Raven's Hand

by James Somers

  When I raised my eyes to behold him, the sheet came away and the scene changed with the suddenness only a dream can produce. Of course, I was not surprised. Everything that happens in dreams appears completely normal at the time.

  I was now standing in the middle of a grand ballroom. My skin was whole again and covered in rich satin fabric dyed in deep reds and purples with gold filigree. The gown was strapless and hugged my body, flaring at the waist down to the floor in a cascade of frills covered by dark lace. Black lace gloves covered my hands and a matching masquerade mask covered my eyes. My dark hair fell in loose curls around my shoulders, and flecks of gold on my skin caught the light from chandeliers.

  The ballroom was constructed of dark woods and parquet floors. Chandeliers hung suspended in the air because there was no ceiling at all—only the stars shining down from above. Fireflies flitted among the dancers, blinking in time with elegant music playing without any musicians that could be seen.

  Around me, dancers whirled and spun. Each young man had his lady in his arms. All of the pairs moved in concert—stately couples whose apparel complimented one another flawlessly. These moved around me in a ceaseless dance, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the ballroom.

  Then I saw him.

  He appeared at the entrance to the room, but there was no herald present to announce his arrival. He did not need any introduction. He had come for me and me alone. Each and every finely dressed lady was accompanied already—everyone but me.

  His outfit complimented mine perfectly. His jacket was dyed in deep red and his vest in dark purple. His black pants were knee length with hose below and leather shoes with shiny gold buckles to match the gold buttons on his jacket. He wore a mask also, but I knew it was him. I could feel the heat from his body. I could sense his presence in the room. Even blind, I would have still known he was there.

  The music continued unabated, as he walked toward me. I blushed behind my mask, suddenly self conscious. His stare penetrated my very being. The room seemed to be getting hotter, but I didn’t mind. It was as though lightning passed between us across the room. Every step closer caused my heart to race faster.

  Suddenly, he was upon me, taking my hands in his to kiss each one delicately. A tingling raced along my skin. He pulled me to him as a new dance began. The nearness of him, the smell, the warmth of his touch—I felt faint one moment and more alert than ever the next. Being with him felt like coming alive.

  We had not said a single word. Yet, it was as though words might spoil our moment. What could we say that would make this more than what it already was? How could this feeling have grown any stronger?

  The music played on, but the other dancers paused to watch us together. They whispered and nodded to themselves, approving of our match. They longed to know the desire for one another that we experienced. But how could they ever attain to it?

  Our bodies glided in perfect harmony, accentuating each other’s every movement. We were complete together, but nothing apart. The most heinous act would have been to sever the ties that bound us at that moment.

  We lifted above the others now, as though gravity no longer had dominion. Our dance continued, even though the floor had fallen away beneath us. The stars illuminated us. The wind carried us like feathers on a breeze.

  When I looked into his eyes, I knew I was complete. I was his and he was mine. It could never be any other way.

  Then a bell tolled.

  The heavens began to evaporate like steam in the air. We came back to the world. The music became a dissonant minor version of itself. As the bell tolled again, the ballroom walls cracked. The structure crumbled around us.

  He was pulled away from me by the crowd of people trying to escape the end of our dream world. He fought to hang on to me, but we were powerless to stop the tide. I called to him, knowing he would be taken from me as he had been so many times before. I remembered Celia’s admonition.

  I had never done so before, but I cried out to him. “What is your name?”

  I heard his voice. It was like honey in my ears. He was not fearful of our separation, but confident because he knew we would be together again in due time.

  The name hung between us, connecting us like a chain even when the fantasy became dust on the wind. I woke in my bedchamber still covered with the crimson duvet on my bed. I woke on my own. Celia had not come yet.

  In a moment of muddled uncertainty, I checked my surroundings, wanting to be sure Mistress Evelyn had not returned to find me sleeping after her punishment. There was no one else in the room. Only the fire burning in the grate made any sound at all.

