Legend of the Ravenstone (11 page)

She hurried to catch up. “Then you do not believe in the Cataclysm?”

“I do not believe the Cataclysm was a battle of two demi-gods. It was a natural welling of magic—the Great Welling, as Markanturians call it—that, for whatever reason, altered a large piece of our world. It was witnessed by many, interpreted and reinterpreted. Stories were integrated, facts were stretched. Primary accounts are difficult to find, and as a former curator, I can attest to that.

“Trinnad Markanturos, for whom my country is named, wrote an entire journal about the Cataclysm. Incredibly, my long-lived kindred lost his account. Lost the records of the most renowned Markanturian in history!” He outstretched his arms. “It baffles me. Pains me.”

“Then you do not have his account of what really happened?” Kariayla asked. “How do you know it was a welling of magic?”

Arcturus shook his head. “Such events are not uncommon, but none with such magnitude are documented. While there is speculation, there are results that are irrefutable. My people originally came from Morwind. They were dark-skinned—not unlike yourself—and they were Human. The Great Welling was a magical wave that altered us into the race we are today.

“Trinnad Markanturos was sent to learn about this welling. From that point, the facts grow muddled. Some say he returned with his journal and is buried in our founding city, but there is no exact date of his death, and there is no marked location of his grave. Others say he did not return, but then how do we claim to know of his accounts, and where are they now? The answers are beyond our reach at this point.” He sighed and grumbled something beneath his breath.

“So you must rely upon some level of faith—in him and in what he wrote,” Kariayla pressed. “You don’t have the facts, but you know what you believe to be true.”

“I—” He paused. “Yes, I see your point, but you hint at the difference between fact and religion. Religion is based upon faith. Trinnad Markanturos did, in fact, exist.”

“But what if religion was also based upon fact? The Spirits, for example, who guide my people. In them there is both faith and fact.”

Arcturus regarded her thoughtfully. “Kariayla, my dear, you are an interesting partner in conversation. While I would delight in continuing this discussion, I fear we would reach no satisfactory conclusion—fact or faith employed. So I offer a truce with a nod to your white hawk.” He gestured to the circling bird.

“A truce,” she agreed, a genuine smile upon her lips. Then the smile faded as she stared into the distance. “There is smoke up ahead.”

“Smoke?” Arcturus squinted and sniffed the air. “We will have to proceed with caution.” He drew his hood and helped her conceal her wings.

They walked a distance down the road and were soon greeted by the sound of music and laughter. Though it was only late afternoon, a fire blazed high and bold, and around it danced pairs of women and men. There might have been twenty or so occupants in the camp, but children darted amongst the wagons and animals, and they were impossible to count. There were goats, dogs, donkeys, and chickens in addition to the cart horses, suggesting a modest and nomadic way of life.

The music did not stop as they drew nearer—nor did the dancing and the chatting. Arcturus and Kariayla had every intention of keeping their course, but when a man hailed them, they were obliged to stop.

“Hey! Hey there! Fellow travelers of the Southern Link!”

Kariayla and Arcturus looked at each other before approaching the man. He was middle-aged with a grand moustache that spanned the entirety of his face, and it curved upward to echo the grin he sported.

“Can we help you?” Arcturus asked politely.

“Only by sparing a bit of your time,” the man said. He held out a hand. “Bedrasius Copperkettle.”

Arcturus looked at Kariayla again before shaking his hand and introducing themselves.

“This is my family,” Bedrasius said, gesturing to a growing audience. “Please, join us for a meal. The soup is still hot, and there is plenty of it.” He led them to the fire and asked them to sit. Once they had, a bowl of steaming broth found its way into each of their hands.

“You are most generous,” Arcturus said, and sampled a spoonful. “How can we return this kindness?”

Bedrasius sat adjacent to them and held out his hands. “Well, there was talk on the road of some unique foreigners traveling the Link: a Blood Wizard and his winged companion. It has been said that you bring the thunder and the rain, that the elements bow to your command. We were curious to meet you.”

“Hm,” Arcturus said and gave Kariayla a knowing nod. “So we have earned a reputation.”

“Magic stirs interest.” Bedrasius sat a small child upon his lap. “Magic lives in stories and folklore, and every now and then, we see that magic is real. Just before we learned of you, we had heard rumors of the White Demon’s capture.”

