Legend of the Ravenstone (6 page)

The castle gate was open, carts and wagons filing through. Kariayla did not stop. Past the people and their loads, past the guards, past the gate. No one tried to stop her. She could not stop herself. Down the road, through the fields, and into a patchy forest she ran until, amidst the roots, leaf litter, and moss, she finally collapsed.

~*~

A
rcturus was determined to enjoy the peace of his carriage ride into Belorn’s royal city. He knew that his emergence from the cab would award him with many stares and unflattering comments. The Southern Kingdoms were said to be more tolerant of foreigners than most territories in Northern Secramore, but he was a Markanturian surrounded by Humans, and there was no hiding amongst them. He puffed on his pipe and gazed out the window at the tired greens and golds of summer’s end. With any fortune, the weather would hold for his journey east. He was unaccustomed to travel, and he hated to admit that this mysterious journey stirred some reservations.

Who has a name like “Hawkwing?”
Names were important—especially at an introduction. How was he supposed to receive a man named after a bird’s appendage? Arcturus shook his head and exhaled a ring of smoke. As he watched it drift out the window and into the open air, he glimpsed a flash of white. He craned to catch a better view and saw that it was a large, white hawk, soaring and dipping against the azure sky. “Quite the coincidence,” he murmured and sat back against the seat. He had almost turned away from the window when something else caught his attention.

A beggar at the roadside
.
That will be my fate should I squander the last of my funds on this journey.
Arcturus rubbed his chin. Something about the limping figure caught his eye as they passed it.
No. Wait. I would swear that was—
He withdrew his pipe.
My thoughts keep drifting back to the castle. That poor girl. She will haunt me long after Belorn is a memory.

Unable to resist, he peered back down the road. He tapped the head of his staff against the roof of the cab, and the driver slowed to a stop. “Please, turn back,” Arcturus said.

“Turn back, sir?”

“Yes. I wish to speak to that beggar.”

“As you wish, sir.”

The carriage rounded and rolled back in the direction from which they had come. It slowed and finally stopped, and Arcturus slid across the seat to the opposite window. The figure’s head had been bent, but now it lifted to regard him, and he felt his blood grow cold. “Dear me!” he cried, and quit the carriage.

It was Kariayla. She was covered in dirt, her clothes were tattered, and—
Wings? Are those wings?
Arcturus pushed the thought aside and knelt beside her. He gently grasped her shoulders and peered into her watering gray eyes. “My dear, what has happened to you?”

Tears cut through the dirt on her face, but tears were all that escaped her.

He pulled her close, and she collapsed against him, her slight form shaking with emotion. And there were her wings.
Wings!

“You will be all right,” Arcturus soothed. “I promise I will help you.” He patted her shoulder and felt her tense. Easing away, he saw for the first time the torn fabric, the blood stains. He took a deep breath to control his growing anger. “Who did this to you? I demand to know who is responsible—” The look on her face stopped him short, and he sighed. “Never mind. Come with me.”

He led her to the carriage and helped her inside.

“Are we to return to the castle, sir?” the driver asked.

“If you return to the castle, there will be nothing in this world to prevent me from tearing down the gate myself,” he snapped. “Stop outside the city so that I might tend to her injuries, and I will decide our course from there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Arcturus joined Kariayla in the cab. It hurt him to look at her.
I should never have left her. Perhaps it was not for me to interfere, but look what has happened.
She was a petite creature with a youthful, innocent face. If not for the way she spoke, he would have mistaken her for a child. Of course, he was far older than everyone he met. He had never, though, in all his 347 years of life, met a person with wings.

“I did not know you were not Human,” he said, hoping to calm her with conversation.

She looked up at him through the fallen locks of her long, black hair, her stormy eyes bright against the deep brown of her skin. “Nemelorean,” she said, in a tone weighted with shame.

“You were afraid what they would think of you,” he said. “It is a fear I understand, but you should never have to hide who you are, my dear.” He could tell she did not believe him; after what she had endured, he doubted he could convince her otherwise. “
They
are not worth your pain. I learned that much long ago. What they say is said in ignorance, and it takes time before you learn not to believe their words.”