  I remembered my dream and smiled. I had done what Celia bid me to do. For the first time, I had spoken to him. I asked him his name and he gave it to me. I had no idea what to make of the experience, but I would hold to that name like a treasure in my heart.

  I closed my eyes and spoke it in a whisper. “Killian.”

  Farewell to Arms

  Using a burin with precision and care, the bladesmith etched a final rune into the blade. He lifted the tool from the steel, blowing away filaments of metal. He smiled. His work on this weapon was now complete, although a final step remained before it could be presented to His Highness, Lord Rainier.

  The bladesmith was tall and broad-shouldered; a strong man and middle-aged with a full head of dark hair showing only a little gray. His fingers worked nimbly with the tools of his trade. He laid the graver on his work table, feeling very satisfied with the finished product.

  The king had commissioned this pattern-welded blade six months ago, desiring that it be ready one week from now; in time for his eldest son’s coronation. The high prince would succeed his father, due to the king’s failing health. A strong ruler was required to sit upon the throne; especially during times like these when a war among the great houses was all but inevitable.

  The other houses saw the king’s failing health as an opportunity. If they were careful and seized the appropriate time to act, they might be able to take the throne from House Rainier. As of that day, House Rainier had held onto the throne for eighty three years. They had fought to keep it so on three separate occasions: once when House Auturn sought to destabilize House Rainier fifty years before, and twice when Houses Japheh and Rollace battled Rainier in consecutive conflicts twenty-two years before.

  The bladesmith wiped the debris from the sword and then began to apply polish to the blade with a rag. He had left the work on the scabbard to his only son and apprentice in the trade. He buffed the polish away with a dry cloth and held it up in the firelight of his forge. Red-orange flames reflected in the forged steel.

  He smiled and then called to his son, working in another part of his shop. “Killian!”

  A moment later, a handsome young man of nineteen years, with dark hair and broad shoulders, peeked around the corner where his father was working. “Yes, Father?” he said. Then, seeing his father holding the blade in the light, he exclaimed, “Oh, you’ve finished the last of the runes already?”

  “Aye, and a better weapon I’ve never forged,” he replied proudly. He handed the weapon to Killian. “What do you think, lad?”

  Killian took the sword in hand, hefting it for weight and then balancing the weapon midway on the back of his thumb. “It’s perfect, Father.”

  Turning, Killian stepped away from his father’s work table, giving himself room. He swung the blade in fluid motions, his maneuvers becoming more and more complicated. The hilt was slightly curved so that the pommel came down around the fourth finger and was fashioned of polished ebony. The steel was made with a single razor sharp edge, curving slightly up to a point. Black leather cord, tightly wrapped, gave the hilt a supple feel that gripped the hand as he moved and would keep it from slipping when the new king’s hand became sweaty or stained with blood.

  The polished steel whirled around Killian, the air whistling with its passing. “It feels so light,” he remarked, halting his exercise to return the weapon to
his Father.

  His father held up a hand. “Have you finished the scabbard?”

  Killian smiled, his dark eyes twinkling in the firelight. “I was up last night finishing it.”

  “Good lad,” his father replied. “Then you might as well hold on to the sword. I need you to take it to Shalindra to be blessed.”

  “Really?” Killian asked, “But you usually don’t let me go to the priestess.”

  “Ask him, why now?” said a fair woman with auburn locks falling around her shoulders, entering the workshop behind Killian.

  “It doesn’t matter why,” his father retorted. “Your mother’s just having a go at me, that’s all.”

  Killian’s mother came to stand beside her husband with a smirk on her face. “Don’t you believe him,” she said playfully. “Last time he had to go to the temple—”

  “With the shield for the High Prince?”

  “That’s the one,” she said. “Well, he stayed up all evening prior to leaving, eating my Dragon Fire Stew.”

  “Hold your tongue, woman,” his father bellowed. “You’re holding the lad up when he has important work to do.”

