by CJ Arroway
Nan raised her eyebrows. ‘A ball?’
‘A small wooden ball. It felt… there was something about it. I don’t know… there was a darkness. I don’t really understand that.’
Nan was silent.
‘I’m scared Nan. But I have to go. I have to find my mother, you can’t stop me.’
Nan looked around, most of the Cyl who had been dining had left now and she and Evie were alone on their long table. ‘I won’t stop you finding your mother, I don’t want to stop you finding her. I’ll do all I can to help.’
Evie was nodding agitatedly in a way that suggested she just wanted to get away now.
‘But listen,’ Nan said, making sure she fixed her gaze. ‘I don’t know what any of this means, no more than you do. But there’s something happening we need to understand. And if others know… don’t go alone. Take some Cyl warriors, I can suggest…’
‘No Nan. I’m going alone. I can’t trust anyone now, I don’t feel I can.’
Nan sat back. ‘At least take Luda. And wait until Aldrwyn is ready. You trust him and he is a good warrior. You need him. If you can wait until the next new moon some of the men will be going to the market in Manoth, they can at least take you through the Borders safely.’
Evie pushed away her bowl and put her other hand behind her head to scratch at her neck. ‘I’ll see. I’ll wait until then; but no longer. I am going to find her.’
Nan looked at Evie and smiled. Evie looked away then back again and Nan was still smiling at her.
‘What?’ Evie said, reddening.
‘I was just thinking,’ she said. ‘I’m sure if your mother could see you now, she’d be proud of you.’
Evie shrugged. ‘I hope so.’ Then she smiled too. ‘Yeah, I think she would be.’
The Beginning
In the flickering shadows cast by the torch flame, Rachlaw could just make out the faint outline of faded paint – the vanishing ghosts of images that must once have coloured these damp grey walls.
He imagined the scenes they would have shown, the faces of the people who had lived here – their kings and queens, their victories, their gods; all gone now.
‘It’s just down here, mind your feet,’ his guide, wrapped up against the cold and damp, turned back to him and lowered the torch to show the cracks and hollows of the broken steps between them.
The torch’s flame lit up the curve of the archway as they stepped through, then threw its light across the small, dark room.
The pale men waiting in there scuttled and splashed into the shadows of the corners and the far wall – even their sightless, empty eyes, it seemed, could sense the strangeness of light here after so many years of darkness.
Rachlaw instinctively pulled his foot back at the touch of cold, then stepped fully into the knee-deep water. He could smell the salt and the decay and, through the water’s murk, the torch would flash the movement of some small creature moving under its surface and across the ancient floor.
‘Here,’ the guide said – his torch illuminating a large, flat block of stone that rose out of the water in the centre of the room. The edges of the stone were carved with the figures of men and horses. Images of spears and shields spoke of a forgotten battle that was meant to be remembered.
Rachlaw pulled himself up onto the dais. As he lay down on the cold stone, his mind went back to The Wyrran. He wondered if he would ever see it again. He thought of the little Daw girl in Uish – of Evening Star. For a moment he hoped he might not find anything – that he could let it all go and she could just stay a child; secretly conjuring flowers, playing in the forest, safe with her mother and father.
‘I’m ready,’ he said, nodding at the man holding the torch.
‘Are you sure?’ the man asked, holding the torch higher so it illuminated both their faces – a mixture of apprehension and resignation. ‘There is a chance you won’t return, you know that?’
Rachlaw nodded. ‘I’m ready.’
The guide unbuckled a small leather bag from his belt and took out an earthenware flask, no bigger than his small thumb. He drew his knife to break the wax seal that covered its top, prizing out the cork with its narrow tip.
One of the pale men stepped forward and offered a golden cup. The guide poured the yellow liquid into it, and the pale man drank. He shook his eyeless head and held out the cup for Rachlaw.
Rachlaw took it and held it for a few seconds – turning it to inspect in the faint light. ‘Well,’ he said, forcing a smile, ‘wish me luck.’ Then he drank.
