Raven's Bane

by Will Bly

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  Suspicion crowded Farah’s vision as she watched Irulen and Marisa heading off together. And jealousy. Not just because of another woman in his vicinity but more so because the person he walked with wasn’t talking his ear off. Farah had poked around town just a little bit before managing to find, quite possibly, perhaps definitively, the most talkative person she had ever made an acquaintance with: Helga of Luthbrook. She often valued people who talked a lot since it meant she didn’t have to talk much, but this became ridiculous.

  Farah, as much as she considered herself a welcomer of new people, hoped to push her new acquaintance off on Leofrick. He was, after-all, the talkative one of their group. Best to counter one with the other. There would be no harm nor no wrong as long as he had the stamina and the conversation to deal with her.

  “That’s my sister, Marisa. The one with your friend,” Helga said.

  Farah felt violated that her gaze had been followed.

  “I have to say, I’m so excited you all have come to town for our apple festival. You get to enjoy my apple pie. Everyone who has tried it has absolutely loved it! I’d be surprised if you didn’t say it was the best pie you’ve ever tasted. The town even invested in a blacksmith who spent months forging a steel oven particularly for my pies. It was a terribly hard process before that oven—having to manipulate the heat of an open fire with a fan of metal. Have you ever seen a steel oven? They are marvelous. Simply marvelous! They are like pretty, untamed horses—once you take control and whip ‘em into shape, there is no better companion! As a matter of fact...”

  Farah’s mind wandered. She smiled, nodded, and uttered signs of approval until she managed to coax Helga right to where she wanted her. Confronted with Leofrick and Kay, Helga sucked in and held her air for a moment. It amazed Farah that even Helga’s silence had a distinct sound. Her loudness proved as constant as a river’s.

  Leofrick bowed his head just a bit, acknowledging the newcomer. Farah found Kay’s eyebrow fully cocked. The burn of suspicion crawled along Farah’s skin.

  Not to be outdone, Leofrick began the introductions. “Farah, meet Mirtha and Bertrand, husband and wife. And the most gracious welcomers I’ve ever had the pleasure of coming across.”

  The spouses laughed and shook their heads, waving their hands in humility.

  “You embarrass us, sir,” Bertrand said.

  “One must not be embarrassed by virtue.”

  Helga jumped into the conversation, walking up to Bertrand and slapping him on the back. “It just so happens that we take great pride in being the best hosts in all the land, don’t we?”

  “Yes, yes we do,” Mirtha said as she stepped forward to separate Helga and her husband.

  Leofrick didn’t break his smile, but his eyes ran back and forth as if he was reading something.

  Not quite wanting to fade to the background, Farah inserted herself back into the conversation. “This is Helga.”

  “Yes, that’s me! May I introduce myself…”

  “Leofrick. My friends call me Leo...I—”

  Farah hated the thought of calling him Leo.

  Helga spoke through Leofrick’s attempt to talk about himself. “I am the master cook of this village, the grand organizer of our apple faire tonight!”

  “Wow, that’s pretty impress—”

  “One time we had a cook off with all the neighboring towns—my apple pie won, thanks to a lot of hard work and our unmatched oven.”

  Mirtha’s shoulders heaved subtly as if she sighed lightly—just lightly enough for Helga not to notice. The act piqued Farah’s curiosity. Perhaps it was from a lifetime of being overshadowed herself, but Farah felt confident that Helga gleamed the credit off someone else’s work… and perhaps it was even Mirtha’s toil that Helga benefited from.

  Helga showed no signs of slowing down. “I was a little worried when one of my assistants over-sugared the first apple pie. Had to throw it out. But I bounced back, making it just perfect.”

  “Sugar?” Farah startled at the mention of the sweet substance.

  “Yes.” Helga laughed. “Of course, what would apple pie be without extra sugar?”

  “It would be apple pie, just using the apple’s natural sugar,” Kay said, who had been mostly staring off in the distance killing time. She walked over to Merek, punched him lightly on the arm to get his attention, and nodded for him to follow her. She waved silently as they walked off.

