Legend of the Ravenstone (2 page)

“I don’t understand,” Tyrianne said.

“I expect if you did, you would have acted against me long ago.” The Priagent made a gesture—not to Tyrianne, not to Nesif, but to someone else.

Tyrianne spun to see a tall, broad form had moved up silently behind her. His unyielding arms enveloped her so quickly that her grip was wrenched from her sword. “What is the meaning of this?” she cried. Her eyes darted from the Priagent to Nesif, but the latter would not face her.

The Priagent left the altar, cradling the black object in his arms. “You have done your job well, and you have done it faithfully,” he said, moving past her. “My future ambitions, however, do not require your services.”

She could feel a change in the air as it came alive with an unseen force. It swarmed around her, brushed against her, pushed into her. Her flesh tingled, and she fought frantically against her captor’s hold. “No! I won’t let you do this to me!”

“Do what?” the Priagent asked over his shoulder. “I wanted to kill you. It is my brother’s compassion that has granted you a merciful end. Be grateful.”

“Grateful?” she cried, but her voice was not her own. “Nesif!” she shouted, commanding the lingering man’s attention. “
Islai!
”

He looked at her then, and it was his unuttered words that engulfed her in fury.
Sorry.

“Damn you!” she spat, her struggle renewed in a fit of twists and turns. But Nesif was already out of sight, disappearing with the last trace of light.

“M
y name is Kariayla,” she said to herself, examining her blackened fingers before cleaning the quill and sealing the ink well. Then, slowly, she straightened her back and felt the tears well in the corners of her eyes. She wiped the evidence away on her sleeve, took a deep breath, stood, and waited.

Like the promise of a new day, she heard it: the tolling of the tower bell. The darkest recesses of the library could not mute its peal.
Thank the Spirits
, she thought, shoving the stool beneath the desk. She had begun to feel like the gargoyles perched above the grand doors: hunched and immobile.

“My name is Kariayla,” she repeated in a whisper.
He will learn my name. I must make certain that he learns my name.
She wiped her hands on her apron, blew out her candle, and left her cell. Her feet scarcely made a sound on the old wooden floor; she knew where to step so that it would not creak. The head librarian’s desk was at the heart of the vast labyrinth of a chamber, and she wove her way around the shelves and tables until she could see that it was....

Empty?
Kariayla stopped and glanced around her. The man seldom left his desk, as much a fixture in the room as the oldest, most dust-covered book attached by a rusty chain to the shelf. She took a hesitant step forward, deciding if she should wait or search for her overseer.

If he should see me idle...
Her feet set to motion as she navigated the narrow passages between the shelves. Beyond her sight, around the corner, she heard the sound of paper—a page turning. She pushed her shoulders back. “My name is Kariayla,” she mouthed like a prayer. Then she rounded the corner.

“Ur!”
she gasped, and her determination dissolved in the presence of a red-skinned old man. To her it seemed like a full minute of paralysis, her eyes bound to the wine-hued figure who sat at the table, several open books before him. The hair receding from his face was as white as the marble statue of King Jannus in the Great Hall, and it was brushed neatly back from his fleshy face and over his shoulders. His thick frame filled the chair in which he reclined, a book in one hand, a pipe in the other. The chair groaned as he shifted and came to look directly at her with his black eyes.

Kariayla darted from sight, dumbstruck by his appearance. When the library was visited—which was not often—it was visited by the nobility, and though they were literate, their presence was usually attributed to a secret rendezvous or flirtatious affair. Red-skinned men with pipes were even more uncommon. She must have been at the transcriptions longer than she thought, for her eyes were no longer trustworthy.

Needlelike fingers gripped her shoulder, and she started. The head librarian stood behind her, glaring down. “Come with me, girl.”

She shrank at his words and followed him back to his desk, her head bent.
For what it’s worth, my name is Kariayla.