She nodded but said nothing more until they reached a point outside the city walls. Arcturus helped her from the carriage and walked with her to a stream not far from the road. “You have revealed your secret,” he said, “and I would like to reveal mine. I cannot imagine you have encountered one of my race before.”

Kariayla shook her head.

“All I ask is that you trust me. I wish only to help you.” He expected her to protest when he lifted her injured arm and pulled away the soiled material, but she was silent. The cuts were deep, as though she had been raked by the claws of an animal. He dipped his handkerchief in the stream and cleaned around the wound; all the while, she did not utter a sound. “Now,” he said when he had finished, “I am going to heal you with my ability. You have nothing to fear, I promise you, though it may hurt at first.”

Kariayla seemed more curious than wary as he placed his hand over her slender arm. He watched her large eyes widen even more when his flesh began to move in worm-like tendrils, entering beneath her skin. She drew a sharp breath and then came to relax as he retreated. The cuts were gone, barely a mark to indicate where they had been. She gaped at him. “Can all Blood Mages heal as you do?”

“Indeed, my dear,” he said. “But the term ‘Blood Mage’ is considered crude. We are Markanturians.”

“I’m sorry, si—”

“Arcturus,” he corrected. “And I must insist upon no apologies.”

“But it was you who apologized first.”

“I...” He recalled that his apology was the subject of their last encounter in the castle. “Indeed,” he said, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “I do believe you are right.”

“Arcturus....”

“Yes, my dear.”

“May I come with you to Valesage?”

Arcturus blinked. “I...I cannot fathom a reason to the negative.”

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes welling again.

Those are the tears I can bear,
he thought.

T
he tailor seemed most disconcerted. He combed through his thinning hair enough that Arcturus expected it to pull free of his scalp. “This is rather abrupt,” the man said. “What you want cannot be done with such short notice.”

Kariayla stared at her feet. She looked much better after she had the opportunity to clean up, but no amount of scrubbing or grooming could lift her chin or straighten her shoulders.
Such a shame for so pretty a young woman to be so downtrodden,
Arcturus thought.
What weight still rests upon those shoulders, I wonder...
He turned to the tailor, growing irritated himself. “I do not expect a ballroom gown. This young lady needs attire that is clean and intact. Surely you can make a simple modification for her wings.”

The tailor snorted and muttered something beneath his breath.

“Your pardon?” Arcturus snapped.

“I will see what I can do, sir,” the man muttered and went to sift through his supply of premade garments.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Kariayla protested. “This is your time, your money, and your journey. I don’t deserve—”

“Enough,” Arcturus said, thumping Whitestar upon the ground. “I will hear no such talk. If you are to travel with me, you will be clothed, fed, and cared for. You are no longer under any servitude; you are my companion.”

Kariayla nodded.

“Now, I must inquire as to when and where we are to meet our party. If you are comfortable remaining here, I will return as soon as I have confirmed these specifics.” Despite her second nod, he searched her for any fear or hesitation.

“I will be all right,” she said at last.

“Very well.” He handed her several coins. “Keep these concealed, my dear. I should return before you see a need to relinquish them.” Then he left the shop and stood, pensive, facing the busy city street.
Where would one inquire about a caravan?
He would think such a scheduled congregation would be obvious, but Belorn was a large city, and everyone in sight had a destination and a purpose. He merely had to find someone who shared his intended course.

There was a strange cry from above him, and Arcturus turned to see a white hawk perched upon the tailor’s sign. It cocked its head toward him and opened its hooked bill as if to speak.

More than a coincidence?
Feeling rather foolish, he queried, “Hawkwing?”

The bird merely stared with its piercing blue eyes.

