Ravenmarked (The Taurin Chronicles)
Ravenmarked
Amy Rose Davis
Published by Amy Rose Davis at Amazon.com
Copyright Amy Rose Davis
Kindle Edition, License Notes
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
Many heartfelt thanks to the following wonderful people:
To Linda Kincaid, who shall henceforth be known as Map Maker Extraordinaire. You took my generic scribbles and turned them into a world that looked even better than what I had in my head, and you did it for nothing but my gratitude. I am in your debt.
To Robin Ludwig, cover artist extraordinaire. Thank you for sharing your amazing talent with the world and for giving Connor Mac Niall a face.
To Leanne Stewart, Aleta Sanstrum, Bethany Learn, and all of the many other folks who served as beta readers and editors for me. You’ve been far more gracious with your time than I ever had any right to expect, and I am grateful for all of your input.
And above all, always, to the love of my life, Bryce. Thank you for making me laugh, keeping me honest, pushing me to succeed, and giving me some of Connor Mac Niall’s best lines. And, thank you for putting up with all the crazy that comes with being married to a writer. You’re a saint. I love you.
Table of Contents
For one with the ravenmark, there is no balance.
— Tribal lore
Water is no substitute for a good steak.
Connor’s stomach clenched, contracting in hunger, and the water of the fast-running stream at his feet didn’t satisfy it.
Four days.
He poked at a log with his makeshift walking stick, knocking off a layer of bark. A dozen or more grubs scurried for cover.
Food.
He shook his head.
I promised. But it’s been four days. When will this vision show up?
He stepped carefully over the rocks at the edge of the stream to the mossy forest floor. The scents of the forest swirled around him. Though he’d agreed not to use his Sidh air talent during this tribal initiation, he couldn’t help his strong sense of smell. His Sidh magic quickened late—he was thirteen the first time he wove the air braids—but it quickened strong. It had been a year since he’d first learned to weave the braids, and odors still sometimes overwhelmed him to the point of nausea.
Seems like I should be able to weave the braids better for all the trouble I have controlling the odors,
he thought.
In the distance, a faint scent of wood smoke beckoned, and his stomach grumbled again. He twisted his mouth and walked in a different direction. It was part of the agreement—stay away from the tribes until the earth revealed herself. It was why he was here in the forest, naked, hungry, and sleep-deprived.
I could just give up. I’m not a tribal boy. I’m Taurin. There are plenty of forests to hunt in Taura.
He sighed. No, he wasn’t tribal, and yet he’d promised himself he’d do this. Edgar, his father’s best friend and chieftain of the wolf tribe, had promised him a place in the tribe if he passed the initiation. And most importantly, he’d promised his father he would finish the initiation. “Manhood isn’t about bedding a woman or running a duchy or beating other men in battle,” Culain Mac Niall always said. “Manhood is about keeping promises. A real man keeps his promises.”
Connor gritted his teeth.
I wish the earth would keep her promise.
He finally crouched near a fir tree in the deepest part of the forest and wiped sweat from his forehead. He took a deep breath. A new scent tickled his nose, and he frowned.
Carrion.
Above him, a raven sat on a branch, head cocked to one side, staring at him.
Connor shivered.
If there’s carrion nearby, why is the raven here?
He recalled a line from tribal lore:
When Alshada left, the ravens came. Their cries keened for the dead and dying; their wings blackened the sun.
The raven spread its wings and croaked at him. It flapped into the air and circled, landed on the branch again, and fixed one dark eye on Connor.
Connor stood. One foot moved, and then the other, and when the raven flew to another branch, Connor followed.
The raven led him to a small clearing under a thick fir canopy. Connor stopped at the edge of the clearing, a cold ache settling in the pit of his belly.
Not a fir canopy—a canopy of ravens. Raven sky.
Dozens, hundreds, more—the ravens fluttered and flapped and cawed and croaked all around the clearing, a swirling black mass of feathers. A stench of rotting flesh rose from the carrion on the ground. The birds landed, pecked, flew again. One carried a thick chunk of skin in its mouth.
Bile rose in Connor’s throat, but he had nothing to vomit. The scent of rot threatened to overwhelm his senses.
Damn Sidh blood.
