Legend of the Ravenstone (8 page)

T
he afternoon eased by with the methodical chirps and ticks of crickets and grasshoppers, the constant rumble of the wagon wheels, and an occasional whinny from the horses. The lull, much like the presence of the sun, lingered and entranced most of the travelers in a lazy sort of daydream. The quiet slipped into the evening like a lengthening shadow. Whispers of color in the sky hinted at nightfall and the promise of stars and a watchful moon.

The wagons circled as before, but now there was a grand fire to coax the group together for a warm supper of soup and rolls. Wine was served with the meal, courtesy of a generous noble who shared the same affection for the drink as Arcturus. Thus the encampment abandoned their quiet conversations for stories, jokes, and even a song or two as led by the caravan minstrel.

“Moments like these are when I think most of Markanturos,” Arcturus mused. “Good wine, good company, and...” He looked skeptically at the empty soup bowl beside him. “Well, we cannot expect a lavish feast, I suppose.” He hiccupped and apologized to his neighbors. A sudden idea struck him, and he wagged a finger at Jaharo. “You have your maps?”

“I do,” the cartographer said, regarding him curiously.

“Might I—might we—” Arcturus gestured to Kariayla, “feast our eyes upon your work?”

“I’m afraid the light is failing us, Arcturus,” Jaharo said.

“Never mind that.”

Jaharo shrugged and went to obtain a map from one of the bags on his horse. When he returned, Arcturus murmured a few words, and the tip of his staff began to glow with a soft, white light.

“A remarkable walking aid,” Jaharo said, impressed. He unrolled a map before them, anchoring the corners down with nearby rocks.

“It’s amazing,” Kariayla whispered, seeing all of Northern Secramore illustrated in detail. “One would think our world is much smaller than it is.” Her eyes roved over the names of places she had never seen or heard of before. There were shapes of kingdoms and territories that looked like broken fragments of glass fitted back together to create the great continent. The tallest mountains she had known were just a few peaks among many, their ranges spanning across the land to shape mortal boundaries as well as border vast forests and deserts. Rivers ran across the paper like veins, and the lengthy road known as the Traders’ Ring connected every major territory from east to west. Her eyes drifted and lingered upon the Haloan Mountains at the southern edge of the continent. Without a thought, her finger traced lightly along the territory there: Nemeloreah. Her homeland.

“You are not so far from home, my dear,” Arcturus said. “My travels lead me east, but perhaps you would rather travel south.”

“No,” she said, a little too quickly. Then she added, “There is so much to see. So much I want to see.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “There are those born with the thirst for the horizon, ever restless, ever wandering. But for all the wonders one might witness, we have but one home, and that is forever etched in our hearts. It is as much a part of us as our hands or our feet, and it does define us no matter how far or how long we stray.”

“What of your home, Arcturus?” she asked. “What is it like in Markanturos? Will you return there?”

He sighed. “Will I return? I cannot say. Memory is an instrument of extremes. Bad experiences grow worse with the passage of time, but so, too, grows the fondness for what we appreciate.” He took a long drink, paused, and drank again. “With all the time that has passed since I left Markanturos, I cannot imagine much has changed in my absence. We are, you see, a long-lived race, resistant and slow to change...perhaps to a fault.”

Arcturus finished his cup and poured another. “But what I remember, for the sake of fondness, are strolls along the walkways. There is not a home without an herb garden, and you can smell them as you pass. The scents mingle with baking bread and cooking meat, for there is never an empty oven or a vacant hearth. Red meat and red wine are the backbone to hearty meals. A simple repast, mind you, may take hours—not to concoct, but to consume. To appreciate the bounty is to eat slowly and truly enjoy the flavors, and every meal is seasoned with good conversation. You may dispute politics, theorize on a theatrical performance, discuss the theme of a well-written book....

“One can expect guests every day. Afternoon Chat is observed by all. No matter the activity, no matter the weather, one stops to drink his tea with present company. I recall the taste of mint with a hint of honey, thick, warm bread with goldberry jam...” Arcturus smiled and lifted his cup again. “One never hurries. It is in poor taste to hurry.” He swirled the contents of his cup, his gaze absent upon the drink.

