Copper Ravens (10 page)

“For your sword,” Micah said when I asked why.

“Oh. You're really going to teach me?”

“Didn't I already agree to it?” he countered. “What with your brother's exceedingly bad judgment, and your mother's tendency to destroy those who can guard you from whatever follows Max home, I now see the need for you to be armed.”

“A sword can help me against iron warriors?” Maybe Micah was going to get me a super sword. Cool.

“It would not,” Micah clarified, “but it could be useful against other creatures who are displeased with your brother. He accumulates enemies the way a squirrel gathers acorns.”

I smiled, grateful he wasn't holding a grudge over Mom's and Max's bad behavior; well, at least he wasn't holding one against me. After a leisurely breakfast involving all three major food groups—caffeine, heavily buttered toast, and extra caffeine—we were on our way. I, in turn, surprised Micah by suggesting that we walk, instead of taking the metal pathway.

“Sadie and I walked to the village yesterday,” I explained, “and it's such a nice, sunny day. It would be a shame to miss it by hopping around from metal to metal.”

“Why did you and Sadie decide to visit the village?” Micah asked.

“I had to get her out of the manor,” I said in a rush. The little blue vial I'd purchased at the apothecary was still wrapped up in plain brown paper on my dressing table. “She needs to, you know, acclimate herself.”

“Did you bring a silverkin?”

“I thought I only needed one when I was with Max.” Micah blinked, so I amended, “Actually, I didn't think about it.”

“You didn't think about being safe?”

“I was intent on getting Sadie to act like an adult.” Not to mention that I was worried that a silverkin would rat me out. I leaned up and kissed Micah's cheek. “I'll remember next time. I promise.”

“Mmm.” Micah accepted my response, lame as it was, and my elf and I enjoyed a leisurely stroll to the village proper.

What's really interesting about the village of Whispering Dell, and Micah's rulership of it, is that he does almost all of it from afar. He rarely sets foot in the village, today being only the second time he'd passed its gates since I'd lived at the manor. Instead, he preferred to have his magistrates or tax collectors or whoever come to the manor for any matters that required the magic Silverstrand touch. I supposed having one's business affairs handled by one's minions was a fringe benefit of being royalty.

Despite his lack of regular appearances, every living soul in that village was well aware of Micah's status as their lord, both by name and by sight. What's more, each and every one of his subjects positively adored him, and as soon as we'd passed through the liquid silver gates, Lord Silverstrand was surrounded by a good-sized mob of well-wishers. Content to be overlooked, for once, I stepped back and gave his fan club a wide berth.

“You just let them attack me,” Micah grumbled once he extricated himself.

“It was a loving attack,” I said as I took his arm. I noticed that two exceptionally beautiful women were waving goodbye to their lord, gazing after him with something akin to unrequited love. Before I could muster the proper outrage, and to my utter amazement, both of the women morphed into exact copies of Micah, right down to his leather clothes and poufy hair.

“They are shapeshifters,” Micah explained, once I'd gotten my jaw off the ground.

“Like werewolves?”

Micah laughed. “Not at all. Lycanthropy is a strictly human affliction. True shapeshifters can take on the appearance of any being they gaze upon.”

“So, they're just going to wander around the village, pretending to be you?” Call me old-fashioned, but wasn't that identity theft?

“No shapeshifter may hold a false shape for much longer than a day; what's more, a shapeshifter cannot replicate an Elemental's mark. And a great crowd watched them shift, while I walked away with my lovely consort.” He leaned closer and kissed my hair. “Fear not, they will do nothing to tarnish my good name. I can manage that quite well on my own.”

“How? By hopping into sleeping women's cars?” I teased.

“Yes,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Exactly like that.”

I leaned against his shoulder and let my dishonorable man lead me through the intricate maze of streets and alleys. I realized that, while the good and, um, less good sides of the village were clearly separated at the gate, the lines blurred the further we descended into the warren. I saw a prime example of these shades of gray at a tailor's shop, which was presided over by a plump gentleman wearing a smart green waistcoat and holding a pocket watch. He was so jovial he could have modeled for holiday cards. I don't know precisely what the shop next door to the tailor's traded in, but several species of animal, both furred and feathered, hung upside down in the front window, their blood draining into a carved trough below. Before my eyes, the tailor whipped out a silver dipper and scooped up a healthy swig of blood.

