Authors: Jeffrey Overstreet
Raven's Ladder (2 page)
The Treasure paused, eying a crossroads ahead. “When Cal-marcus ker Har-baron made her queen, he promised her anything she desired. She hoped to gain the power to capture those colors again. To keep them for herself. But nothing satisfied. So she abandoned Abascar and continued her search, until she was captured.”
The boy took her hand, and his was hot in her cold grasp. She saw in his attentive gaze the wild confidence of one who somehow knows more than he should. His face, so strange, wore not a whisker or a hair. He was a scorched thing, a sooty sapling after a forest fire. He did not even cringe at the tiny specks embering upon his eyelids.
“Raven,” she said, her voice breaking. “Look at you, all made of stars. I thought I’d never see you again.”
“I’m not Cal-raven, my lady.”
She closed her eyes. “Be patient with me. My mind is in pieces.”
He followed her rag-skirt as it swished down crooked stairs. She led him to a simple cell and through its open gate to a ragged curtain.
“You’re stepping into my story now, ale boy. I found them. Or rather, they found me. They’ve nested in my chamber, too much to dream of holding for myself.”
The ale boy stopped, eyes widening. Colors flickered about the curtain’s edge. She smiled and drew it back.
He flinched. But the colors shone without any hint of deception, and he stepped into their influence.
The Treasure held out her hand, unfolding her fingers to reveal a crimson thread. “There is so much more,” she said. “Shall I show you?”
“No,” he whispered. “I remember.” He strode forward, gathered it into his embrace, laid his head upon it as if it were a pillow, and said, “Oh, Auralia. They’re alive.”
The Treasure knelt. “Tell me, little Raven. Tell me more about Auralia. Where did she find these colors? Because I want to live where they come from.”
He turned to answer, but the words stopped short, for they were no longer alone.
An enormous beastman was kneeling in the open gateway, eyes bright with Auralia’s colors.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the Treasure to the boy. “This one…he’s not like the others.”
“I know,” said the boy, and he went forward to take the visitor’s hand.
“O-raya’s boy,” murmured the beastman, patting the boy on the head. “You have grown.”
C
AL-RAVEN IN
F
OUR
K
INDS OF
T
ROUBLE
A
uralia reached out to Cal-raven. As he approached, the flame of the candle he carried flapped like a flag in a hard wind.
Her smile was mysterious, just as he remembered it. That detail had proved most difficult. Other aspects had come easier as his hands sculpted the stone. Her humble stature. The tiny knob of her chin. Her feet—ten small toes emerging like a row of beads beneath a leafy skirt.
Cal-raven was not a tall man, and yet Auralia, slight for sixteen, had stood only to his shoulder. He could see her open hands pressing through the span of fabric that she offered to any visitor.
Almost a year had passed since he’d found her in the Abascar dungeon, wrapped in a magnificent cloak. Their fleeting conversation was burned in his memory more vividly than yesterday. Unflinching, Auralia had voiced her faith in phantoms dreamed and legends whispered—like the Keeper, that benevolent creature who haunted dreams, a silent guardian, a listener.
Cal-raven had sculpted, erased, and then reshaped Auralia’s lips, her eyebrows with their question pinched between them, her whole face filled with trembling hope that others would receive and understand her vision. She had been more than human. Or better, she had been more fully human than anyone around her.
The king’s hunting hound, his golden tail wagging, sniffed at the statue’s ankles. “Hagah.” The dog slumped down to the floor and sighed, resigned to wait.
That fabric the statue held—Cal-raven had not even tried to give it the
textures and colors of Auralia’s cloak. How could he? Its threads had glimmered with colors no eyes in Abascar had ever seen.
“Tell the Keeper,” he whispered, “that I don’t know where to go from here.” He ran his fingertips along the span that spilled like a waterfall from her upturned hands. “When I was a child, I’d have called out myself. It was easier then to believe.”
Auralia’s expression did not change; it would not unless he changed it. Her polished eyes would not return his gaze for, in the tradition of House Abascar portraiture, they lacked detail. While each statue in the cavern was distinct—the beloved and the burdensome, the wise and the foolish, the soldiers and the miscreants—they shared that same indecipherable gaze, an affirmation of something altogether unnamable, inimitable. The mystery of the heart.
