The Black Raven

by Katharine Kerr

  “Well, there you are,” Emla said. “I did come to see how you fare, lass. We’ve not seen you since—” Her voice choked with tears. “Since the funeral rites.”

  “I’ve not been out much,” Niffa said. “Going out into the town does ache my heart.”

  Niffa sat down on the bench next to Dera, who slipped an arm around her shoulders. Despite the grey in her blonde hair, Emla looked so like her son that seeing her made Niffa’s grief double in her heart.

  “Sooner or later,” Dera said, “you’ll have to begin living again. I doubt me if Emla would begrudge you.”

  “Not in the least.” Emla leaned forward in her chair. “You be young, Niffa. In time there’ll be another man, and I’d not have you thinking I’d take offense at your happiness.”

  “I’ll never marry again!”

  The older women exchanged glances—sad-eyed, but with a hint of a smile. Niffa got up, took a wooden bowl from the table, and busied herself with filling it with porridge from the kettle by the hearth.

  “And there be another matter,” Emla went on. “Your mam and I did discuss this matter of Councilman Verrarc’s woman. He does wish to marry her, all right and proper-like, but Werda refuses to perform the rites.”

  “No doubt she kens what’s best,” Niffa snapped. “She always does.”

  “When it comes to spirits, no one would argue with that,” Emla said, smiling a little. “But flesh and blood—well, that be another matter, baint? And we all ken the history of the thing. Verro would have married his Raena years hence, had his wretched fool of a father but allowed. It does seem right to put it right, as it were.”

  Niffa sat down on the bench at the far side of the table and concentrated on her porridge. How could Emla think such a thing, that Raena should be allowed into the citizenry as a redeemed woman and a proper wife?

  “I do wonder, though,” Dera was choosing each word carefully, “what sort of influence Raena might have on the councilman, if it be wholly good, that is.”

  “Now that be a true question.” Emla nodded her agreement. “But once they were married, he would have the dominion over her, baint?”

  “True, true.”

  “I do think she be the sort of woman who does need a firm hand to guide her,” Emla went on. “And Verrarc, he be a stubborn sort of man.”

  “That too be a true speaking.” Dera hesitated for a long moment. “You do know well that Verrarc, his happiness does mean much to me, ever since he did run to me for refuge when he were but a tiny lad. I do wish naught but the best for him.”

  Niffa caught her mother’s eye and scowled. Dera turned away and looked only at Emla.

  “Just so,” Emla said. “You do doubt, then, that Raena would make him a proper sort of wife?”

  “I do,” Dera said. “Here, she be barren for one thing. It be no fault of her own, but a man like Verrarc, with property to leave—he does need sons, baint? Or a daughter to dower at least.”

  “Huh! I’d not thought of that. But truly, she did stay with her husband for a year, and then she and Verrarc did give the gods plenty of chances to bless them.”

  “Just so.”

  Emla sucked her teeth for a thoughtful while. “Verrarc be a stubborn sort of man,” she said at last. “He’ll not be giving her up easily.”

  “True spoken.”

  “But you know what they do say, Dera. Sometimes a man must needs get what he wants before he can see that he wants it not.”

  “Now that be a very true thing.” Dera paused, considering. “The more that the town speaks ill of her, the more loyal he’ll be.”

  Niffa looked up from her bowl and glared. Emla waggled a long finger in her direction.

  “That porridge must be sour stuff,” Emla said, “if I were to judge by the look on your face. What does ache your heart so badly, lass?”

  Caught—Niffa could hardly tell Emla about her visions and suspicions. She laid her spoon down in the empty bowl.

  “Ah well,” Niffa said at last. “Never have I liked Raena, truly. She does seem so sly, and who can ken where she’s been hiding herself this while past? She did show up in winter out of nowhere, baint?”

  “Oh, that be simple enough.” Emla was smiling. “She did return to her father’s farm when her husband cast her out. No doubt the old man’s rubbed her raw with the shame of it. He always was that sort, all long nose for the looking down.”

  “That be enough to drive anyone out into the snows,” Dera put in. “The poor woman!”