“They are not rumors,” Arcturus said. “Kariayla and I were there when the thieves attacked. The ‘White Demon’ will be a hindrance no more.”

Bedrasius raised an eyebrow. “A hindrance? Ah, well, I suppose there is variation in all stories.”

“What do you mean?” Kariayla asked.

“To some the Demon was a thief, a nuisance,” Bedrasius said.

“A murderer, a criminal,” Arcturus added flatly.

“There are others who admired the creature, the Prophet, and his clan of thieves.”

Arcturus leaned in. “Is that so? I cannot think of a single reason to venerate a miscreant of society.”

“Then you haven’t heard the entire story,” Bedrasius said. By now all the children had gathered near him, anticipating the tale to come.

“No, I have not,” Arcturus said, accepting another helping of soup. “Have you, my dear?”

Kariayla shook her head.

Bedrasius smoothed his moustache and nodded. “It is a rare tale, told amongst us wanderers, and so I am inclined to believe it true. You see, we value our freedom, to live as we do.”

“But you do not do so at the expense of others,” Arcturus said.

“No, but you raise an interesting point: the expense of others.” Bedrasius motioned for the wineskin, and he apportioned some for his guests. “Even children know that stealing is wrong.” He looked at each of the surrounding young faces, and they all nodded. “Criminals are not the only thieves.

“There was a young duke—Duke Omarand—who had wealth and land in Southern Secramore. At the time, there were yet kings and lords and knights in the south. But things began to change. The merchants began to move to the Amber Coast, their eyes set upon the riches found in southern mines. Before long, the merchants outnumbered the nobility and grew so powerful that they conspired to take the land for themselves. Meetings were conducted in secrecy—meetings where even Duke Omarand’s most loyal supporters saw opportunity for advancement.”

“What happened?” Kariayla asked when Bedrasius had paused. He gave a cup to her and to Arcturus, and she took a sip.

“The merchants made their move against the nobility,” he said. “It was a quick and brutal coup, and a great many of the old blood were killed. Omarand escaped with a group of his family and followers. He wanted to take back the land that was stolen from him, but to remain in Southern Secramore would result in his death. So he set sail for the northern shore.

“Here he was no one. He had no land and no money, but he did have his people to support. He did what he had to do: saw to their survival. In the desert, he forged a hidden community. He and his men would stop the rich caravans along the road, taking only what they needed and harming no one. As their enterprise grew, Omarand’s clan gained supporters in the cities: the poor with whom the noble shared his profits in exchange for their eyes and their ears.”

Arcturus dabbed his mouth dry from the drink. “Ah, so ‘the Prophet’s’ foresight was truly the attentiveness of his spies.”

“No.” Bedrasius twisted his moustache. “The ‘spies’ were helpful, of course, but Omarand is known as the Prophet because he is gifted. He
knew
when the caravans were coming. He
knew
exactly what to take and from whom. He ruled the desert for years—even before the Demon appeared.”

“Then from where did the Demon come?” Kariayla asked, stifling a yawn. “Did the Prophet summon it?”

“No one is certain,” Bedrasius said. “But the White Demon is the Prophet’s loyal servant. It protects the thieves and serves as a warning not to trifle with the Prophet’s clan.”

Arcturus sat back and chuckled. “The Prophet’s gift has failed him, then, for his thieves and his demon were apprehended easily.” He rubbed his eyes but found his sight blurry. “I still fail to see how a wronged noble can justify robbing innocent passersby. Whether the travelers are wealthy or not, stealing is stealing.”

“Arcturus...” Kariayla’s voice sounded sluggish, as though she was half asleep.

“Yes, my dear.” Arcturus found his tongue was heavy. He tried to sit up, but his limbs would not obey him.

“Stealing is stealing,” Bedrasius repeated. “Don’t you think that taking advantage of people’s fears is also a form of stealing? When they freely offer you the best room at the inn, the richest of meals... Don’t you feel slightly guilty that you had used your magic to intimidate them?”

“You...do not...understand...” Arcturus tried to form the words, but they left his lips garbled. Kariayla’s fuzzy image did not stir from the ground. “What...?”

“It’s not magic, I’m afraid,” Bedrasius said. “It’s Toad’s Foot. The numbness will pass, but by then you’ll have reached Valesage.”