“How do you know who the good people are?” I murmured, clutching Micah's arm as my eyes searched for a safer scene. I settled on a woman, who was reaching up to pick a shiny red fruit from a low-hanging branch. It turned out that the tree didn't care to be robbed and struck her with a leafy limb.

“Good?” Micah asked. “Good in what way?”

“You know. Who are the good guys, and who are the bad guys?”

“Ah. I forget, you humans like to make such simple distinctions.” Micah hugged me closer and kissed my hair. To our left, the tree screamed as the fruit thief struck its trunk with a heavy satchel, sending chunks of bark scattering across the street.

“They are all my people,” he continued, gesturing to encompass the whole of the Whispering Dell, both the village and the valley beyond. “That means that I accept them, all of them, for their good attributes as well as their flaws. After all, even the best of men may occasionally commit a less than honorable act.”

“Like Max?”

Micah's eyes darkened. “Yes, much like your foolish brother. For all his flaws—of which there are many—his intentions are sound.”

“But what about those who really are dishonorable?” I pressed, raising my voice above the fruit thief's shrieks; the tree had grabbed her by the hair and was demanding that its property be returned. Must be some apple. “You know, like the ones who are really evil? You don't keep them around, do you?”

“Those who are truly beyond the pale I banish, but I've not been called on to do that in a long, long time.” Micah took a long look up and down the street, blood-drinking tailor and murderous tree included, and smiled. “Yes, my people are good to me, and I, in turn, am good to them.”

Micah fell silent then, and I was left contemplating the many shades of gray present in the Otherworld. I remembered Ferra's court, stuffed full with some of the scariest creatures I'd ever seen in the flesh. Now, that court had been evil, beginning right at the front door that had looked suspiciously like a gaping maw. Ready to have swallowed me whole and gnaw me to bits.

But then, Ferra had been an evil woman, no doubt about that, and Micah was her opposite in every way. Perhaps the demeanor of the ruler influenced their people, or maybe evil just attracted evil, and good did the same. Before I got the chance to ask Micah for his thoughts on the matter, we arrived at our destination.

The smithy turned out to be a lean-to that stank like burning rocks and belched thick, black smoke. The blacksmith, a burly Satyr called Ash, seemed to have earned his name from the substance he was smeared with. It coated him like a second, flaky skin, save where rivulets of sweat had worn away little valleys, his skin starkly pale against the soot. That crumbly layer, and his leather apron, served as his only garments.

Once Micah had explained the purpose of our visit, Ash grunted and set about examining my form with a level of scrutiny I hadn't experienced since my college entrance exams. At least he only used his eyes.

“What sort, eh?” I blinked when I realized that Ash was directing his question at me.

“What sort of what?”

“Sword, lassie,” he replied gruffly. “Ain't that what yer here for, eh?”

“Sword. Um…” I spread my hands and looked hopefully at Micah. The only sword types whose names I knew were claymores and rapiers, and I didn't think either would be a good answer.

“Perhaps a short sword?” Micah offered.

Ash grunted again, which was evidently his all-purpose response. “Probably best. She's a wee lassie, don't want 'er to topple over, eh?” Before I could decide if I should be flattered or outraged at being called a wee lassie, Ash turned his back and rooted around for something in his shop, thus revealing his bare Satyr bottom and fluffy little Satyr tail.

“Like a little goat,” I murmured, a few lines from
Three Billy Goats Gruff
struggling to burst forth from my tongue. Micah, always one to sense my distress, decided to be unhelpful and quirked an eyebrow. That was way, way too much, and I nearly burst out laughing, right there in front of the blacksmith's forge. I turned to face the street and became intensely interested in a butcher hacking up something. Then the something squirmed a bit, and I decided I'd be better off studying the shop's awning. Yes, a fine awning it was, all green and shady and not at all blood-spattered…

“'Ere, lass, 'ave a go at these.” Biting my lip, I turned around and saw that Ash held out a few plain swords in varying lengths. I tried the largest first, which was so heavy I almost dislocated my shoulder. That's what I got for laughing at the blacksmith's behind.