Embarrassed at his habit of addressing this likeness, he knuckle-knocked Auralia’s forehead. “Last visit. Watch over these worn-out people for me, will you?”
Something shifted in the cavern behind him. Hagah lifted his head and followed his master’s gaze through the long rows of statues. “Wynn?” Cal-raven waited.
Hagah’s huge black nose emerged from flabby rolls of fur and sniffed. Then the dog set his chin back down on the ground.
“You’ll catch our pesky shadow in a dream, won’t you?” Cal-raven said, but he gave another look back.
Why am I so agitated tonight?
he wondered.
Because some of them are turning against you
, replied his father’s ghostly voice.
It’s been almost a year. You’ve mentioned New Abascar, but you still haven’t shown them apian
.
The statues that crowded the Hall of the Lost listened. These extravagant stone monuments gave shape to Cal-raven’s promise that he would never let his people forget the lessons they’d learned and that they would build a new house to honor those lost in Abascar’s cataclysm.
But the name
grudgers
, once given to those who had rebelled against their previous king’s oppressive ways, now applied to people distrustful of Cal-raven. Grudgers objected to his embrace of the foolish along with the wise; his equal concern for the weak and the strong; his insistence that every person,
no matter how “useful,” be fed and shown the care of their healer. Moreover, grudgers grumbled about the way Cal-raven gambled their futures on possibilities revealed to him in dreams.
Tonight Cal-raven had taken the firewalk. Lesyl’s turn had come, but he had offered to patrol the passages for her. He wanted to hear her sing the Evening Verse one last time before his departure the next sundown.
“I’ve written a piece that can only be played by two,” Lesyl had said when the firewalk brought him to the chamber of Auralia’s gallery. Sitting against the wall decorated by an array of colorful weavings, she tuned the twelve-stringed tharpe, a formidable, sonorous instrument. She seemed relaxed, even happy, and oblivious that this was a farewell.
“Here.” She picked up a wooden spiral. “You remember how to play the hewson-pipe, don’t you? Oh, come now, don’t tell me you lack the time. You need the practice.” When he did not approach, she persisted. “Scared?”
“No,” he laughed.
Yes
, he thought.
He had torn himself away from that conversation to continue the fire-walk for fear of losing his fragile restraint.
Not now. Not yet
.
So while she sang, he paced that routine progress, ensuring that torches would not spark any mishaps, that candles burned within the spheres prescribed, that everything was in its right place.
He had led these survivors through a hostile winter and a dispiriting spring. Just as they had begun to define a possible departure, a visit from the mage sent him scrambling in another direction. Tomorrow he would slip away and venture north to pursue the vision his teacher had given him.
The day will come, Cal-raven, when you’ll have no choice but to leave Scharr ben Fray’s imagination behind and live in the real world
. His father’s fury buzzed in his ear like a skeeter-fly.
If you don’t, the ground will crumble beneath you
.
Facing his father’s likeness, Cal-raven felt his throat tighten. “Whose inventions plunged into the earth?”
Listen to me, boy! You’re too old for toys. Who will lead the people when I’m gone? Someone whose head is full of children’s stories?
“Show me someone better prepared for the task,” he said. “I do not enjoy the burdens you’ve left me.” He took the shield from where it was draped over the shoulder of the king’s likeness.
The statue’s lips were parted, and a strange feeling of discomfort crept up Cal-raven’s spine. He did not know what scared him more—the thought of the stone speaking or the thought that his dreams might prove false.
Hagah’s inquisitive nose bumped the edge of Cal-marcus’s shield, and he woofed.
“You’re not waiting for him anymore, are you?”
A rough tongue exploded from the hound’s expansive smile, and his tail thumped against the floor.
“You’ve given up on them both.” Cal-raven’s gaze strayed to the statue of his mother. The runaway.
It was a good likeness, or so he’d been told. Jaralaine’s appearance seemed an echo lost in time’s clamor. But troubled scowls from older folk told him that they recognized this imperious beauty. He did remember occasional tenderness and sighs of insatiable loneliness before her disappearance. He also remembered a fury against any suggestion of a will greater than her own.
He found himself suspended between the gravity of these statues and the forested world beyond, which called to him like a feast to a starving man.
