The Black Raven

by Katharine Kerr

  “Good morrow, fair sorceress,” he said, grinning. “I got too drunk last night to manage the stairs. Dar had squirrelled away some mead in his chamber, and he brought it down for us.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  Yawning, shaking his head, he rubbed his face with both hands.

  “I need to shave,” he said. “I hate getting shaggy, winter or no. Have you eaten yet?”

  “I’ve not.”

  Rhodry got up, shaking out his cloak.

  “I’ve made a bit of a fool of myself, haven’t I?”

  “Not truly.” Dallandra spoke in Elvish. “No more than the rest of the men have, at least, and I’m including the prince in that. You know, you should all get out of the dun more. Go hunting, maybe—the gods know we could use the meat if there’s any deer left to bring down.”

  “Good idea,” he answered her in Elvish as well. “I’ll talk with Dar. You’re right. We’re all going more than a little mad, shut up like this.”

  With that he bowed and wandered off, muttering about finding hot water to wash in. While Dallandra waited for a servant to bring her bread, the man whom Rhodry had nearly killed came hurrying over, a narrow-eyed blond fellow with a freshly split lip and bruises on his neck just the size of Rhodry’s fingers. When he bowed to her, she could see him trembling.

  “I owe you my life,” he blurted. “My thanks, my lady.”

  “Well, most welcome you are. I’m just glad Rhodry listened to me.”

  “Listened?” He laid a hand over the bruises. “We all figured you cast a spell. Naught else could reach him, we figured, when he has one of his fits.”

  Dallandra started to tell him otherwise, then decided that long explanations of how Rhodry’s mind worked would lie beyond him.

  “You seem to bear him no ill will,” she said instead.

  “Of course I don’t. He’s one of the god-touched.” The rider shrugged, hands out as if he were holding some truth before him. “That trial by combat he fought—remember? It showed all of us how much the gods favor him. So it’s all my own fault, what happened last night. I was drunk, I don’t remember what I said, but it’s no matter. You don’t prod one of the god-touched.”

  “I see. Well, I’m glad you came to no real harm. But you know, you’d best apologize to the prince for the things you called his men.”

  “You’re right. I’ll do it the moment he comes down.”

  By the noontide the squabble had smoothed itself over, and as far as Dallandra knew, the gwerbret never heard of it. She hoped the spring would come early that year. The sooner they were all out of the stone tents once and for all, the better.

  For several nights Niffa tried to return to the meadow under the purple moon and talk with the woman who called herself Dallandra. Her dreams, however, like ill-trained horses, wandered where the road looked easiest and avoided the city that once had appeared so faithfully. Finally, Niffa realized that mere hope would always fail her. She began trying to picture the purple moon and Dallandra as she was falling asleep, and this technique brought success. One night when the winds howled round Citadel and shut out the world, Niffa fell straight asleep and found herself walking across the meadow toward the great warding stars, burning red and gold. Dallandra sat waiting next to them.

  “It’s good to see you,” the sorceress said. “I was afraid you’d decided not to return.”

  “Oh, no such thing. It were the dreams that turned stubborn when I did try to force them. Tonight I let the moon rise in my mind, like, and it brought me here.”

  “Very good indeed! Now, I need to talk with you about somewhat important, but it won’t make much sense at first. Tell me—you see the Wildfolk, don’t you? The little creatures in the air, or in fires and running water?”

  “I do, truly. How were you guessing that?”

  “Jahdo told me you always watched things that no one else could see.”

  “Ah.” Niffa smiled, remembering. “He did tease me over that until at times I did feel like giving him a good clout. There be not much that our Jahdo does miss.”

  “He’s a sharp lad. Well, there are other spirits in the world, bigger ones, much more like men and women, and very much more powerful indeed. They appear here and there and look just like ordinary people until of all a sudden they do somewhat strange or just disappear.”

  “Be those gods?”

  “They’re not, but a race called the Guardians.” Dallandra hesitated and seemed to be considering what to say next. “One of them has made a bargain with Raena. He’s teaching her magicks, and she’s—well, how to say—well, she’s doing him little favors in return.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I.” All at once Dallandra laughed. “Not completely. But this creature can appear as a fox or a man. He calls himself Lord Havoc.”