Just as Ash had predicted, the short sword won out, with the second smallest and lightest sword feeling the best in my hand. The actual smallest probably would have been better, but I wasn't about to give Ash the satisfaction of being
that
right. Once Micah and Ash had agreed on a price, and Micah gave the smith a small purse as a down payment, we left the smith to work his magic.

“That was fast,” I murmured. I'd imagined that ordering a sword would take all day, though I was a bit disappointed that I'd have to wait a week or more for it to be done. I do hate waiting. “So, why don't you come down to the village more often?” I asked. The village was nothing if not exciting, with better live entertainment than anything on my old Picture Vision, and it wasn't even noon. I couldn't wait to witness the nightlife firsthand.

“I've no need to,” he replied. “I prefer the solitude of the manor.”

“Don't you get lonely?”

“I have you to fend off loneliness,” he replied, his mouth quirking in that half-smile of his.

“You've had me for only a few months,” I pressed. “What about before?”

Micah began his reply, but for the life of me I couldn't pay attention to what he was saying. We had turned a corner and there, right in front of us, was the apothecary. And, of course, the crone was standing in the doorway, staring right at me. “Love?” Micah said, and repeated before I swiveled around to look at him. “Is something the matter?”

“Do you…Do you think the apothecary has any tea?” I asked. “I mean, I know the silverkin can brew up anything, but sometimes I just want to make a cup without bothering with them.”

“It may, but there is an excellent tea shop next to the cobbler.” He slipped his arm around my waist and tugged me away from the crone. “Come, love, I'll take you there now.”

With that, we made another turn and left the apothecary behind. Before we were out of sight, I dared to glance over my shoulder and saw the crone mouth the words, “Thank you, dearie.”

Ack. What had I gotten myself into?

10

T
he tea shop did indeed offer a vast selection of teas, along with eggshell-thin tea services nestled on hand-painted trays. Micah indulged me by purchasing a different blend for every day of the week and a set of pink and green teacups shaped like lotus flowers. That led to the agreeable problem of how we were going to transport this many awkward and breakable items, being that most shops in the Otherworld didn't stock those annoying plastic bags. Turned out we didn't need them, since the shop's proprietor readily agreed to have them delivered later that day. Actually, he practically begged for the privilege of bringing our purchases up to the manor himself, which gave me the impression that only a select few were allowed to visit Micah's home.

“Not so,” Micah replied when I asked. We had left the village and were enjoying a leisurely walk home. “Any one of my people may approach me at the manor. All in the Whispering Dell are aware of this.”

“Then why did he act like it was such a big deal?” I pressed.

“Perhaps because he has never been to the manor before?” Micah would have said more, or rather he would have answered more of my questions, but our attention was captured by a group milling about before the manor's front door. They were led by my favorite Elemental, Old Stoney.

“Farthing Greymalkin,” Micah barked. “What misfortune has caused you to darken my door?”

“Lord Silverstrand,” Old Stoney greeted with a mocking bow, completely ignoring me. Good. “I have been instructed to escort you to the Golden Court.”

Micah eyed the assembled guards. “On whose authority?”

“Why, the Gold Queen's authority,” Stoney replied. “Late yesterday evening, several iron warriors were found near Oriana's court. They had been attacked and were terribly maimed. One looks as if he will never speak again.”

“Oriana bears no allegiance to iron,” Micah stated.

“She does not,” Old Stoney conceded. “However, she wishes to know if you were somehow involved in this event. It seems that vigilante acts disturb her most delicate constitution.”

“Why would Oriana suspect me?” Micah demanded. Micah trusted the old rock about as far as he could throw him, and Old Stoney was made of granite. “And why has she sent her guard?”