“Humans are always busy, rushing from here to there. They are tight-lipped folk with suspicion in their eyes. Their food, their wine, oh it is bland by comparison to Markanturian cuisine.” He glanced at Jaharo. “Your pardon, of course. I mean no offense, though I am inclined to be honest.”

“No offense taken,” Jaharo said. “Of all the places I have traveled, I have never been to Markanturos. You paint a favorable picture.”

“I am biased,” Arcturus admitted, “but I cannot say the journey would be worth your while. The borders, you see, are... Well, they are ‘closed,’ for lack of a better term. Markanturians have reserved their paradise for themselves and are quite unwilling to share it.” The last line was uttered with more than a little bitterness, and he downed his cup. “I am ashamed to admit this to you. It is an example of one of those unpleasantries that grow more unpleasant with time.”

“I understand,” Jaharo said, “though I appreciate what you have shared.” He turned to Kariayla, who was lost in thought. “There is nothing to compare to a sunrise in the Haloan Mountains. There is the sea, the sky, and the mountains, and none more mystical than the others.”

“You have been to Nemeloreah?” Kariayla asked, amazed.

“I have passed through the region at the good graces of your people,” Jaharo said.

“I have wondered what it would be like to fly,” Arcturus mused, his words sliding together.

Kariayla thought of her wings and frowned.

“It must be liberating,” Jaharo said. “To take to the sky and be free of the weight that anchors us to the earth.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “It is.”

“From where do you hail, my good man?” Arcturus asked.

Jaharo smiled. “I consider myself a man of Secramore. There have been many places I have called home.”

“But you have only one place of origin,” Arcturus said.

“Which may or may not be synonymous with the term ‘home.’ I have a home for every season.”

Kariayla regarded him thoughtfully. “How do you mean?”

Jaharo turned his attention toward the map. “Have you ever had a special place to which you retreated when you were lonely, sad, or hoping to clear your thoughts?”

“Yes,” she said. “Eruane’s Watchtower, we called it. She is the Spirit of the Storm, and this was her sacred shrine. It spiraled up the mountain to a niche at the top. When I was younger, I would sit there and pretend I could see the world.” She tugged a stray lock from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

“What was special about the shrine?” Jaharo asked.

Kariayla considered the question. “The best time to be there was at the onset of a storm. You could watch the clouds roll in like a great, dark wave, and when they crashed, the lightning was silver and bright. It was amazing and beautiful.”

“Dangerous, I expect,” Arcturus said. “It could not have been a safe vantage for you, my dear.”

“Eruane is my protector,” Kariayla said. “Her storms were a gift to behold.”

Arcturus looked as though he wanted to say something, but instead he turned to his drink.

“Then you understand more than you realize,” Jaharo told her. “Of special places, I have many. I like to spend the winters in Polbran, where the evergreens stand tall and dark and laden with snow. The people there have a midwinter festival of light called Firebright, where they place candles in lanterns that they set before their doors at night. The Lady of the Snow is said to walk the streets and leave a gift for all who honor her with a lantern to show her way. They believe they help guide her passage from winter into spring.”

“That is fascinating folklore,” Arcturus mumbled.

“Where else do you go?” Kariayla asked, intrigued.

“Spring arrives first in the south,” Jaharo said. “I like to follow it as it slowly unfurls northward, reaching the Northern Kingdoms—Sorvindale in particular. There are paths where the wildflowers grow thick as clouds, just before the leaves on the trees reach the size of squirrel’s ears. The villagers go hunting for the Blue Hermit—a mushroom that only grows in their hemlock forests. Its taste is said to be irresistible.” He extended a gloved finger. “But half the fun of the hunt is how they find the mushrooms.”

Kariayla obliged him with the proper question. “How do they find them?”

“Squirrels.”

“Come now,” Arcturus laughed.

“Squirrels have a special liking for the Blue Hermit, and their noses are superior to ours when it comes to sniffing the ground,” Jaharo said. “The villagers take their squirrel-raising very seriously. They have squirrels that have been specially bred for generations, and they must be trained.”

“Now I know that you jest,” the Markanturian said, then hiccupped again.