  “Enjoyable, perhaps,” Helga called after the two departures, “but not as enjoyable as apples doused in sugar and cinnamon from the far south!”

  Kay paused ever so slightly at the mention of the south. Her gaze fell.

  That’s right, thought Farah, Kay’s from there. Somehow the thought of Kay having a real home bothered Farah. Kay, Irulen, Quinn, Merek—they all had homes, even though they all had their reasons to avoid them. They all chose to leave and not to return. They were all bound by that same truth. They all in some way ran into each other’s company. Farah didn’t have that choice—she had no story of origin. She was pulled into it with nowhere to return that felt like home. For her, the road felt like home as much as anywhere else, and each town they passed provided a vague possibility of place. Perhaps one day someone at one of their stops would recognize her, and then she would have a choice to make. I wonder if I’d make the choice Thea did… to stay and belong and let this all go.

  Anger interrupted her musings. Kay had pulled a fast one. She had never seen Kay play the caretaker and steamed at her quick-wittedness. Merek should have been her way out of dealing in an increasingly grating social situation, not Kay’s key to freedom. That coy bitch. Feeling appalled at her inner-outburst, she shook it off best she could and regained the optimism she’d had just a short while ago.

  Helga, aggressive in her approach, stood a step away from smothering Leofrick completely. Maybe there’s a way out of this after all.

  “Leo, maybe Helga can show you around?”

  Helga spared not a moment accepting the duty with overly gracious zealotry. “Oh yes,” she said as she hooked his arm with hers. “What better guide than me? The food is all prepared, and everything is in order.”

  He maintained his smile as ever, but his eyes once again betrayed a certain discomfort. Farah felt proud of herself and guilty at the same moment. She worried that Leofrick might never forgive her.

  She turned to the remaining two hosts, Bertrand and Mirtha, and laughed nervously. Something happened in that moment that Farah didn’t quite understand. It was a glance of the eyes by Bertrand, looking after Helga and Leofrick as they walked away. It happened quick-like and fleeting and vanished when Bertrand received Mirtha’s loving gaze.

  A new wave of anxiety tightened Farah’s throat, but the small triumph over Leofrick compelled her to dive right into a new conversation. “So, tell me more about yourselves. About your village and the faire!”

  “Ha!” laughed Mirtha. She slapped her husband’s back. “Why tell you if we can show you? Bertrand is the master dam keeper of the town.”

  “Dam?” Farah asked.

  “That’s right, there’s a large dam up the way a bit. Bertrand spends long hours overseeing its maintenance. He has the help of some beavers and some townsfolk, of course.” Mirtha turned to her husband. “As a matter of fact, don’t you have to give the old routine inspection, dear? Why don’t we walk up there, show Farah around, and I’ll take her back down to leave you to your duties?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, perhaps she’d like a look tomorrow, being tired from a long journey and all?”

  Anxious. He seems anxious. Farah took in the unimposing man. He appeared plain-looking, some extra padding but not fat, with black-grey hair surrounding a large bald spot atop his head. His fingers fidgeted, and perhaps more sweat lingered above his brow for what felt like a relatively cool day.

  Mirtha straightened like a board at his suggestion. “Never a better time than the present, honey!” There was an edge to that
last word that grated Farah’s nerves.

  “Yes…” Bertrand laughed. “You—you are right, of course.” A smile firmly planted, his head swiveled toward Farah. “Would you like to see the key to everything that makes Luthbrook so successful?”

  Farah chalked up his anxiety to how busy they must be preparing for the night’s festivities. Maybe she could leverage his anxiety to get out of the situation. “Are you sure it’s not a bother? I’m sure you both have many things to accomplish before the celebration begins, no?” She felt bad that he had been forced by his wife into giving her a tour.

  “Silly me,” chuckled Mirtha, “I guess I should make things clear. The townsfolk are finishing all that up. We’re riverfolk—land owners, the decision makers. They are the land workers.”

