Legend of the Ravenstone (9 page)

A stronger wind crossed her path, sweeping her long hair behind her. Then she heard it: the faint reverberation of thunder. “The bird,” she whispered, spying the pale hawk before it disappeared amongst the shadowy branches.
Could it be linked to the storm?

“Kariayla.”

Startled, she spun to find Jaharo looming behind her. “You are up early,” he said.

“I felt the storm. You must have felt it too.”

“I usually rise before the sun,” he said. “It is an old habit I have never tried to break.” He came to stand beside her. “There isn’t anything the matter, is there?”

“I’m not sure.” She shivered again. “Where I come from, we believe the Spirits send us signs. I saw a white hawk in the city of Belorn, and I have seen it since. I can’t help but think it’s following us.”

“As a warning or a protector?” he asked.

Kariayla blinked. “I do not think it’s a warning, but what if it is connected to the storm?”

Thunder interrupted them, more insistent than before.

Jaharo rubbed his beard and turned his face up toward the sky. At first he said nothing, but then he placed a hand on her shoulder. “You should return to Arcturus.”

His tone unnerved her, and she followed his suggestion. The Markanturian had not stirred since she left, and she knelt beside him to address him. “Arcturus, there is a storm coming.”

He did not budge; the regularity of his snoring never broke.

“Arcturus,” she said more urgently, applying pressure to his shoulder.

There was a crack of lightning, and at last he grunted.

Kariayla lifted her gaze to see the camp was now stirring.

“Arcturus,” she repeated, and this time she pushed his shoulder more forcefully. Then she uncovered Whitestar and brought the glowing staff close to him. “You must wake up!”

His eyes opened a sliver, his white pupils barely visible as she continued to address him. “There is a storm coming. We are going to have to take shelter—” The sky was split again by blinding rivulets of light, followed by a growing din of concerned voices and shifting of belongings.

“A storm?” Arcturus asked groggily, but he was slowly coming to. He took hold of Whitestar and sat up. Just as their fellow travelers began to move, the fire suddenly flared violet and died. The camp had fallen into abysmal darkness except for Whitestar’s pale glow, and the staff’s light did not carry far. The wind began to cry and shriek. Their leader shouted for everyone to stay still, but his words were lost to the panicked voices of his followers, the whinnying of horses, and the growling of thunder.

Amidst the chaos, Arcturus’s thick hand took hold of Kariayla’s arm. “The only enemy here is fear,” he said, his words firm but calm. “We must not lose our wits.”

He’s right
, Kariayla thought and focused upon the storm.
Maybe I can help. Maybe this is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.
Determined to act, she stared at the sky and concentrated on the energy driving the storm.
I can try to shove it back and dispel the clouds.
She tried gathering her own welling of energy, drawing the magic toward herself. The force, however, resisted her command; it was like pulling a mule that had planted its feet. She pulled harder, and in doing so, glimpsed the scope of her opposition.
The storm has already gathered momentum—

She gave a cry as a well-directed gust of wind swept her from her feet and cast her to the ground. Stunned and breathless, she lay on her belly. She had been overpowered—easily. Unable to respond to Arcturus’s calls, she watched Whitestar’s chalky light search the darkness. It was in the darkness, however, that she saw something else. A reflection—two luminous pinpoints. Her heart nearly stopped.
Animal eyes.
Fixed upon her.

Kariayla scrambled to sit upright—just as she felt a hand on her shoulder. She gasped and froze, her heart lodged in her throat.

“My dear!” Arcturus exclaimed. “What happened?”

At first she could not speak, but then she calmed a little and voiced the first thought on her mind. “Whitestar—”

“I could see no better with it lit,” Arcturus explained. “In fact, I believe it kept me blind. Are you all right? What happened?”

“The magic from the storm,” she said, hesitating to mention the eyes. “It was the wind.”

“Magic?” he asked. “I was beside you. The wind would have struck me as well.”

She doubted the wind would have lifted him if it had struck him; it had been directed solely at her—a response to her intervention. “There is magic,” she insisted. “I felt it.”

“I believe you, but—”

A woman’s scream rose above the wind.