“The squirrels must be trained so they will not eat the mushroom but bring it back to their owners. This behavior goes against every instinct the squirrel has,” Jaharo said.

Arcturus straightened. “Well, of course.”

“But for us, it is one of the most amusing customs you will ever see.” The cartographer grinned.

“Indeed!”

“What of autumn?” Kariayla pressed.

“Valesage, actually,” Jaharo admitted. “If for no other reason than the colors of the leaves. The trees catch fire with shades of crimson, scarlet, orange, and gold. If it is a particularly brilliant autumn, the Freelanders call it ‘Dragonblaze.’

“Now, before you ask, I will speak of summer, for summer is my favorite season. Like you, I enjoy the storms, but I also enjoy the crystal-blue of a clear sky. In the Chronleste Mountains the sun blazes and hits the mountains, painting the hills with wildflowers and dancing off the streams. The wind carries a song without words, and eagles soar amongst the clouds. It is the most beautiful and haunting land I have ever known.” He turned away to gaze into the shadows of the trees beyond the wagons, a strange and distant expression on his face.

“I would love to see such things,” Kariayla said. “I wonder if I ever will.”

“Of course, my dear,” Arcturus said, half asleep. “If you wish it.”

Kariayla turned back to the map, only to have Jaharo stretch his long arm before her and point to Valesage. “In which territory does it sit?” he asked.

“The Freelands,” she replied, reading what was clearly printed before them.

Jaharo nodded. “We are still in the territory of the Southern Kingdoms. By tomorrow night, we will reach the border into the Freelands. You must take care in the Freelands.”

Kariayla’s brow furrowed as she waited for him to continue.

“Kingdoms have laws and men to enforce them,” Jaharo said. “There is trade and diplomacy, meaning there is greater tolerance of foreigners. The Freelands are exactly as their name suggests. The laws are interpreted differently depending on where you travel, and they are enforced with varying degrees of rigidity.” He looked her in the eyes. “The laws may be different for different people. It is a dangerous land for those who are unfamiliar with Freelander customs. One must be cautious where one goes, what one says, how one behaves.”

Kariayla shifted uncomfortably. “But we should be safe as long as we are with the caravan.” It was more of a question than a statement.

Jaharo moved the stones from the edges of the map and began to roll it up. “I just wanted to prepare you for what you might hear or see. It never hurts to be aware of your surroundings—even if you are in the company of those who can protect you.”

She watched him rise and replace the map in the saddlebag. There was a sound from beside her, and she found Arcturus had slid back against the log, his eyes completely shut. “Arcturus,” she murmured, “your staff is still glowing.”

He did not stir except to emit a loud snort, which evolved into equally loud snoring. She debated whether to try and rouse him, but then Jaharo returned.

“I don’t know that I can wake him,” she said. “His staff is still lit.”

“And you suspect that our fellow travelers might not appreciate the light as they try to sleep,” Jaharo surmised.

Kariayla nodded.

“I wouldn’t believe you would appreciate it either.” He reached over and gently took Whitestar from where Arcturus had propped it on the log. He withdrew an empty wrapping from their midday meal and covered the head of the staff. “That has helped a little, but maybe we will tuck this behind the log. He can extinguish it in the morning.” He turned to her. “You might follow his example. Our leader likes to make an early start.”

Kariayla took his advice and pulled a blanket from the wagon. She settled near the Markanturian, and it was not long before she succumbed to dreams of lanterns, blue mushrooms, and specially trained pet squirrels.

~*~

T
he air stirred with unseen currents of power—a building force that swarmed around her and caused Kariayla to open her eyes. The camp was silent, calm, but her skin tingled, and her heartbeat sounded in her ears. The sky was dark, but if she stared at the horizon, she could believe it was growing lighter. She noticed that the stars and the moon had vanished beneath an amassing ceiling of obscurity.

It’s a storm
. Kariayla sat up and shivered as the magic grazed against her skin. There was a rustle of wind amongst the grasses and trees, and it toyed with the stray locks of her hair. She peeled back the blanket and walked toward the edge of the encampment, her eyes upon the blackening sky.
This is not natural. It came too quickly, and I can feel a force driving it. Something powerful.