  “That be an ill—omened name!”

  “He’s an ill-omened creature. I’m as sure as I can be that he’ll bring trouble to Cerr Cawnen if someone doesn’t stop him. Raena—well, she’s mostly deluded. She thinks he’s a god, and he’s not. It’s not truly her fault.”

  Niffa considered for a moment.

  “Well, even so,” Niffa said at last, “would this Lord Havoc fox creature be a—troubling us if that whoring slut of a Raena hadn’t brought him here?”

  “You truly hate her, don’t you?”

  Niffa paused on the edge of a retort. She could see that Dallandra was studying her face as she waited for a reply.

  “I do,” Niffa said. “And truly, you do touch upon a riddle. At first, before my man died, I knew not why I did hate her so. From the day she came to Cerr Cawnen, and I did see her walking toward the gates, I did feel—well, it be so strange—but I did feel she’d be the ruination of us all, that some great evil walked in with her.”

  “Oh, did you now? Jahdo’s told me that when you have these feelings, you’re usually right.”

  “It’s happened.” Niffa shrugged and looked away. “Over the years I did learn to keep my mouth closed tight when the omens did beat against my lips. It did trouble everyone around us.”

  “No doubt. Say naught about that omen to anyone until I get there.”

  “You do plan on coming to Cerr Cawnen?”

  “I do indeed, in the spring when we—Rhodry and I—bring your Jahdo home. Raena is somewhat of an enemy of mine, after all. I’d rather like a few words with her, not that she’ll enjoy hearing them.”

  For a moment the dream threatened to waver and dissolve in a flood of sheer relief, but Niffa focused her mind on Dallandra’s face, thought of nothing but that image, and slowly the dream grew strong and clear again.

  “Very good,” Dallandra said, smiling. “For a moment I thought I’d lost you.”

  “I did think I were about to go, truly. But it gladdens my heart, hearing that you be coming to Cerr Cawnen.”

  “I’m glad you trust me.”

  “Well, I do, though I know not why. Mayhap it’s because you do hate Raena too.”

  “Hate her I don’t. She’s but a tool in the hands of lying spirits.”

  “What about the councilman? Be it that he worship this fox spirit too?”

  “I have no idea. Now listen carefully. It’s not Raena that murdered your man. It was Lord Havoc.”

  The surprise hit like a blow and flung Niffa out of the dream. She woke to a room silver with dawn and knew that she’d not be falling asleep again, not this late in a winter’s day. Her body ached, too; for a moment, she wondered if she’d somehow hurt herself by waking so fast. Then she recognized a familiar pain. Her monthly bleeding had finally begun. She sat up in bed and stared at her cold little room.

  “I did want Demet’s child,” she whispered. “I did want his child so very much. Ah ye gods!”

  She twisted round and grabbed the pillow, then lay down to sob into it until she ached too badly to weep the more.

  “Master!” Old Korla came shuffling into the great room. “The Spirit Talker, she be at our door.�
��

  “Then let her in, for the gods’ sake!” Verrarc said. “Did you think I’d be turning her away or suchlike?”

  Korla set her mouth in a tight line, shrugged, and shuffled back down the corridor. Verrarc rose from his little table by the hearth. He’d been puzzling over his dweomer scroll again, and he rolled it up to hide its subject matter. With Korla following, Werda came striding in, draped in her white cloak.

  “This be an honor indeed.” Verrarc bowed to her. “Do come sit by my fire.”

  “I’ll not be staying but a moment,” Werda said. “I be here to tell you but one thing. If you wish to marry your woman, I’ll perform the proper rite.”

  “My thanks!” Verrarc was stammering, and he felt tears rising behind his eyes. “My humble thanks! I—”

  “Some of the good women of this town did come to argue with me,” Werda went on. “Pay your thanks to them, not me. I did listen to them with care, and with care did I think the matter through. I do suggest, Councilman, that you put as much care into your choice of a wife. Think on this for seven nights. Then, if you still wish to marry Raena, daughter of Marga, come to me at the temple, and I’ll cast the omens to find a propitious phase of the moon.”

