by Aderyn Wood
The Raven
The Secret Chronicles of Lost Magic
Aderyn Wood
Contents
Copyright
About
Dedication
Prologue
Winter of the Sky
1. Izhur
Summer of the Forest
2. Yuli
3. Izhur
4. Anton
5. Iluna
Summer of the Sky
6. Iluna
7. Yuli
8. Anton
9. Izhur
10. Iluna
11. Yuli
Winter of the Valley
12. Izhur
13. Iluna
14. Anton
15. Yuli
16. Izhur
17. Yuli
Summer of the Sky
18. Iluna
19. Anton
20. Iluna
21. Izhur
22. Iluna
23. Anton
24. Yuli
25. Iluna
26. Yuli
27. Izhur
28. Iluna
29. Izhur
30. Anton
31. Iluna
32. Anton
Acknowledgments
Also by Aderyn Wood
About the Author
Copyright © 2015 Aderyn Wood
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Edited by Pam Collings
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Cover Art by Taire Morrigan
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Created with Vellum
About The Raven
When a foreign tribe attacks the peaceful Onan people, a lonely outcast is forced to reveal her secret Gift – but will such power bring acceptance?
It is the darkest time in winter, when suns, moons, and stars all wane from the sky. In the Wolf clan, a baby is born with a powerful Gift, but dangerous omens brand her an Outcast, and the Elders name her Iluna.
Iluna struggles to find her place in the proud and distrustful Wolf clan, and as her powers bloom, she discovers a mysterious friend.
Dark magic, war, and treachery soon jeopardize the life of every clan member; many suspect Iluna and her Gift.
Is this Outcast girl to blame, or is she salvation?
* * *
The Raven is the first book in a collection called ‘The Secret Chronicles of Lost Magic’. To find when the next Chronicle will be released consider signing up to Aderyn’s newsletter.
To my parents
Dear Albinus,
I hope this scroll will find you well and not drowning in the political machinations of our revered tower.
I have settled here in Dyserth. A stone cottage in the forest has become my new dwelling. The villagers tell me it once housed a Cathuchin hermit. There is room for a garden, and Salomon has busied himself over the summer building a stable for my mule. Importantly, I now have the soltiude I require to inscribe my travels and all that I have learned, and I have completed the first of such chronicles for you to archive.
I discovered the tale of Iluna within the Annals of Christoph, located in the Grande Librarie in Rhone. That great tome harboured one small passage that mentioned Iluna’s story in mere passing, and within those lines one term caught my eye – dumai’shange – skin changer. A footnote gave me a possible location to the source of the anecdote. And, so it was I traveled to the Arlesatain Mountains, and to the small village of Breue d’Arle.
At first the villagers reacted with heavy suspicion when I asked about the dumai’shange. Almost a month I stayed, before their leader, an old wizened grandmother, decided that I’d earned her trust with my songs and stories. One night during the full moon, she told me Iluna’s tale in full.
The following day she beckoned me to trek with her through the mountains to a secret cave that she claimed was the very one in which Iluna had stayed. It was centuries old with wall paintings like none I have seen, chronicling strange events from ancient clans. An odd feeling overcame me in that cave – that undeniable shiver caused by magic.
Later, the old grandmother confided that Iluna still lived, and that she appears in the cave whenever the Blue Comet returns to our skies – every eighty years – to add more paintings to its walls. I surmised she referred to Angelus’s Comet. I nodded respectfully, but no doubt this was a well-worn fable passed from grandparent to grandchild throughout the centuries.
Within this fable, evidence of strong magic will draw interest from fellow sages, and it is my sincere hope that it does. As you know, references to skin changers are rare indeed. Moreover, the daily practise of magic in primordial tribes also holds opportunities for further study. We’ve so little evidence about the use of magic in such archaic times.
In the tale, there is mention of dwindling numbers of those born with the gift – the giftborn they called them – suggesting that at one point, in the distant past, it is likely that the gifted were common. But gradually over time they have become as rare as black veridian. Indeed, perhaps rarer. This tale verifies that conclusion, but sheds little light as to the cause. The answer, it seems, continues to elude us.
I have recorded Iluna’s tale in full in the pages that follow. I look forward to hearing your insights when we next meet. And perhaps, when our paths do cross again, we should not drink so much wine. My head still recovers!
May the Light be always with you,
Sage Vivlian of Wyllt
The Year of our Eternal Lord 374
(2782 - Old Realm Calendar)
Part I
Winter of the Sky
Izhur
Izhur stood close to the birthing tree on an outcrop of granite overlooking a forested valley. Mist draped the leafless canopy, clinging to the odd pine tree. The wintry daysun glinted once before descending to its lengthy rest beyond the horizon. Izhur took a shuddering breath. With the daysun now making its descent to Malfiren, Ilun had begun – that dark time when no moon, star or sun walked the sky for an eightnight. The Soragan closed his eyes as his lips murmured an invocation to Ona, the Mother, but the sound of footsteps made him open them again. Lili stood before him, her hands kneading each other into a tight knot.