He sat behind his desk and was no less ominous than a vulture eyeing some carrion. With his black robes draped upon his hunched shoulders, his bald head, and pointed nose, all he need do was hiss at her, and she would be convinced. But the head librarian did not hiss. He opened his ledger, dipped his quill in the ink, and began to write. As he did so, he spoke to her in a quiet but patronizing voice.

“You left your cell. I do not recall relieving you for the evening.”

“No, sir,” Kariayla said, staring at the floor, “but the bell....”

“Means nothing to you,” he said without a break in his activity. “For you to be here is a privilege. Someone discovered you were literate, and I happened to need the help. If you prefer to be a scullion, I will send you back to Clerk Melgora. Otherwise, I expect a bit more dedication.” At last he looked at her, and his sudden silence lifted her head.

“Yes, sir. I will wait for your dismissal,” Kariayla said, defeated.

“Since you wish to wander, you may do so with a broom in hand. When the floor is clean, you may go.”

“Yes, sir.” Her shoulders sank a little lower as she turned to go.

“One more matter,” the head librarian said, his words holding her fast. “Under no circumstances are you to associate with the patrons.”

“I didn’t—” Kariayla started to protest, but his frown stopped her. “Yes, sir.”

When she was out of his sight, she could breathe again. She retrieved the broom with her shoulders slumped. If she hurried, she might still be in time for dinner. Unfortunately, every motion of the broom flarred the pain in her back.

It doesn’t matter if he learns my name. Not if it’s attached to an order or a punishment. This may be an improvement from the kitchen, but it will never earn me redemption. Not if I swept the entire castle or copied every book on these shelves. I will grow old here—dusty and worn as these forgotten tomes.

Kariayla stared, forlorn, at the chains attached to the books before her.
I’m chained, too, but not for any sense of value.
She paused to rub her shoulders.
I need to stop complaining. The Spirits have given me shelter and food. I feel they have been watching over me since I left Nemeloreah. I must not be ungrateful.

She straightened her back and focused on the accumulating pile of debris. Her thoughts meandered back to the red-skinned stranger. Who was he? Where was he from? Someone like him surely possessed magic... His eyes—like the night sky—a field of black with a pale moon at their center. Could he be some sort of demon—like the one who terrorized travelers in the desert?

Don’t be stupid,
she chided herself.
A demon—in Belorn’s royal library? Because demons read books. And smoke pipes.
The broom took her down an aisle—the same aisle, in fact, she had been down before. The very aisle that had surprised her with—

Gone!
she thought, peering around the corner. The chair was empty, but the table was not. The hefty book through which the strange man had been browsing was now shut, abandoned. Cautiously Kariayla crept forward and craned to see the title.
Famed Cantalere of Mystland.
She drew a breath.
A book about magic!

~*~

T
he cook’s line was empty, though the mess hall tables were not. It seemed all the castle’s servants were occupied with dinner and gossip. When Kariayla approached the serving counter, the cook tipped the pot to give her the traces of broth left at the bottom. Among the crumbs on the wooden trencher was half a chunk of bread. He shrugged at her and turned away to give the empty platters to the scullion.

Clerk Melgora’s scratchy voice assailed her from beside the hearth. “That’s what you get for being late, you whelp.”

Kariayla stifled a shudder and hurried away from the counter before anything else could be said.
I wasn’t hungry anyway,
she tried to convince herself. She found room on a bench near the chamber maids, who were already immersed in a whispery discussion. They turned their backs to her when she glanced in their direction. Kariayla was not one to eavesdrop, but she was naturally an attentive audience. When the words, “red” and “foreigner” crossed her ears, her spoon paused halfway to her lips.

“Have you seen him? Mary said she passed him in the corridor to the library. Skin the color of blood. Can you imagine? He must be appalling!”

“My cousin traveled a bit, and he told me about such people. ‘Blood Mages,’ they call them. And they can poison your blood just by looking at you.”

“That is absurd!”

“Do you think so? Then you go and find him and see what happens.”

“Analind is in charge of his room. Where is she?”

“Probably poisoned.”

“Don’t say such a thing!”

“Well....”

“As I hear it, he has come on the good graces of Duke and Duchess Barendorn.”