Kariayla and Arcturus turned. Violet flames rose from the earth, spiraling in a vortex over the Humanlike form they enveloped. The flames were unimpeded by the wind, just as the figure was unimpeded by its fiery shroud. It took a step forward, and as it did so, two broad shapes lifted to either side of it.

“Demon!” someone shrieked. “It’s the Demon!”

And just as suddenly, the flames died, blackness left in their wake.

“An illusion,” Arcturus murmured. “And now it is gone.”

No, it’s not
, she thought with a shiver. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that the figure remained. Without the flames, its presence was no less unsettling. White as bone were the membranous wings that remained poised at its side, and white was the tattered swathe that concealed its wraithlike form. Its face was hidden beneath a hood, but from the depths of that hood were the two, violet, glowing eyes that she had seen moments ago.
The White Demon.

There was a flash of light from the heavens that struck behind the creature, followed by a deafening crack. The Demon was swallowed by shadows, gone only from sight. There was movement, but not by the creature. A couple of men ported a tall, post-like object to the middle of the encampment. When they stepped away, it began to blaze. Unlike Arcturus’s staff, the light was brilliant and powerful enough to illuminate the camp like a small sun.

“For the love of reason!” Arcturus cried, shielding his eyes.

Kariayla turned away from the blinding source, and in doing so, saw what was truly transpiring around the camp. Like spiders caught in the light, there were a dozen or so men in black scurrying away from the wagons. Close on their heels were the armed men from Duke Dinorthon’s carriage. The travelers could see nothing of the pursuit, but the shouts and cries of men suggested an ensuing skirmish.

“Get him!”

This shout was too close. From behind her fingers Kariayla dared look back at the beacon in their midst. A small, dark shape was headed for it. Behind it were several more men in quick pursuit. The beacon toppled, though it did not extinguish, and Kariayla stared wide-eyed as the shadow headed straight for her and Arcturus. She barely moved in time, but Arcturus was not so fortunate. The shadow collided with him and rebounded as though it had hit a wall. The dark form immediately solidified into the white-cloaked creature; it did not have a chance to recover before its pursuers tackled it.

The armed men formed a tight wall around the Demon, and all Kariayla could see was the swinging of clubs and sticks as the threat was subdued. She could feel the magic dissipate from the air like smoke from a spent fire, and the clouds relented a steady but harmless rain. Jaharo appeared from behind her with a grim expression, his eyes upon the violence before them, though he said nothing.

Arcturus, with the aid of Whitestar, found his footing. “There is an experience I would not care to repeat,” he said. “We are fortunate the duke’s men were prepared for such a calamity.”

“The duke is dead,” Jaharo said softly.

“Your pardon?” Arcturus asked in disbelief.

The cartographer did not repeat himself. His attention, as was Kariayla’s, was upon the limp form of the Demon the men began to drag beyond the wagons. The still-shrouded creature’s white cloak was now darkened by dirt and blood.

It’s not as big as I thought,
Kariayla considered with a strange twinge of sympathy. “Is it dead?” she asked.

“If it is not, it soon will be,” Arcturus said, disgusted. “The felons behind this will answer to Belorn justice. I expect the Crown will be swift in executing those responsible for the murder of one of their own.” He rubbed his chin. “They deserve no less for what they have done.”

“What will happen now?” Kariayla asked, noticing their leader as he addressed some of their party.

“More than likely there will be a choice,” Jaharo said. “The thieves will be taken back to Belorn. You can return to the kingdom, or you can press onward.”

“You speak as though you have already made a decision for yourself,” Arcturus said.

Jaharo gave nod. “I am expected by my client, and I cannot afford any delay. I intend to ride on.”

“Indeed.” Arcturus sighed. “If you will excuse me, I will speak to our leader.”

Kariayla watched him walk away, still reeling by what had just transpired.

“Are you all right, Kariayla?” Jaharo asked.

She nodded. “It’s hard to believe that after all those stories of the White Demon, he was caught this night, before my eyes.”

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Jaharo said in a low tone and went to check his horse.