In the clearing lay a dead man, his features destroyed by the birds as they had pecked out eyes and torn flesh away from bone and muscle. Connor held his arm up to his nose to keep from retching.
One of the ravens dropped down to land in front of Connor. With frightening precision, the others joined it. They faced him, their beaks and feet wet and their feathers matted. He clutched his stick in both hands and prepared to defend himself. “I’m still alive,” he said. “You wouldn’t want me.”
It was only a twitch of a blur at first, but Connor blinked.
I can’t have seen that.
The ravens coalesced, roiling and joining and churning into a form that stood the same height as Connor. Dozens of wet eyes and talons and blue-black feathers undulated into the legs, hips, waist, breasts, head of a woman.
But not a woman—a raven.
The female shape was covered in raven feathers, and two dark eyes stared from a smooth, black face.
Connor dropped his walking stick. “What—”
The woman took a gliding step forward and lifted one arm. A rasping, genderless voice spoke from the void where a mouth should be. “You will be my first. The others will come, and you will lead them.”
His feet rooted to the floor of the forest, Connor couldn’t step back. He swallowed.
The Morrag.
He knew her from myth and legend—the earth’s avenging spirit, the creature who stalked criminals and evildoers to mete out punishment.
What did I do to earn her wrath?
“Your first what?”
“My first warrior. My angel of death. My avenger.”
Cold fear shivered down his spine. “What do you want from me?” he whispered.
“Heed my call.” She took another step forward and touched the inside of his left thigh.
Connor cried out at the sudden piercing agony in his leg. Ravens swarmed the clearing in a black curtain, croaking and diving and beating the air into submission. Fear seized Connor’s chest, and he threw his arms over his head and fell to the ground to protect his face from the birds.
The Morrag’s fingers—no,
talons
—sank into his arms and pulled them away from his face. “Watch,” she said. “You will avenge a great evil.”
A scene of torment unfolded before Connor. Men and women and children, dead and dying, bleeding, moaning, desperate for relief writhed in agony on the forest floor. Among them, a creature walked—something evil, the scent of his soul befouling the air even above the rotten flesh.
His father’s words rang in Connor’s head:
You are a Mac Niall. It’s your duty to defend those weaker than you. Never let evil triumph without a fight.
The Morrag pointed at the creature. “Behold your enemy. You will avenge the evil he has done.”
Connor struggled to stand. “No—I won’t—” he said, but it came out only in desperate gasps. His chest constricted, and he struggled to draw a full breath.
“You will be bound to me all of your days, Connor Mac Niall.”
The battlefield vision faded, and the Morrag lifted her talons from his arms. He curled up on the floor of the forest clutching his leg. “I’m not a killer,” he whispered. “I’m not a murderer.”
“You are ravenmarked. You are my first warrior.”
“I can’t be the first—there were others in the legends—”
“You are first in stature.”
He shook his head. “No. I won’t do it. I don’t want it. Give me another calling—anything—I’m not a killer.” He sat up and looked at his leg. Inside his thigh, the skin red and raw around it, was a brand of a raven’s feather. He swallowed hard again.
Ravenmarked.
“I’m not a murderer. I’m not an assassin or an avenger. I’m a hunter and a warrior, but I won’t seek out people to kill, not for the earth or Alshada or anyone else.”
“You are marked,” the woman said. “But you are not forsaken. Alshada has his hand on you. You will be a warrior, a mighty king, and your descendants will rule many lands.”
He struggled to stand, determined to meet her gaze as a man, not a boy. He winced when he put weight on his leg. “I’ll be nothing. I’m bastard born. I have no title.”
“I care not for titles of men. You are my raven.”
“I’ve heard stories in the tribes. The ravenmarked are doomed to fall into madness or destruction. There is no balance when one is bound to the earth.” Blood trickled down his arms from where her claws had pierced his skin. “I won’t do it.”
“It is as it will be.”
His chest constricted. He clenched his fists at his sides. “I am slave to no one,” he said. “If you want me, you will have to take me, and I will not go without a fight.” His heart thumped in a frantic combination of fear and rage, and sweat rolled down his temples and cheeks. “Do you hear me? You will force me. I won’t marry—I won’t have children or lead anyone. If you want me, you take me, and I’ll suffer your touch alone.”