“Whatever does he want? And why would Lord Barendorn have any dealings with such a foreigner?”

“Blood Mage. And I heard he saved the duke’s life.”

“Right after he poisoned his blood, no doubt!”

“What are
you
looking at?”

It took Kariayla a moment to realize the question was directed at her. The women were all glaring at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was staring,” she said, turning away.

“You can mind your own business,” one of them said. “This castle is full of foreigners. The good king is too tolerant.”

Kariayla tried to focus on her soup as they continued to whisper about her.

“Where’d she come from?”

“The Land of the Hunchbacks, obviously.”

“They found her begging at the castle gates. One of the garrison felt bad and took her in.”

“We should invite all the ugly foreign beggars to serve His Majesty. What a fine staff we would be.”

“Watch yourself, Mary. Barendorn’s daughter has taken a shine to her. Had her moved from the kitchen to the library.”

“Then that’s where she should be kept—where no one has to lay eyes on her.”

The bread in Kariayla’s mouth had turned into a tasteless lump of dough. She fought to swallow it, but she fought harder to hold back her tears. Her head hung over her bowl, the meager content of which was but a blur. She knew she should leave before they saw her face.

“Oh, I think you hurt her feelings.”

“Should I care? I’m entitled to speak my mind. I’m not saying anything she doesn’t know.”

“Spill your tears somewhere else,” one directed. “We’re trying to finish our meal in peace.”

“Go on! Away with you!”

Kariayla felt a shove. She brushed her sleeve over her eyes to clear her sight when she was pushed again—harder. Awkwardly she stood and collected her bowl. Without looking at anyone, she headed for the counter as quickly as her feet would take her. The entire hall was murmurs and snickers. Her cheeks burned, and so did her eyes. She did not care if she starved; all she wanted was to be alone.

A sudden obstruction snared her leg, and she was falling forward before she knew what was happening. She landed on the filthy floor, the remaining soup from the bowl soaking into her clothes. The vessel itself had clattered away with the spoon—beyond her reach. There was a moment of silence before the hall filled with laughter.

Kariayla clambered for her bowl, but just as she was about to snare it, someone kicked it away. She reached again, and a foot pushed her back to the ground. She nearly cried out in pain, but even if she had, it would not have been heard above the din. Pinned beneath the boot and frozen with humiliation, she lay there in misery, wondering if this was all not some horrific nightmare.

But then the laughter went away, subsiding to the cold, steady pressure that seized her mind. Her breathing slowed, her heart marched calmly onward, and she looked up to meet the gaze of her antagonist. “Let. Me. Go.”

The man laughed and shifted his foot, but he did not relent.

“
Let me go
,” Kariayla repeated, and though she had not raised her voice, her words penetrated the surrounding noise like a bitter frost. The man’s eyes widened, and his momentary surprise was time enough for her to break free of him and quit the hall.

She did not remember the journey to the library. Her senses did not return to her until she was standing inside her cell, a lit candle in her hand. She set the candle down as she began to tremble. “What is wrong with me?” she whispered, overcome by emotion. She sank to the floor and closed her eyes, squeezing the remaining tears from them. “What do I do? Great Ones, please help me.”

The silence and the darkness of the library cradled her, broken only by the sound of Kariayla’s breathing. Was this the only peace she would ever know? Slowly she extended herself like a snail from its shell. With great care she lifted the bulky shirt over her head and began to untie the bindings that constricted her chest. She shivered against the cool air, but the anticipated freedom was worth the chill.

With a long, pained breath, she exhaled, at the same time allowing a pair of dark, leathery wings to unfold. Though she could not stretch them completely in the small room, she felt she could finally move again. The darkness, the solitude—it belonged to her—for only in such times could she truly be herself, alone with her secret and her shame. She closed her wings around her and wept, a prisoner to this kingdom, and a prisoner to herself.

“W
here were you last night?”

Kariayla kept her back angled toward the young woman as she replaced another book upon the shelf. “Where am I any given night?” she asked.