‘Good luck,’ the guide said, as Rachlaw lay down and closed his eyes. The pale man knelt and rested his head against Rachlaw’s chest.
Almost immediately Rachlaw’s shoulder began to jerk, as his chest heaved. What little colour could be seen in his face in the darkness of the room drained completely, to be replaced by a web of blue veins that seemed to be trying to push their way out through his skin. His heart was now beating so hard the sound of it echoed around the silent room so it almost seemed the war drummers carved into the stone platform beneath him had come back to life.
Then the drumming stopped – and Rachlaw was still, silent. His sword arm hung limply over the side of the stone and his head lay back – his jaw slack and his eyes open staring blankly at the ceiling.
For a few moments he lay there while the room watched him in silence. Then the pale man beside him shook himself awake and fell back, unbalanced, into the wet of the floor, scuttling back through the water into the dark edges of the room. The guide reached back into his bag and pulled out another flask.
‘Ok, that’s enough,’ he said, and pulled the stopper to pour the contents of the flask into Rachlaw’s gaping mouth. Seconds passed in silence, and if the pale men had sight they would have seen concern, even fear, on the man’s face as he watched Rachlaw’s unmoving body.
Then Rachlaw’s eyes opened. He retched suddenly and choked, coughing up blue liquid and black bile, his body convulsing as his eyes rolled back in his head. His arms thrashed wildly and the guide quickly ducked to avoid being caught by a swift, violent swing of his heavy fist.
‘Help him! Help him!’ the man barked at the watching pale creatures and they emerged from the shadows – three of them, naked, white and unseeing. They held his arms back as his body jerked violently – knocking one of them splashing to the ground.
‘Rachlaw. Rachlaw – it’s ok. I’m here – it’s me, I’m your friend, stay calm, come back to us,’ the man coaxed him, and his face seemed to flicker recognition as his convulsions steadied.
They waited while Rachlaw’s body calmed and slowed until the only movement was the heavy heave of his chest and the rapid flicker of his eyelids.
‘Rachlaw – can you hear me?’ the man said, putting his hand to Rachlaw’s shoulder. ‘You’re back, can you hear me?’
Rachlaw let out an unearthly sound – part groan, part scream – that echoed and shook around the room’s stone walls as he sat bolt upright, almost knocking his guide off his feet. His head turned rapidly and he tried to scan all corners of the darkened room, as if wanting to take it all in, to understand where he now was.
There was a moment of silence as Rachlaw sat unmoving, then he blinked and shook his head, twisting it from side to side, before arching back his neck and rapidly opening and closing his eyes.
‘Are you ok? Can you hear me? Can you speak?’ the guide asked, leaning around in front of Rachlaw as he tried to look into eyes that were now wide open again, looking blankly ahead.
Without changing his expression, Rachlaw nodded.
‘Well?’ the guide asked. ‘Did you see it?’
Rachlaw hesitated, then lowered his head. His face was as white as it had been when he first drank from the flask, and he stared emptily down as though he were looking far beyond the small space of the room.
He nodded again and swallowed. ‘Yes. Yes I did.’
‘And?’
‘Yes. You were right. It’s true. All of it. She killed every
one. She destroyed it all.’
By the same author
The Crow Daughter: (The Bird & The Lion Book 2)
Evie has faced down death but now she must confront her greatest fear: that her story may not be her own
Strengthened by victory in the mountains, Rachlaw is now Lord of Wyrra and the practice of magic is legal once more. But change is not always welcome and, as past sins and ancient prejudices are confronted, trouble – and tragedy – is never far away.
Evie continues her search for her mother, and looks to find the truth of why she was hunted, and why the legend of the Crow Daughter follows her so closely. But fact and fiction are not always so different in the story that surrounds Evie – and in the end they will come together to bring a final reckoning for those who try to write it.
The Crow Daughter is Part 2 of The Bird & The Lion – a story about stories, and the power they have to create and destroy.