  If her mother’s compassion had been kindled, Niffa knew, there was no use in arguing further.

  “Well, Mistress Emla,” Dera went on, “if you go to speak with Werda, then I’ll be going with you to put in a word, like.”

  “My thanks. The more of us, the better. I’ll be off to speak with some few others of the women here.”

  When Emla was leaving, Niffa managed to force out a reasonably pleasant farewell, but she spoke not another word. Dera shut the door behind their departing guest and latched it for good measure. She sat down opposite Niffa.

  “Mam! How could you!”

  “Hush, now! You do think that Raena had somewhat to do with Demet’s death, but I be not so sure. Werda did say evil spirits, and would you be telling me that you do ken more of these matters than Werda?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t. But she laughed, Raena I mean, laughed at him lying dead.”

  “Be you so certain of that? There be times, when a woman or a man too for that matter, when she does see some great horror; and while it does seem that she laughs, truly there be no mirth in it, just a ghastly sort of sobbing without tears.”

  Niffa started to answer, but her mother’s quiet voice caught her and made her think. What if she were accusing Raena falsely? That would be a terrible thing.

  “Whatever you say, Mam. Mayhap you and Emla have the right of it.”

  “My thanks.” Dera allowed herself a small smile. “And I’d not worry just yet. Changing Werda’s mind about any matter be a long hard task.”

  It was a few days later that Dallandra heard the truth of Demet’s death, when she met Evandar on the crest of Market Hill. They found each other just at nightfall under a sky so clear and cold that the stars seemed chips of ice, glittering in the silver fire of the rising moon. Wrapped in his blue cloak Evandar glowed to match the moonlight.

  “And how does Salamander fare?” Dallandra asked him.

  “Who? Ah, Rhodry’s brother.”

  “Indeed. I asked Rhodry if he knew anything about a curse Jill put on him, and Rhodry swears up and down that she’d never have done such a thing. He did say, though, that she might have sworn like a silver dagger at him, and in his madness he might be remembering it and misinterpreting.”

  “Now that makes a great deal of sense. I’ll try to visit him again.” Evandar frowned up at the stars. “I’ve not had a moment to spare, my love, what with the trouble Shaetano’s causing.”

  “In Jahdo’s city? I’ve heard another nasty tale myself, about Raena and the way she murdered a man there.”

  “The young militiaman? It wasn’t her who killed him. It was Shaetano.”

  Dallandra found herself with nothing to say. Evandar laughed at her shock, then sobered fast.

  “It’s an evil thing,” he said. “And I’ve no idea how he did it. Worse yet, neither does he. He’s been calling himself Lord Havoc, and he seems to be living up to his name.”

  “Things are even worse than I thought, then. I’d better go have a look at all of this in the spring.”

  “If you wanted to go straightaway, I could take you there by the mothers of all roads.”

  “I can’t leave Carra and the baby.”

  “We could all go, Jahdo and Rhodry too.”

  “True, but Rhodry won’t leave until spring, because he’s waiting for Arzosah. Not that she’s likely to return.”

  “It was foolish of him to break that binding spell, truly. The great wyrms have devious little hearts.”


  “But here, he knows—we all know, truly—her true name. Shouldn’t that—”

  “It’s not enough. I don’t care what the old tales say, but merely knowing a dragon’s name is no protection for an ordinary man. Someone who can put dweomer behind speaking the name—well, that’s different.”

  “I see. Well, dragon or no, in the spring I’d better get myself to Cerr Cawnen.”

  “Shall I bring Rhodry’s brother there to meet you?”

  Dallandra considered this for a moment.

  “I don’t think so,” she said at last. “I think he’d be better off in the Westlands, nearer his father. But for the love of every god, don’t bring him anywhere just yet, will you? I’ve got enough on my mind as it is.”

  “True spoken, so I’ll leave him be for now. It’s not like his poor wife has to handle him on her own.”

  “That’s one good thing about all those wretched acrobats.” Dallandra glanced around and realized that all the houses she could see had gone dark. “Ye gods, I’d better get myself back to the dun! The gatekeeper won’t wait for me forever.”

