his gaze. ‘Ye canna keep these things, Rhiannon. Truly ye canna. They belong to Johanna now. If Connor carried them in his travel-pack, it means they meant a lot to him, and they will to her too. Do ye understand?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Rhiannon answered crossly.

  He took the goblet. ‘We may as well drink out o’ it now, though, although it’s far too precious for thyme tea!’

  Very carefully he managed to pour some of the fragrant tea into the goblet. ‘This will help warm ye, and will ease that cough,’ he said. ‘Drink up.’

  She took the goblet between her hands and sipped at the hot liquid within. After a few mouthfuls she passed the goblet back to him. ‘Ye now.’

  He drank deeply, though the draught was quite bitter without honey, then passed it back to her, watching as she lifted the cup to her mouth and drank again. Her black hair was kindled with gold and bronze light where the fire struck through it, and her eyes were shadowed. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. As if sensing his thought, she looked up and smiled at him.

  ‘Thank ye,’ she said. ‘I am warm all through now.’

  Unable to help himself, Lewen bent over and kissed her. She caught her breath in surprise, then drew his head closer, one arm sliding up round his shoulder. Lewen lost himself in sensation. Her skin was just as satiny-smooth as he had imagined, and warm from the fire. Her mouth was soft and sweet, and s
he kissed with an intoxicating combination of ardour and inexperience. When Lewen entwined his tongue with hers, he felt her shudder and sigh and creep closer, and he felt such a desperate eagerness he surprised even himself. He tried to draw back, but she would not let him, raising herself to follow him.

  He sighed and folded her under him, feeling their bodies shift and curve to each other’s shape. One of her hands slipped down under his collar and caressed the skin of his throat. He closed his eyes and let his own hand slide under her shirt, finding the naked skin of her back, slipping round to caress her slender waist, and then finding at last her breast. She moved in sudden surprise and he heard her breath catch and sigh. He had to draw away then, to look down into her face, to watch as he undid her buttons with shaking fingers. Her eyes were closed, her face as soft and vulnerable as he could ever wish for, and a smile curved her lips. As he drew away her shirt, cupping her breasts with both hands, the smile deepened and her elusive dimple flashed in her cheek. He drew a deep, shaky breath and brought his mouth down to the creamy curve of her breast. She arched her back.

  ‘Rhiannon, Rhiannon,’ he whispered at last, managing to lift his mouth away. He felt drunk.

  ‘Lewen,’ she whispered back, and kissed his ear.

  ‘Rhiannon, I canna …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rhiannon, if we go on, I willna be able to stop. I dinna think I can stop now.’

  ‘Stop? Why?’ she asked in surprise.

  He kissed her again, drew back to look at her, swooped down to kiss her again. The feel of her half-naked body beneath him was drugging all his sense.