  Before Verrarc could say another word, Werda turned on her heel and strode out, with Korla hurrying after.

  “The haughty bitch!” Raena snarled from behind him.

  Verrarc spun round to see her walking out of their bedchamber. She was wearing a green overdress, and she’d done her hair in thick braids, falling one on either side of her face.

  “I’d not speak ill of Werda, if I were you,” he said.

  “Indeed?” Raena was scowling. “Huh! Some priestess she is, her and her little gods! Here, my love—do you not scorn my Lord Havoc and claim him but a fox spirit or suchlike? Well, the gods Werda tends are no better than that, the spirit of a mountain, the spirit of a tree!” Her mouth twisted. “Did they give her the power to call forth silver light, as the great Alshandra gave to me?”

  “They didn’t, truly. But Rae, when it comes to life in this town, there be gods that Werda tends who have true power indeed.”

  “Oh? And who may they be?”

  “Rumor, for one.” Verrarc looked steadily at her. “And the gods of a happy hearth and a good reputation, for others.”

  Raena blushed, looked away, then sat down in her chair by the hearth. Verrarc went to the fire and knelt to add the last of the wood from the big basket near the hearth. The flames leapt up in a swirl of golden sparks.

  “This be the second happiest day of my life.” Verrarc reached for the poker. “The first, well—truly, it will always be the day my father died.”

  Raena laughed. “Never would I begrudge you that, my love,” she said. “It gives my heart joy, too, thinking I’ll be your wife.”

  Verrarc glanced over his shoulder and smiled at her just as Korla returned, her mouth still tight, her eyes narrow with what seemed to be anger. No doubt she wasn’t looking forward to having another woman give her orders in her kitchen, not after so many years of keeping house for Verrarc alone. He would have to do somewhat to soften the blow, he decided.

  “Korla?” he said. “Do tell Harl to bring in more wood, will you? And it would behoove you and Magpie to be thinking of what sort of grand present I can make you to celebrate my marriage.”

  Korla relented enough to smile, but all she said was, “Harl, he be out in the woodshed now. I’ll be telling him.”

  Raena watched her unspeaking as the old woman crossed the room and disappeared through the door that led to the kitchen. Verrarc rose, dusting the ashes off the knees of his brigga.

  “We shall have a feast on our wedding day, my love,” he said. “The best that winter can offer us, and then in the spring, when the crops come in, we’ll have a proper celebration at the same time of the moon that marks our wedding.”

  “That will be splendid, Verro. Truly, this day gladdens my heart. I did hear what Werda said about the townswomen. There be a need on me to go and thank them.”

  “There is, at that.” Verrarc sat down in his facing chair. “I ken not all their names, but I’ll wager that Dera and Emla be among them. I do owe them thanks myself, and we’ll pay our calls together.”

  Raena nodded, staring into the fire with a small smile. Verrarc leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs to the warmth.

  “It will be splendid,” Raena said at last, “to have a name again. I did get so sick to my heart of their snubs! Now, mayhap I can gain their trust, so that they’ll listen to me.”

  “Whose trust?”

  “The women of the town, of course. I do think that they’ll hear about Alshandra with more joy than the men.”

  “What? Just what be you planning to do?”

  “Spread the word of my Goddess’s coming.” Raena was looking at him with a slight frown, as if she were puzzled by his obtuseness. “Think you I be a miser, to keep such joy to myself? I did swear to her that ever and always would I tell of her doings to all whom I would meet. Cerr Cawnen, it be a fine place to take up her charge again.”

  Verrarc started to speak, then thought better of it. All at once he felt a cold that the leaping fire was powerless to dispel.

  “I shall spread the word,” Raena went on, her voice soft, almost dreamy. “I shall set her name upon Cerr Cawnen and make it a place of her altars. All the people shall rejoice in her name, and she will send them strength.”

  Once again Verrarc opened his mouth, and once again held his tongue. The cold around him deepened. Had she gone mad, his beloved Raena? Or could she be speaking the truth and truly serve a goddess who could set men free from the chains of death? She turned to him, her eyes thoughtful.