  “Oh…” Farah’s understanding of the place shifted. Helga likely ranked with the riverfolk, just as Mirtha did. In this context, her haughty attitude made more sense, but this development complicated her view of Mirtha. Something annoyed Mirtha about Helga, and Farah wrongly assumed it was because Helga lorded over Mirtha in some way—perhaps even stealing the credit for Mirtha’s hard work. But if Mirtha shared Helga’s status, then neither of them did labor. Equal. Farah shook her head. This is what it’s like to be in Irulen’s world. Questionable motives, intuitive observations, I must be thinking more like him every day. And for what reason? This place seems peaceful enough.

  Having regained his composure, Bertrand elaborated on the system he seemed so proud of. “Our land is fertile, it has two apple seasons each year. Many places only have one, but the waters of the mother river bless us with two: one in the fall, and one in the spring. The engineering of our dam has helped spread the waters throughout a large part of the valley. We have irrigation running through our farms that allows us to maximize our output. Our apples sell far in all directions.”

  “That’s what we are celebrating today,” Mirtha confirmed.

  Farah’s knees ached at the thought of more walking, but her brain proved to be fresh out of good ideas. Still, it must be better walking with them than sitting with Helga. Slowly, letting air loose through her nostrils, Farah embraced the inevitableness of a new adventure. She didn’t enjoy the thought of being alone, for being alone is when bad things tended to happen to her, but Bertrand and Mirtha seemed harmless enough. Harmless like Juliet was harmless. Young, pretty, and innocent… until she murdered four people and attacked me with a knife. Farah shivered. As much as she pushed her memories to the back of her mind they always pushed back with equal force. She could never be starry-eyed and innocent again. Her optimism, her belief in the greater good of people, could any of it be real? I must be kidding myself—I’ll never be the same. I am wholly and undoubtedly changed.

  She fingered a sheathed knife she now kept in her pocket as the married couple led on. Never again.

  Chapter 17: The Largest Apples

  The town fell away, and vast lands appeared.

  The apple orchards impressed Farah as much as the complex irrigation system that intersected them. A great deal of effort went into distributing the water from the dam they were heading toward.

  “This plot…” Mirtha indicated with a wide brush of her hand. “This is ours. Bertrand and I oversee all of this… all the way from here to the river. We have one of the largest orchards of anyone.”

  Bertrand chimed in, “The second largest, in fact!”

  Mirtha scowled at her husband. Her malice overmatched his enthusiasm and forced him to be silent. The angry wife brushed at her sleeve and regained her composure. “Yes, as my husband puts it—the second largest piece of property along the river.”

  Farah knew she shouldn’t, but she asked anyway, “Where is the largest?”

  Mirtha sighed with exaggerated effort. “That would be the one we’re approaching now. That property is known as Gerald’s Orchards, though Gerald no longer shares the world with us.”

  Bertrand, again a little overzealous, spoke up. “He was the husband of Helga, who you met before in the vill—”

  “Yes, Helga, who of course she met!” Mirtha stomped down hard, as if crushing a bug beneath her foot. Bertrand flinched and again fell silent, faced forward, and walked on with a monk’s quiescence.

  Mirtha’s chin angled upward. “Gerald came from a lineage older than Luthbrook itself. They settled the place—sawing, shoveling, carving a place in the wilderness for a town to prosper. His line, sadly, ended with his untimely death some years ago.”

  Mirtha’s voice betrayed little emotion, and her lack of detail left Farah in an awkward situation. Farah thought of no choice but to feed the fire. “I’m sorry, did you know him well?”

  “Well enough, I did—we did. But Helga and Marisa knew him best.” The lady laughed as if reveling in a secret joke. “Gerald, you see, had a thing for town dwellers… and those sisters had a thing for messing with each others’ relationships. Gerald got mixed up with both of them—a great knot of trouble and intrigue. He’d often be spotted with one or the other… or both. So much gossip, so many rumors and stories...”

  She shook her head and muttered something, but Farah couldn’t make out.