  His mother ignored this, trying to keep from laughing. Killian couldn’t help but smile at her mirth, even though he hadn’t guessed the end of her story just yet.

  “Well, you know how your father’s belly gets to rumbling after Dragon Fire Stew,” she continued. “He couldn’t hold it in and broke wind during Shalindra’s liturgy.”

  Her laughter broke loose with Killian’s. His father grumbled in his chair, shaking his head, waiting for them to stop. It took a few moments before they got themselves composed.

  “All right,” he said, as they calmed down, wiping tears from their eyes. “You’ve had your fun. Now, I need you to escort the king’s blade to Shalindra. Are you going, or not?”

  “Of course, I’ll go, Father,” Killian said, “but I’ll leave the stew alone.”

  “Now, don’t go disrespecting my stew,” his mother said. “I can’t help it he likes it so much.”

  “Neither can I,” his father said, patting his belly with a chuckle of his own.

  He picked up the weapon, allowing his wife to see before handing it over to Killian again. “Be careful with it,” he said. “You can take Esmeralda with you. She knows the way as well as I do…maybe better.”

  Killian nodded, taking the sword from his father. His mother smiled at her husband and then bent down to kiss him. When she stood again, he swatted her behind. “Now, I can have all the stew I want tonight.”

  “Who said I was cooking it?” she replied.

  “The boy will be gone tonight,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “You bring the stew and I’ll bring the dessert.”

  She laughed at this.

  “I’m standing right here,” Killian complained. “That’s my mother, after all.”

  “Aye, but she’s been my wife longer,” his father said, elbowing him playfully as she walked out of the workshop back to the house. “How do you think you got here, lad?”

  “Far too much information,” Killian said. Then he grinned before walking out toward the stable. “I’ll see you both in three days, Eliam willing. And I don’t want a baby brother on the way when I return.”

  “Get going, and no promises!” his father called after him.

  Killian paused to pick up the scabbard for the sword from the work bench where he had finished it the night before. He deposited the sword, noting the perfect fit with satisfaction. With a smile on his face, he wrapped the blade in a heavy cloth to protect the finish and tied it with cord. Then, bundle in hand, he went out to find Esmeralda.

  The stable that adjoined the workshop at the rear of the building was an addition, but was still made of quarried graystone like the rest of the structure. Veins of black and white ran through the blocks here and there, setting off many of the buildings in Rainier. Graystone was light and durable and found in plenteous supply near the city. However, it was not nearly as grand as the more costly goldstone that made up the palace of the king; for through the gray blocks ran rivulets of purest gold in marble-like patterns.

  Killian’s family were commoners, but commoners of the First Order, meaning his father could receive commissions from any of the Royal Orders; even the king. Needless to say, all Common Order businessmen desired to ascend in social status to the level of First Order because these were the truly lucrative contracts. Killian and his family lived very comfortably. He could not recall ever lacking for food, like many who dwelled in the Mud Districts beyond Rainier’s high wall—named so for the materials used for constructing their homes.

  These Thirds, or Third Order Commoners, lived in relative poverty. It may have been said that they survived, but little more than that. Their dwellings were simple mud brick homes that provided shelter without much comfort. Many of these Thirds served in unskilled jobs within Rainier and without the wall, maintaining sanitation or working on farms that surrounded the city on all sides and fed many cities besides the king’s own.

  Yet, one had to have skills like Killian’s father to ascend to First Order. He was a bladesmith and possibly the most skilled arms maker in all of Rainier. He had a reputation for excellent quality that brought him contracts from far cities. If it had been possible, royals from the other great houses would have purchased their arms from Radden. He was just that well known.

  Besides, few others had the connections required in order to have a blade, or other weapon, blessed by the Priestess of Eliam. The Malkind priests had their wands, but not even a wand could withstand a blessed blade. They were rare and powerful and connected with Eliam’s creation. Some had the characteristic of controlling fire, or water, or the earth.