“What is it, child?” Izhur asked, but he already knew her request.
The young novice’s eyes filled with tears. “Amak sent me. She said it’s time.”
Izhur nodded and gestured for the girl to lead him along the short stone path to the birthing tree.
Men were not supposed to be present during childbirth. It was a female rite. Amak, the clan’s medicine woman, and her novice, Lili, saw to such matters. A man was only allowed if he was a Soragan, and only then if something was very, very wrong.
Izhur pursed his lips as he walked the few short steps to the tree. This was his first Ilun as the clan’s Soragan. His first birth, too. He wished his master was still alive to guide him, to teach him. Twenty summers was too young to be a clan’s Soragan. He hoped he knew what to do.
Izhur followed Lili up the carved steps of the giant oak tree, its leaves long gone with the winter frosts. Snow would come soon. The Winter of the Sky was always cold and dark.
About ten steps up the trunk a tree-dwell made of bark and mud clung to thick lower boughs, the way a hive did. Izhur stepped inside and blinked, adjusting his eyes. Neria lay on the birthing mat, fatigue w
ritten on her grey face. Her dark hair clung close; eyes drawn. The bulge of her pregnancy sat low on her abdomen. She had little left.
Amak stood. The medicine woman looked as though she had aged eight winters. The lines around her eyes usually accentuated her smiles, but now they made her appear old and weary. Her tunic was stained and blood dripped from her hands. “The daysun has gone down,” her voice almost a whisper.
He nodded. “I will do my best.”
Neither of them mentioned Ilun. They were the clan’s knowledge keepers: she – the medicine woman; he – the Soragan. They knew the danger that now lurked for human and spirit alike. Ilun was a dark event that occurred every eight winters – during the Winter of the Sky. With no light to frighten them away, the spirits of Malfiren were free to wreak their terror. The first night of Ilun was no time to be welcoming a newborn into Ona’s world. Izhur would have to work hard to repel any dark spirits. No easy task. The demons would detect a newborn the way a wolf smells blood.
Neria tried to scream again as another contraction took hold, but her voice rasped like stone on stone. Wolf pelts covered the mud floor of the tree-dwell. Much of Neria’s blood had drenched them and the coppery scent filled the modest space. Izhur knelt by Neria’s head and wiped her sweaty forehead with the palm of his hand. She was cold.
“I will protect you, and your baby,” he said, and Neria’s eyes closed, squeezing out a tear.
His voice had shaken, as had his hands.
“Lili, get some lights – as many as you can,” Izhur instructed, trying to keep panic from his voice. The girl jumped up and tore down the tree. Twilight now rapidly diminished. They would need light to help keep the Malfir away.
Izhur swallowed a hard lump. He put his leather satchel on the floor of the shelter and took out the implements he required for the task ahead, his hands shaking. He placed two flat stone plates on the floor, both the size of his palm. He took a small clay pot and opened the stopper. The spicy aroma of olibanum and crushed sage filled his nostrils, contrasting with the thick stench of blood. He poured a generous amount on each of the stone plates, and put them on either side of Neria.
Lili came back with a satchel of oil pots. She held one in her hand, already alight.
“Give it to me,” Izhur said. He lit a taper then held it to the plates. The crushed spices smoldered and spirals of aromatic smoke danced through the shelter. They would help deter the Malfir.
Izhur handed the oil pot and the taper to Lili. “Light the others – all of them – and place them around the tree-dwell. Try to make a circle.” Lili nodded. Soon a yellow glow lit the mud walls.
Neria cried out again and Amak cooed soothing words as she glanced earnestly at Izhur. He knew the look in her eyes; it was a plea for him to do something, to move faster. A distant rumble sounded outside – thunder. Amak heard it, too. Her eyebrow arched in a question: A winter storm on Ilunnight? Omens upon omens.
Izhur placed his hands on either side of Neria’s head and started the song – a deep incantation, a call to Ona, the Mother. Only She had the power to help them on such a night.
His body rocked and he closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing and the words. ‘Whenever you’re unsure go back to the beginning.’ He remembered his master’s advice as he followed it. Breathe. Chant. Breathe. Chant.
Another rumble of thunder echoed. The storm crept closer. An icy breeze whipped through the shelter sending the flames of the oil pots sideways. Neria’s strained scream followed. Izhur opened his eyes and wiped sweat from his forehead; his long hair hung in damp tendrils. Amak scowled and shook her head.
He returned his trembling hands to Neria’s temples and tried again. Breathe. Chant. Breathe.
He felt it before he saw it, that giddy sensation. This was normal, like a feeling of falling, before his sight opened up to reveal the Otherworld. Its familiar shadowy grey swam before him. Neria’s body pulsed dimly as her light waned. Like an oil pot on its last drop, she was dying. Izhur fought the urge to retract out of the Otherworld; his grief would overpower him if he didn’t control it.
He focussed his mind and looked around. The Otherworld was clear. No shadows lurked. The Malfir were no threat – yet. He turned his attention to the babe. Neria’s womb pulsed with a strong golden light; so powerful, it was like trying to look at the daysun.