“We’re all ready to be runaways now, Mother. If we don’t leave soon, the bonds that bind us will break.”
Hagah sniffed the base of the queen’s statue.
“No!” Cal-raven shouted.
Disappointed, the dog lumbered off through the rows to settle on the lanky figure of a hunter known by his nickname—Arrowhead.
Go ahead
, Cal-raven thought.
Arrowhead was a grudger. He threatened my father’s life. Wouldn’t hurt him to take some abuse for a change
.
Hagah would have merrily complied, but the sound of something slithering sent him bounding back to Cal-raven’s boots, fangs shining beneath his retracting lip. Cal-raven blew out and dropped the candle, held his father’s shield close, and knelt to withdraw the throwing knife at his ankle.
There was only silence. Cal-raven tiptoed through the statues, Hagah stalking low before him.
The dog led him to the western wall, where a corridor ran along the inside of the cliff. Hagah put his snout down to a crack in the floor, noisily drawing in air. His tail stopped wagging.
“What have you found, boy?”
Hagah stiffened. Then he began to back away from the fissure, a low, rolling growl changing into a worried squeal.
“Something nasty?” Scars like burns from rivulets of hot oil marked the floor all about the break. “Let’s go. This place is giving me jitters tonight.”
A puff of wind touched his ear and then—
thung!
He turned to see an arrow embedded in the wall beside his head.
He sprang forward, leaping over the dog, and ran through the corridor. Down the stairs. Through tiers of tunnels.
In the distance Lesyl sang the Evening Verse. But his pursuer—pursuers, he could hear their footsteps now—did not falter.
Hagah turned around snarling. “No!” Cal-raven knew the dog was no match for an arrow. “Run, boy!” He pointed, and the dog bolted ahead just as he had been trained.
Cal-raven did not follow. He faced the rugged wall, placing his hands against the rock. His fingertips sought hidden inconsistencies, and finding those points, he applied pressure and heat in a way he could never explain.
The stone awakened, rippling in a sudden wind.
Cal-raven’s body clenched like a fist, forcing energy out through his hands. Then he pressed himself through the wavering curtain.
A midsummer evening’s breeze cooled his burning face as the sand sealed itself behind him.
The grudgers are out of patience
. He brushed grit from his garments. It would not take long for his hunters to find their own exit.
They were watching. Waiting for me to be alone
.
“Keeper, protect me,” he murmured. Crouching, he moved away from the cliffs into narrow paths through thorn-barbed thickets that blanketed the plains.
Several turns into that maze, he sat down to catch his breath.
I must get back inside where it’s crowded
.
He thought about standing up and calling for the guards on the tiers above. But they would not see him here in the brake. And what else might come in answer?
A strange wind moved through the shallow sea of thorns. Bramblebugs
skrritch-skrritched
across the plains. Something wriggled under his foot. He set his father’s shield aside, tugged off his boot, and shook loose a rockspider.
He looked up through the brambled frame. A shooting star scratched a line across the night’s black dome. As if excited by the mysterious sign, faraway wood dogs shrieked in song.
When he jerked his sleeve free of a bramble and stood, his rustling stirred up a cloud of twilight-suckers. These insects were always a help to hunters, for they uttered tiny shrieks of delight as they descended on fresh dung or carrion.
Sure enough, as the pest cloud dissipated, he saw two copper coins. He knew that reflective stare from a hundred hunts. A lurkdasher. A year ago the sight of this swift, bushy-tailed creature would not have surprised Cal-raven. Lurkdashers were common burrowers in beds of brush. But Abascar’s best hunters had been catching little more than weakened scavengers, rodents lean for lack of prey. Across the Expanse the land had gone quiet, as if emptied by some mass migration.
If Cal-raven had been out for any other purpose, he’d have thrown his knife so fast the dasher would have fallen midsprint. But he stayed still. Something wasn’t right.
The lurkdasher vanished. Cal-raven stood in the quiet, just another secret in this complicated night.
He could sense a presence, fierce and intent.
He turned his head slightly and drew in a deep breath. Only a stone’s throw to his right an enormous animal, many legged, lurked in the thick web of boughs. He held that breath and waited, eyes slowly translating the contours of darkness and deeper darkness all around him.