The woman burst in an eruption of cawing and flapping. As the birds flew skyward, the voice of the Morrag echoed in the clearing:
You will be my first raven.
When the forest returned to normal, Connor sank to the ground. He looked at both arms, but there was no trace of blood or claw marks. The brand on his leg was real, however—raw, red, and real. He ran two fingers over it and winced.
Ravenmarked. I’m ravenmarked.
Connor put his head in his hands. There were stories and legends of the ravenmarked throughout tribal lore. Called by the Morrag, the ravenmarked were men destined to exact vengeance against evil whenever the Morrag called. But madness came with the mark, for when evil was banished, the men still needed to kill. Some men took their own lives for fear of harming others. Worse, some killed their own lords, friends, even families because of the drive of the Morrag. The tribes had even been forced to kill their own ravenmarked brethren for the good of the people.
For the one with the ravenmark, there can be no balance,
the tribes said.
When he finally stood, the sun had lowered over the forest, cloaking the world in muted orange hues. He turned south. His father waited with the tribe. The earth guardians would feed him, clothe him, and brand his palm with the warriormark. Edgar would tattoo him with the wolf’s head.
He looked at his palm. They would put the warriormark there—the swirl that would channel the earth magic and give him the power to banish the dark warrior spirits of Namha, the great enemy. He closed his palm.
No. I won’t take it. Not if it gives the earth another way to hold onto me.
Near midnight, he stumbled into the village and found his father and Edgar sitting before the fire, waiting. Culain Mac Niall stood. “Connor—gods, son, what is it?”
They see it.
He swallowed hard and tried to turn so they couldn’t see the brand. “What do you mean?”
Culain started to say something, but stopped himself. “Nothing. For a moment—” He straightened his shoulders. “You completed the trial.”
Edgar stood, too. His green eyes narrowed. “You’ve been marked,” he said.
Connor returned the chieftain’s stare. “My quest is over. I’ve sought the visions. I’ve returned to the tribe. I humbly ask, traitha—accept me as your son, warrior, brother in the web of life.”
Edgar picked up the white kaltan and approached Connor to wrap it around his waist. “I name you Ulfrich Wolfbrother and accept you as my tribal son.” Edgar picked up Connor’s right hand. “Are you ready to receive the warriormark?”
“No.”
Edgar blinked.
“I choose not to receive it.”
“Connor, this is all you’ve talked about for months,” Culain said.
“I choose not to receive it,” Connor repeated, looking at his father.
“I can’t force him to take the mark, Culain,” Edgar said. “It is his choice.” He examined Connor’s face with a critical eye. “If the earth has given him a reason not to take it, we must respect Connor’s wishes.”
Culain nodded. “What about the tribal mark?”
“He will receive the mark of the wolf tribe and the honor of the braids at first morning’s light.”
“Why do I have to wait?” Connor asked.
Edgar grinned. “You don’t want my hand slipping and giving you a wolf’s head with a crooked nose, do you?” He put a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Go rest in the vision hut. Take the ceremonial bread and water. It will be enough until after the tattooing.”
Connor nodded and walked away to the vision hut.
His father followed. “Connor.”
He turned back. “I can’t tell you what I saw.”
“I know.” Culain sighed. “I can’t tell you everything—I promised your mother—but there are more things about you than you know. Your magic, your destiny—it’s all more complicated than you think. Don’t let this vision rob you of your future.”
“What do you mean?”
In the faint glow of the moon and the distant fire, Connor saw Culain close his eyes for a moment. “A vision is just that—a vision,” he said when he opened his eyes. “It’s not fate or destiny in itself. It can be a piece of one of those things. It can give us a glimpse into the future or perhaps even a prophecy. But it’s just a piece, and usually a small piece.” He paused. “Whatever you saw, it doesn’t have to be the final word on your future.”
Connor inclined his head. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.” Culain put both hands on his son’s shoulders. They stood nearly eye to eye since Connor’s last growth spurt. “This is just one thing, Connor. Our lives are thousands and thousands of things. We are all our own webs, and one little choice made because of this vision could ripple through the rest of your web and make it stronger or destroy it. Don’t let this one vision write your future. You write your future.”
Connor nodded. “I will.”
I’ve already started.