  Mirtha swallowed hard and continued, “Of course we couldn’t have that sort of debauchery running wild, flying in the face of our society! Luthbrook was built on, and is sustained by, order. You think it was easy for our ancestors to carve a civilized village out of wilderness? We have rules, and these rules have helped us flourish—so we came to a compromise. It was bad enough that he wanted a town girl, but the town made him choose: Helga or Marisa—marry one and forsake the other.”

  “Who did he choose?” Farah asked, more so to feel as if she were still a part of the conversation than for any other reason.

  “Helga. He chose Helga, and by doing so made her the wealthiest wife in town. Then, by dying, he made her the wealthiest landowner in town. So you see, she lucked out, really. She inherited an estate that is not only a tiny bit larger than ours, but also receives water from the river first. Her apple trees enjoy a natural advantage that way, and so our grove endures a natural disadvantage. And so, year in and year out, Helga’s grove produces more apples, and at a slightly better quality. I hate to admit it, but it’s the truth.”

  Farah thought that to be the end of the conversation, but Mirtha proved incorrigible once started on the topic. The loose skin around her face and neck wobbled as she spoke. “And for the life of me,” she said, “I have no idea why Gerald ever chose her over her sister, Marisa. I always thought she was prettier, smarter, and better in just about every way. A bit younger too—and that never hurts… Imagine that, two sisters with their fates divided so resolutely over a not-so-resolute choice of the heart. He loved Marisa more, always did, and she loved him… even to his end... truly a shame.”

  Farah couldn’t help but feel off balance. Mirtha seemed more like Helga than the woman herself realized: strong-willed, controlling, and vehement. Crotchety. Farah wasn’t sure where she had heard the word, but it seemed to fit nicely. Furthering the confusion was the sudden empathy Mirtha showed for Marisa—not quite insincere but still somehow out of place. On the other hand, Farah felt convinced Mirtha’s apparent jealousy of Helga stemmed from something deeper than the distribution of their land.

  A crack in the woods startled her. Something moved among the woods on the side of the trail across from the river. Of that she felt certain. She clenched her hand around her knife. She considered telling her companions but thought better of it. She couldn’t trust them. She’d keep cautious, but also needed to believe people could be trusted. The desire to commune peacefully with others refused to leave her.

  Still, Farah couldn’t resist the intrigue pulling at the other side of her brain. “If he loved Marisa, why not be with her?”

  Mirtha laughed with a bitter edge. “As if a mind would be so simple. Truth is, I don’t know. He wasn’t around long enough for me to ask him. He drowned shortly after the marriage—I found his corpse
in the river myself—all caught up in sticks and riff-raff.” She shuddered and continued, “Things were never the same for me after that.”

  Farah lifted an incredulous eye. A great deal of self-centeredness abounded in this community. Perhaps, she viewed things differently as an outsider, but the victims in the tragic tale seemed to be Gerald and Helga. Maybe even Marisa in her own way. But Mirtha placed herself above all the others.

  Mirtha did not offer a token of sympathy for Helga’s lost husband or the pain the departed had endured. Instead she focused exclusively on her own experience. Still, Farah thought, everyone deals with darkness in their own way. Even as the optimist, Farah couldn’t help but regard Mirtha with a smattering of disdain. Try watching your friends get murdered. Try being attacked with a knife by a little girl twisted by an imp’s rotten magic—who, by the way, was made by the wizard you travel with and once looked up to as a hero. Try having a good friend stolen from you by a psychopath harvesting the essence of the people he’s murdered.

  Farah caught herself and inhaled a bit deeper than previously, but not quite deep enough to be construed as a sigh. I’ve been around Irulen and Kay for too long—a cynical bunch. I miss Quinn. Even as she thought it, she doubted Quinn would even be the same if he did return to them. Mirtha was right in a way—events did change people, often at startling rates and often in unchangeable ways. There was no rolling back the past, no rolling back one’s moral history. The only way to combat change was with new change. Not a reversal, but an improvement. Change cannot come from the past, it must happen in the future. I can’t give back what’s been given to me; I just have to take the new as I find it. Farah shook the introspection from her head. Too much time with Irulen and Kay!