  The Malkind, worshipped among the great houses and in their great capital cities, had rebelled against Eliam after man was fashioned in his image and given dominion of the world. These dishonorable spirits opposed Eliam and made the rulers of the great houses to have dominion over other men. As long as they worshipped them and promoted the same in others, they had the power of the wands and the Bright Ones. These Daughters of Eliam were slaves to the great houses and were bred expressly for the purpose of bonding with the high princes in order to secure power over the lower orders of Eliam’s creation.

  Many believed, and the Malkind priests taught, that Eliam had been overthrown long ago and his creation and his people, like the Bright Ones, became the property of the Malkind spirits. However, Killian and others like him did not hold to these teachings. They still hoped in Eliam, though to do so openly meant banishment or death.

  Killian wondered why the Priestess of Eliam, who lived in a secret place known to only a very few, would bother to give Eliam’s blessings and confer power upon weapons such as these, when they would end up in the hands of royals. He had never thought to ask his father, and never felt he had the opportunity to ask the priestess. However, he was considering just this question—reverently, of course.

  Killian picked a blue apple from the barrel that stayed just inside the door to the stable. Horses love all kinds of apples, but it was the blue sea apples that Esmeralda enjoyed most. There were only a few horses in Radden’s stable, and Esmeralda dwelt like a queen among them. She was Killian’s father’s horse, and a more faithful animal could not be found.

  He called to her before reaching her stall, and she soon thrust her head out to find him coming. She expected the apples by now. Killian always brought her one, and she loved him as much or more than she did Radden.

  Killian gave her the apple and laid his hand on her muzzle. Thoughts of pleasure, happiness, and eagerness came to him from Esmeralda. She chewed the apple and allowed him to stroke her sleek black coat along her jaw and down her neck.

  “Are you ready to go, Esmeralda?”

  She knickered in reply.

  “Father is sending us to the priestess,” Killian added. He held forth the bundle for her inspection. “We’re to see this blade blessed by Eliam and w
hatever power conferred that he might bestow.”

  Esmeralda acknowledged the report with a slight bobbing of her head. Certainly, she was a special horse and a fine specimen of Equine nobility, but her ability to understand the spoken language of her master was a common characteristic among very intelligent animals. Horses, though not having the ability to speak with the voices of men, were able to convey emotions through touch, and many humans possessed the ability to interpret those impulses.

  Killian was just such an individual. Often, in his youth, he would come to relate to Esmeralda particular events or situations that perplexed or angered him. The horse would convey to him her feelings on such matters, and Killian had found her to be often very encouraging to him; though occasionally her thoughts were the opposite of his hoped-for response and she would scold him instead.

  Going to the back of her large stall, Killian removed a blanket and saddle and bridle to outfit Esmeralda for travel. When she was ready to go, he secured the bundle containing the king’s sword to the saddle, opened her gate and led her out into the yard. He could feel her desire to be let loose through another pat on her neck.

  Smiling, he said, “Away, Esmeralda!”

  With plenty of money in his purse and his mark of patronage, Killian knew he could secure a room for the night and a good meal in an inn along the way. He would spend the rest of the day into the evening traveling across Rainier to the Eastern Gate. Here, he and Esmeralda could refresh themselves before leaving the city tomorrow and heading for the Brine Wood where Eliam’s priestess awaited.

  A Mother’s Love

  Evelyn stood before the full length mirror in her room. The gilt looking glass reflected an image of a woman not quite forty years old, though her true age was closer to fifty. She had taken care for her appearance, and time had been kind. She was wife to the king and mistress to the royal house of Rainier, but Evelyn was not the king’s bond.

  She was not one of the Daughters of Eliam. Her authority was that of queen, not the lower position of a slave. As mistress, she ruled with her husband, while his bond, a woman well beyond her prime already, had been relegated to the role of concubine.