Izhur wanted to turn away but forced himself to send his sight further down, toward the bright spirit still nestled within Neria’s womb. In the Otherworld, the form of the baby was fluid. The child took no clear shape, and resembled something of a circle of fire. Izhur marveled. Never before had he seen a spirit so bright. It calmed him. Perhaps the Malfir would be frightened.
Izhur had to force the birth. It was the only way. He sent forward his ethereal arm, and saw the luminance of his hand and fingers. He touched the ball of golden light and whispered a chant as he pushed down. Movement and light throbbed and he pushed harder. The glow from the oil pots was visible on this plane, dancing red globes. But another flash struck, to the north – rapid bolts of blue and white. Lightning.
He pushed again. More movement. Come little one. He pushed harder. Neria’s light faded further, blinking out. Nothing could be done for her now. Izhur had to save the child. He pushed again and an eruption of light threw him back before darkness came.
∞
“The child is cursed. That is as clear as my foot.” Ugot spat next to the foot he mentioned. “I can see it. As can you. We know what has to be done.”
There were several nods.
The Circle of Eight sat in the Tree of Knowledge, the oldest oak in the Wolf clan’s winter lands. It stood away from their family shelters, giving them the privacy they needed to make decisions about the clan’s daily existence. Its mud walls weren’t maintained as well as the family tree-dwells and an icy breeze cut through thick cracks, making everyone shiver. The Eight huddled close, a single oil pot lighting their faces; old faces mostly, all of them wearing grim expressions.
Flynth, grandmother of thirty healthy children, had glistening round cheeks, wet with tears that refused to stop no matter how many times she shook her head. Neria had been a friend to all of them. They met now to decide the fate of the babe who had suckled as her mother’s life force passed away. The storm had been distant then; now it sent its deadly fingers closer. The rumbling of thunder roiled without pause.
Izhur shook his head as he pulled his wolf cloak around him. “This child, she has an extraordinary light.” His voice wavered as he spoke. He wanted to explain more, but a peal of thunder prevented him.
“What kind of Soragan are you, Izhur? Even I can see the omens. She is cursed, I tell you.” Ugot spat again; his dark eyes scanned the others, searching for agreement. There was more nodding. Ugot was one of the oldest, and despite his renowned lack of wisdom, this gave him some authority.
“Ugot speaks the truth, Izhur. I am sorry to say it.” Amak shrugged. “How else can we explain the drought, the fires? Even Neria’s death? She was a healthy young woman; her body should have withstood the birth. And what about her father?”
“Osun was careless. Everyone knows not to hunt lions.” With even Amak against him, Izhur felt completely alone.
“Still, he died not long after her conception.” The medicine woman shrugged again, as though apologising.
Izhur massaged his eyes, his body exhausted. The birth had required much energy. Such focus in the plane of the Otherworld was always tiring. He needed rest. Thinking straight was difficult. But he could not deny the omens.
Osun’s death was unnatural. On their return from Agria, they had found their summer lands, usually so abundant with life, burned and barren. The whole forest had suffered drought and fire. And now this – the first night of Ilun, the babe is born and Neria died. Ill-omened indeed. But he had seen her in the Otherworld. He could not forget that light.
Ugot stared at Izhur with a look of smug satisfaction. His protruding brow and narrow eyes made him appear rat
her stupid.
Izhur ignored him and forced himself to speak. “I have seen her light. I tell you it is strong. She has – power.”
“Then she would make a generous sacrifice, perhaps prevent any further tragedy this Ilun.” It was Zodor who spoke, his voice quiet but strong. At twenty-five summers, Zodor was young to be such a respected leader in the Eight, but somehow he was the dominant voice. A fine hunter and father of two healthy sons, he was the unspoken leader. Everyone listened when he talked.
Izhur rubbed his temple, not quite believing what Zodor suggested. It had been generations since there had been a human sacrifice in the Wolf clan. His shoulders slumped with the weight of responsibility. Again he wished for his old master. Jakom had been the clan’s Soragan for more summers than most could count. He used to be the dominant voice in this circle – as a Soragan’s should. His wisdom had kept the clan from falling into danger many times. But Jakom had passed into the Otherworld last winter, and now Zodor seemed to lead the circle and Izhur was the new, untested Soragan.
The Wolf clan was not the clan Izhur had been born into. He had joined them nine summers ago when Jakom selected him as his novice. He had always struggled to belong. The Wolf clan didn’t have the same friendly outlook as the people of the Bear, and Zodor had always been cold. But Izhur had to ignore all of that now; he was the Soragan.
“Zodor.” Izhur measured his voice and looked down at Zodor’s feet, not daring to reveal the frustration that would be clear in his eyes. “The Wolf hasn’t made a sacrifice for generations. Not since Jakom was a young prentice himself.” He eyed the seven men and women around him. “Many of you were not even born then.”
“Then it is well overdue.” Zodor’s voice remained low and determined. “Even a hunter such as I can read the omens, Soragan.”