  “I’ll walk with you. I don’t trust these streets at night. Which reminds me. Does Rhodry still have that bronze knife?”

  It took Dallandra a moment to remember which knife he meant.

  “The ancient one?” she said. “The one that has some strange dweomer on it?”

  “That’s the one. He might need it with Alshandra’s pack still on the loose.”

  “He keeps it on his belt with the silver dagger.”

  “Good. Tell him to stay on guard, too.”

  Together they hurried back to the dun, but at the iron-bound gates Evandar left her. Dallandra gave the old gatekeeper a coin for his patience, then walked into the main ward, where torchlight danced and threw fitful shadows on stone. Not far from the back door to the great hall she saw a crowd of the gwerbret’s riders, all arguing about some incomprehensible thing. Out of curiosity she drifted over and found a place to stand on the steps of one of the side brochs.

  From there she could see the trouble. In the center of a ring of Cadmar’s sworn men stood a man of the Westfolk and one of Cadmar’s riders, both of them trembling with fury while Cadmar’s captain and Prince Daralanteriel talked urgently together. Nearby a blonde servant girl stood weeping into the hem of her apron.

  At the edge of the crowd stood Rhodry, his hands dangling easily by his sides. The sooty torches cast more shadow than light, but she could see him smiling with a tight twist of his mouth. When a torch flared and washed his face with light, the look in his eyes turned her cold; they were as blank and hard as a hawk’s. All at once he stepped forward; it seemed the argument between Prince Daralanteriel and the gwerbret’s captain was heating up. Someone in the crowd yelled, “filthy thieves, all of you—thieves and silver daggers.”

  Rhodry moved, struck, had the fellow by the neck with both hands.

  “Rhodry!” Dallandra screamed. “Don’t!”

  Rhodry threw his prey to the ground and twisted free. Hands reached down and hauled the fellow to his feet; he was choking and shaking but mostly unharmed. Rhodry turned toward her and laughed in a high-pitched shriek of merriment.

  “My thanks!” he called out. “I would have killed him if it weren’t for you.”

  “So I thought,” Dallandra muttered, but too quietly for him to hear. “You berserk bastard.”

  The riders all turned to look at her, and she saw most of them holding up crossed fingers in the gesture of warding against witchcraft. Some stepped backwards into shadows, then turned and ran; others slipped away more slowly, but they got themselves gone nonetheless until only Rhodry and Draudd, one of the gwerbret’s sworn men, stood alone in the smoke-stained torchlight.

  “I’m blasted glad you came along.” Draudd bowed to Dallandra. “Ye gods, the little slut’s not worth a man’s life!”

  “That blonde lass—she was the cause of this, then?” Dallandra asked.

  “She was,” Draudd said. “Keeping two hearths warm at once, if you take my meaning, like.”

  “Will there be more trouble over this?” Dallandra said to Draudd.

  “Not from any of us. Since it never came to drawn steel, the gwerbret doesn’t have to know. Well, unless he heard the scuffle?”

  When Dallandra went to the door of the great hall and looked in, she found the gwerbret’s chair safely empty. Jahdo came running and told her that His Grace had gone early to bed.

  “His leg’s bothering him,” the boy said. “The twisted one.”

  “No doubt, in this cold and damp,” Dallandra said. “Well, I’ll brew him up some poultices in the morning.”

  For a moment she stood watching the men filing back into the hall. When she turned back, Rhodry had gone.

  She found him up in their tower room, feeding twigs by candlelight into the charcoal brazier. She shut the door, but he ignored her and bent down to blow upon the coals. Finally, the tinder caught; he added a few thin twigs of charcoal, then some bigger chunks.

  “I think that’ll take,” he said.

  “Looks like it, truly.”

  In the candlelight and faint glow from the brazier, his face was unreadable. With an irritable snarl, Dallandra called on the Wildfolk of Aethyr. A silver ball of light appeared, hovering over the table. Rhodry looked up. His eyes seemed huge, his dark brows straight above them, but his soft mouth hung slack; he could have been thinking murder or nothing at all.

  “Would you really have killed that fellow?” she said.