“Such nonsense,” Arcturus muttered, waving the bird away. It did not stir, but he had already turned his back to the creature and was walking down the street. He did not have to try hard to avoid the pedestrians and carts; most people avoided him. The aroma of fresh bakery drew his attention, despite the fact that he had eaten before he had left the castle.
Kariayla will be famished,
he thought, his mouth watering at the sight of the pies and pastries. He purchased a pair of cheese tarts from the gawking baker and was delighted to spy a wine-seller across the way.
Just a little will do, as I will be without for some time, I expect.

Arcturus asked for a taste, and the vendor did not deny him. He brought the cup to his lips and breathed in the fragrance he knew so well. Humans made a fair drink, but the quality could never match Markanturian wine. How he longed to taste the sweet nectar of his native grapes!
One hundred and eighty-two years since I have gone, and I can still recall the flavor....

“The white is mellower, I find.”

Arcturus looked up from his cup to see the owner of the deep voice. He looked higher still, for the man was exceedingly tall—at least a foot taller than most men. This was a gentleman, for he was well-dressed, his dark hair combed away from his face, his beard neatly trimmed around his mouth. Arcturus was hard-pressed to determine his age, though he doubted this stranger had reached his middle years as far as Humans were concerned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I admit to being a poor judge of flavor,” the gentleman said, “but there is a taste to the white that appeals to me.” He extended a gloved hand. “Jaharo Halensa.”

“Arcturus Prentishun.” They shook.
I know I have heard that name before.

“Like you, I am not a native to this city, but I have been here before—mostly on business.”

“You are a perceptive man,” Arcturus said, still unsure of the stranger’s motives. “What manner of business brings you here?”

Jaharo smiled. “The same business that takes me everywhere: maps. I am a cartographer.”

Arcturus’s mouth fell open. “That is where I have heard your name,” he murmured in awe. “You are
the
Jaharo Halensa? Your work is known throughout Secramore. And I must say that your maps are the most detailed, most accurate pieces of art that I have had the pleasure of reading.” He extended his hand again and shook Jaharo’s vigorously. “It is an honor to meet you.”

“Come now, Arcturus, you award me far too much acclaim.”

“Not at all, my good man. I am in the profession of assessing antiquities, and I can appreciate excellent craftsmanship when I see it.” He raised his cup to Jaharo and took a drink.

“Are my maps so old?” Jaharo asked with a laugh. “I am overwhelmed by your flattery, and I regret that our meeting be truncated so abruptly. I am committed to a caravan traveling east. The party will be departing shortly.”

Arcturus brightened. “My good man, you have inadvertently been the deliverer I had been seeking. My companion and I are also scheduled for this caravan, though I was uncertain where to rendezvous.”

“Companion?” Jaharo queried, looking around them.

“Dear me!” Arcturus nearly dropped his cup. “I left her at the tailor’s. Where might our party be meeting?”

“The eastern gate,” Jaharo said. “I will tell our leader that you are en route.”

“You are most kind! I look forward to continuing our conversation,” Arcturus said. He gave the man a nod and hurried back to the tailor’s shop. Kariayla was waiting for him, a smile upon her face as she presented her new attire. The back of the shirt had been modified to suit her wings, and while the outfit had clearly been intended for a boy, it was practical for travel.

“It was all I had for someone her size,” the tailor defended. “It is a child’s—”

“It is adequate,” Arcturus interrupted, dropping money into the man’s hand. “And now we must hurry, for we will be late for our appointment.”

“You know where to go?” Kariayla asked as they rushed from the shop.

“Fortune was kind,” he said.

“Thank you, Arcturus.”

“Of course, my dear.”
Now where is the east gate?

“Would you like your coins back?”

“Hold on to them for now.” He hated feeling pressed for time. It was a stress he could do without. “If we could see—” She was not behind him. “Kariayla?”

“Arcturus, look!”

She was standing beside a market stall, pointing toward the sky.

“My dear,” he said, exasperated, “we really cannot delay.”

“It’s circling,” Kariayla murmured. “It must be a sign from the Spirits. Maybe it is guiding us.”

Arcturus followed her sight to the white hawk soaring a distance from them. “That is a reassuring notion, but there is no logic behind a connection between us and the bird.” He took her hand. “We cannot spare a moment.”