  “Fear not, my love. In time I’ll be showing you more of her marvels, and till then, I’ll not speak a word to anyone else. I do ken better than any how the ignorant will mock and scorn some new thought. I shall be all caution and soft words.”

  “Well and good, then. Rae, please, you do see that I be not mocking what you say, baint?”

  “I do. Fear not! With her there be only courage.”

  Verrarc smiled, but the cold had turned to a wild animal, it seemed, sinking claws of warning into his heart. Raena returned to staring into the fire and smiling to herself, as if she were hearing some grand jest. For a moment he wondered if indeed he should marry her. If she were mad and babbling of false gods, wouldn’t she be a threat to his beloved city? But he could remember his father’s face, flushed with drink and sneering, and hear again the insults he’d hurled at Raena and her kin. A rich pig farmer be a pig farmer still—that was the least of them.

  “Well, I ken not the truth of such things as gods,” Verrarc said, “but I do ken that I love you with all my heart, and that be enough for me.”

  “Well, now,” Dera said. “I do have some news from young Harl. Verrarc and Raena will marry in three nights, when the moon turns from dark to the first sliver in the sky.”

  “It were time that he did make an honest woman of her,” Lael said.

  Kiel nodded his agreement. After their midday meal, the family was sitting at the long table in front of their hearth. Niffa realized that they were all looking at her. She got up and began picking up the empty wooden bowls and spoons.

  “Harl did say that Verrarc wished us to be there,” Dera continued in a few moments.

  “I shan’t go!” Niffa snapped.

  She looked up to find the family still watching her. She carried the bowls to the washtub by the door and set them inside to wait until Kiel fetched water. Ever since Dallandra’s warnings, Niffa had been trying to watch her words about the councilman’s woman.

  “It’s not that I do blame Raena,” she said at last. “To see a wedding—it would pierce my heart with grief.”

  Dera’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh,” Lael said. “Well, then, we’ll let your mam and brother go to represent us, like, and I’ll be staying here with you.”
<
br />   Niffa covered her face with both hands and wept. She heard her father getting up, felt his arm around her shoulder.

  “Here, lass, here,” he murmured. “You have a good cry, like. I do ken how hard it be to believe this, but in time, the pain will heal up.”

  “I do hope you be right,” Niffa sobbed. “I do hope so.”

  On the day of Verrarc’s wedding, Kiel and Dera went off to the celebration. Niffa and Lael passed the time by working. Since the wicker rat traps and the cage to carry the ferrets wore out fast, Lael always kept a supply of withes and leather thongs on hand. That day Niffa set some of the withes to soak in the washtub whilst Lael inspected the traps and set the broken ones on the table. The ferrets, of course, offered their version of help, capturing any thong that moved, chewing on the wet withes, knocking over the traps, and chasing each other around the table. Laughing at them, Niffa could for a little while feel happy.

  Dera and Kiel came home laden with food—loaves of bread, dried apples, a big chunk of fresh roasted pork, a skin of mead, and an entire raw pork liver for the weasels—all bounty from Verrarc. After Niffa cleared off the mended traps, they laid the food on the table, but neither of them spoke until they’d finished.

  “He did pay a farmer to fatten up a hog.” Kiel gestured at the chunk of roast meat. “So that the guests would have a proper meal.”

  “He be a generous man, Verrarc,” Lael said. “Here, woman, what be so wrong with you?”

  Niffa had expected Dera to come home chattering and happy after such an event, but in truth, her mother looked solemn enough for a funeral. Dera took off her cloak and hung it on a wall peg before she answered.

  “The wedding fire wouldn’t light,” Dera said at last. “Young Athra tried and tried, but no matter how many sparks she did strike, the tinder, it did smoulder, but it did refuse to burn.”

  “Ye gods!” Lael said. “Be they not married, then?”

  “Oh, they are,” Kiel muttered. “Verro, he’d not let the thing be stopped.”

  “It did light, you see,” Dera added. “In the end. Harl did help Athra, and they did get the tinder burning in the end.”