Arcturus could barely distinguish the man’s smile through his drooping eyelids.

“The Hounds have offered a decent reward for the both of you. Magic doesn’t frighten me like it does others. Survival, Arcturus. This is how the Prophet survived, and I regret that he was caught.”

“T
his ain’t good. Oh, this ain’t good at all.” He paced the cell nervously, glancing often at the two bodies near the front. “Jedinom take me. Two casters and another mark on the hand. Next they’ll cut off my hand... If the casters don’t kill me first.” He ran a hand through his mess of hair and winced.

There was a familiar sound from the corridor, a sound he had fervently hoped to hear. The only problem was the caster bodies blocking his way. He crept up to the front of the cell and stood next to the motionless figures, searching the darkness. A short and stocky shadow approached.

“I knew you’d come,” he whispered in relief. “I knew you’d get me outta here.”

“Jinx, you ass—how’d you—” The shadow looked at him, looked at the bodies, and shook its head. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know.”

“I’ll tell ya later. Just get me out,” Jinx said, gripping the grille.

His partner set to work on the lock. Not a moment into his endeavor, he stopped and glared at the captive. “What’s this? You tried to pick it already?”

“What kinda thief you think I am if I didn’t?” Jinx defended. “Yeah, I tried. The pin broke in the lock. You can get it, right?”

“Only you would break the damn pin in the lock. Only you.”

“C’mon, Scorch. Not like I planned this.” Jinx tapped nervously on the grille as Scorch made another attempt.

“Sometimes I think ya do,” the other grumbled. “Anyways, there’s a little problem. And stop tappin’ the damn wall.”

Jinx stopped and leaned forward. “What problem?”

“Who’re your friends?” Scorch asked, nodding toward the heap.

“Casters. And never mind them. I wanna be outta here before they wake up.” He sighed. “What’s the problem?”

“Well, ya see, it’s like this. I’m gonna get you out, but then you gotta stay away.”

“’Cuz I like getting locked up,” Jinx sneered. “’Course I’ll stay away from here.”

Scorch stopped and looked at him. “No, that’s not it. You haveta stay away from the others. The group. They don’t want ya. They’re pretty mad about this last time.”

“It was an accident,” Jinx said—a little too loudly. His voice echoed down the hall, and one of the figures at his feet stirred. “Aw, Lorth.”

“If they’re wakin’ up, I’m gonna hide,” Scorch said.

“No—don’t go. Just—-real quick—Scorch!” Jinx watched him duck away and out of sight. He sighed. The body on the floor moved, and he leapt to the back of the cell, his back pressed against the stone. With wide eyes he waited and watched as the wings stretched out. The form lifted its head, and his jaw dropped.
It’s a girl! Just a girl...with wings!

What little relief he gained from her age and her gender disappeared when the other form moved as well.
Not him. Not the fat guy with the red skin. I couldn’t fight the both of ‘em. Not unless Scorch—

The winged girl was looking at him, and he fished his pockets for a knife that was not there. “Wh-what are you?” His voice quaked more than he liked. “You’re some kinda caster, right? A caster with wings.”

She blinked and looked around, a growing frown upon her face. She proceeded to nudge the shoulder of her groggy companion.

“Hey—no, don’t—” Jinx stopped talking when he realized she was not listening.

“Arcturus, get up,” she pleaded. The red man groaned and after much effort, succeeded in sitting upright. “We’re not alone,” she whispered.

His heart pounding, Jinx waited for the dark eyes to spot him.
He’s like some kinda monster.

“I see our freedom has been compromised,” the red man said in a deep voice. “You would think we were common criminals.” Jinx felt his skin prickle as the man scrutinized him. “Though perhaps one of us is... Young man, where are we?”

Jinx stared. “Jail.”

“Amusing. In what city is this jail?”

“Well, Valesage. You don’t remember comin’ here?” Jinx asked, suspicious.

“We had been drugged,” the red man said testily. “Were we coherent moments ago?”

“I dunno. What’s ‘co-hear-ent’? Or is that some sorta magic word?” He refused to leave the safety of the wall.

The red man sighed. “Never mind.” And he turned back to talk to the winged girl.

Jinx thought he saw the shadows move again, and he waved Scorch over.
I still gotta get outta here—casters or no casters.