A
rcturus was more than dismayed to learn that the majority of travelers, spooked by their experience with the thieves, preferred to return to the safety of Belorn. With their leader destined to escort them back to the kingdom, all modes of transport would follow. “Which means,” he told Kariayla flatly, “that if we choose to continue, we must do so by means of our own two feet.” Then, seeing the fear in her eyes, he added, “Returning to Belorn is not an option. While I admit that my travel experience has been limited to carriages and wagons, I am prepared to face the challenge of a bipedal trek. Besides, as I understand it, Valesage is along the Southern Link. We cannot possibly err in our direction if we follow the road.”

Jaharo, who had led his horse up to them, handed the Markanturian a roll of parchment. “There are villages along the way, so you need not fear destitution.” He looked evenly at Kariayla. “Remember what I have told you.”

Kariayla nodded, and Arcturus looked from one to the other. “What did our cartographer tell you?”

“To be wary as you go,” Jaharo said.

“As I am always.” Arcturus narrowed his eyes at Kariayla. “Was I absent during this conversation?”

“You were sleeping.”

“Oh,” he said, embarrassed. “Absent indeed.” He unrolled the parchment enough to glimpse its contents; he turned to Jaharo in awe. “This is—”

“A token of friendship,” the cartographer said. “And you may also find it useful whether as a practical map or as reassurance of your direction.”

“Graciously and with much admiration, I thank you,” Arcturus said. He tucked the roll away in his bag with great care. “I wish you well in your venture, my good man. We will sorely miss your company.”

“As I yours,” Jaharo said with a slight smile. He swung easily into the saddle. “All partings initiate new beginnings, and not all that is new is unfamiliar.” He bowed his head and trotted down the road, disappearing in the rain.

“A most provocative statement,” Arcturus mused, staring after the tall man. He turned to Kariayla. “Well, my dear, let us then initiate this new beginning. Oblige an old Markanturian, and check the wagon for any stray belongings we may have missed.”

Kariayla did as requested, searching the blankets but finding only the crumbs from their pastries. As she left the wagon, she spied the duke’s men standing before the group of thieves. The latter were bound and sitting in the mud, the rain dripping down the faces of men who knew they were doomed. What struck her was how ordinary they looked, like anyone she would pass in the market. Beside them were those who had fallen, arrows yet jutting from their bodies. The White Demon did not seem to be amongst them. Kariayla tore her eyes away and returned to her companion.

With nothing more to hinder them, they started on their way, each shouldering a pack of what was deemed most necessary for their journey. Once the sight of the camp was behind them, Arcturus cleared his throat for conversation. “I am curious as to your thoughts, my dear.”

“My thoughts?”

“About the incident this morning. You had mentioned the involvement of magic.” He glanced at her. “How did you know?”

Kariayla did not regard him, nor did she answer immediately. “I know storms,” she said. “Just as you read a map, I can read a storm.”

“An interesting comparison. I would think there are not a great many who possess such an ability.”

Kariayla removed a plastered lock from her face. “I can do more than read storms,” she admitted. “I can summon them, and I can move them.”

“You are a magess,” Arcturus said.

She looked at him, uncertain.

“You have this natural ability to manipulate the elements without use of a cantalere.”

“What is a cantalere?”

“An object that channels magic to a specific purpose.” He thumped his staff in front of him. “Whitestar is a cantalere. Wizards and witches—medori—tend to use such devices. I find myself wondering about the Prophet and his unfortunate thieves. Is he, perhaps, a wizard manipulating the setting to provide a convincing distraction? His so-called ‘demon,’ could have been an illusion placed upon an ordinary man—an effective scare tactic for unwary travelers.”

“I do not think the Demon was an illusion,” Kariayla said. “I...I saw its eyes. And I felt its magic. It wasn’t Human, Arcturus.”

“Magical trickery can be quite convincing,” Arcturus said. “Given my collision with the creature in question, I can tell you that there was no great might or presence to it. Had I been more alert to the situation, I have no doubt that I could have detained it myself and saved the duke’s men their efforts.”

Kariayla fell silent. At last she said, “I do not have might or presence either, but I can still summon a storm.”

The Markanturian smiled. “A valid point—one I cannot argue. Yet I cannot believe that our demon was quite the monster he was reputed to be. I suppose it should matter little now.”