  “Most likely.” With a shrug he turned away from the brazier and wiped his hands on his brigga. “I’ve never been a patient man. And it’s been too long since I sent my Lady Death a courting-gift. She’s even less patient than I am.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t go on like that about your Lady Death. It’s such a daft fancy!”

  “Is it? Why?” All at once he was grinning, his eyes narrow with delight. “Haven’t I served her faithfully all these years? You’d think a true lover would have had his reward by now, wouldn’t you?”

  She could only stare at him. Ye gods! she thought. Is this the evil Wyrd that Jill saw? That he’d go mad—if it is madness? His smile faded.

  “What is this?” Dallandra said suddenly. “Are you saying you want to die?”

  “Who wouldn’t, after the life I’ve led?” Rhodry turned his back on her and walked a few steps away.

  When she walked over and laid her hands on his shoulders, she could feel hard muscle, tensed and ready to spring. She let her hands fall.

  “There’s naught you can say to that, is there?” His voice was low and level. “There’s naught anyone can say.”

  “True enough.”

  Around them the Wildfolk began to appear, sprites and gnomes, and in the glow of the brazier, she saw a salamander lounging on the coals.

  “You’re not thinking of killing yourself, are you?” Dallandra said.

  “I’m not. Not while the Raven Woman lives, at least.”

  “Ah ye gods! Promise me you won’t—”

  “Won’t what? Take a knife to my own throat or suchlike?” Rhodry turned around at last, and he was smiling. “I won’t. I’ll swear it to you on my silver dagger. That’s the one oath you know I’d never break.”

  “How can you smile like that?”

  He cocked his head to one side and considered her for a long moment, then wiped the smile away.

  “True enough. It’s no jest, is it?” He grabbed his cloak from the chair’s back. “I’ll not be able to sleep. Don’t wait up for me.”

  He strode out of the room with the Wildfolk following him in a swirl of little lives. She sat down on the chair and held out her hands. She wasn’t in the least surprised to find them shaking.

  Although the gwerbret had seen nothing, Prince Daralanteriel proved unwilling to let the matter drop. When Rhodry walked into the great hall, the prince rose from his chair at the honor hearth and hailed him. Rhodry stood where he was and waved
vaguely in Dar’s direction. For a long moment, while every man in the great hall watched, the stalemate held; then with a shrug Dar grabbed his cloak from his chair and strode across the hall to join Rhodry at the door.

  “You wanted to speak with me?” Rhodry said. “What about?”

  “Things.” Dar busied himself with draping his cloak over his shoulders. “We’d best talk outside, anyway.”

  Around back of the main broch they found a spot out of the wind, where flickering light from the fires inside spilled out onto the frozen mud. Both of them could see in far less light than any ordinary man, but the glow seemed somehow comforting against the night.

  “That fellow called me a thief,” Dar said abruptly. “Should I challenge him to an honor duel?”

  “Do you want to?” Rhodry said.

  “I don’t, no. It would be stupid, and you’ve already given him the scare of his life. But what will the men here think of me if I don’t?”

  “Ah. You’re starting to think like a Deverry lord.”

  Dar flushed scarlet. Rhodry looked him in the face and refused to flinch. After a moment, Dar looked down.

  “Maybe I am. I wish to all the gods that we could just ride out of here, but in this weather—”

  “We’d never make it home. Your men are getting worried, Dar. They look at you sitting with the gwerbret and wonder if your head’s getting too big for your helm.”

  Dar stared at the muddy ground for a long moment, then turned on his heel and strode off. Rhodry followed him as he ducked back inside the great hall. Dar hesitated briefly, then walked over to the table where the other men of the Westfolk were sitting. He spoke a few brief words to Vantalaber, then sat down on the bench at his captain’s right hand. Smiling to himself, Rhodry strolled over and joined them.

  In the morning Dallandra woke to find Rhodry still gone. When she went downstairs, she found him rolled in his cloak and asleep in the straw near the riders’ hearth, with a couple of dogs at his back and Jahdo asleep nearby. As she hovered there, wondering whether to wake him, he solved the problem by sitting up and yawning.