Raven's Ladder (50 page)

“Cal-marcus,” said Jaralaine again, staring over Cal-raven’s shoulder into the light.

“Mother.” Cal-raven stroked her face. “Don’t you know me yet?”

“Not you,” she said firmly. “Him.”

The hair on the back of his neck rose, and he felt a chill. Terrified, he could not bring himself to turn, for in her eyes he saw a figure outlined in the cloud of light.

“Marcus”—she smiled, and tears filled her eyes—“Marcus, you’ve come. Look at you. Such strange dress. So who is this?” She put her hand again on Cal-raven’s face, reading him eagerly with her fingertips.

“Raven,” he whispered. “Raven.”

“Your father tells me you’ll remember,” she whispered back. “Remember?” He listened but heard no voice behind him. “Remember what?”

“The light’s too bright,” she said. “Your eyes aren’t strong enough to see. You must look instead at the wonders it shines on. The wonders it shines on and through.” She patted his face with affection. “You’ll remember.”

“Remember what?”

But she did not hear him. “I made so many mistakes,” she gasped. “Chasing wonders. Trying to throw my arms around them. But they weren’t meant to be caught. They were to lead. But now I cannot follow them any farther. The ground stops, my little Raven. And then there’s only cloud. Who can climb a cloud?”

“Sleep, mother,” he whispered. “I’ll carry you down to the boats. We have to find someone who can help you.” But he knew that he could not move her, and who on those boats could treat so wicked a wound?

“More?” she suddenly asked. And she turned to look over his shoulder again. “I see all of it and more, Raven! Shining through! Such colors.”

Cal-raven turned to shout at the figure, to frighten it away. But his voice caught in his throat, for there was not one figure. There was a great and silent host of phantoms in translucent, shimmering veils. Their eyes sparkled, and lines of diamonds rained from their faces. The one standing closest to him gazed down at Jaralaine. Slowly its hand rose, enshrouded in that strange, diaphanous lace.

A slow change came over Jaralaine’s eyes as she released a sigh of deep relief. Her hand fell from Cal-raven’s cheek.

He heard breath as fierce as the roar of a furnace, and he knew even
before he turned that the Keeper was there. He stood up, lifting his mother, walked to the door, and kicked it open.

The creature’s long-fingered hands clawed at the ground, pulling its enormous body halfway out of the Longhouse and into the open. Flames and sparks still flickered about the creature’s jaws. When it turned its attention toward them, those eyes holding a cosmos of color, it seemed unconcerned, as if they were only part of the scenery.

“Help us,” Cal-raven said. “Please.”

The creature’s upper lip curled to reveal its teeth, as if anyone needed reminding.

Cal-raven waited. “You don’t even understand what you’ve done, do you?” he asked.

The creature groaned, coughed a burst of flame, then looked away northward and sniffed the air.

“You’ve come too late,” he said.

The creature’s nostrils flared, and it looked toward Cal-raven, a disgruntled scowl on its muzzle, almost as if it was about to make some sharp retort.

Cal-raven laid his mother on the dry grass, keeping his body between her and the shimmering crowd. But as he knelt beside her, the creature suddenly reached forward and, with one of those massive, clawed hands, gathered up Jaralaine’s body. That hand carried her back into the tunnel while the Keeper’s gaze remained fixed on Cal-raven as if this were some sort of challenge.

A wind rose.

Cal-raven looked down at the stain of his mother’s blood on the ground. “I’ve sought you my whole life,” he said to the creature. “I’ve sought you, thinking you were immortal. Thinking you were kind. And this is my reward? To see you fail? To see you destroy those I came to save? What are you?”

The ground began to quake.

“If you’re my hope,” he whispered, his voice a dry scratch, “it’s not enough. The dream of you was better.” He began to back away from that gaze, those scrabbling claws. “In the dream you were stronger than the world.”

He turned and walked away.

The ground shuddered more violently. He was certain the creature was crawling after him. He kept walking.

But nothing caught up to him. And when he heard the creature cry out in alarm, he turned.

The ground was breaking open. The creature was turning, shrieking, as something serpentine and black coiled around its body. Twisting onto its back, the creature thrashed, trying to break free of the tunnel. A violent tug pulled it back so that only its head and neck remained in view. Cal-raven breathed a sharp, familiar stench—the same putrescence he had encountered on the bridge over the chasm.

Feelers
.

He found he could not move as the magnificent creature fought, coughing out smoke and sparks. Cracks spread across the dry ground. More fanged tentacles—tough as roots, wild as snakes—broke through, whipping the creature’s head and raking bloody wounds. It reared up in one mighty lunge for freedom, trying to spread its wings into the air. Then it crashed down, and a gust of hot smoke burst through its nostrils.

The creature’s eyes turned once to Cal-raven as if to ask for help. Then it trembled, and colors drained like tears from those dark, glassy spheres and soaked into the ground. As its color faded, so did the witnesses gathered outside the stable, and Cal-raven thought he heard a chorus of anguished cries.

He was certain the feelers would come after him now. But the branches released their victim silently as if their work was finished. Then they retracted as swiftly as they had appeared.

Cal-raven watched the last tendrils of smoke drift slowly from its nostrils.

He had stood there and done nothing. Now he was alone.

He turned to see a tide of beastmen sweeping across the open ground. Like night arriving early, they rushed through the ruins of the old House Cent Regus village toward the gate.

Cal-raven ran into the prongbull stable, pulled its wooden door closed, and pressed himself into a far corner, shivering, ankle deep in dung, dragging piles of weeds to bury himself. Outside, the passing beastman horde howled like a storm. He could hear them climbing over each other in an eager
madness, desperate to push their way past the enormous carcass and rush into the throne room, where the Essence waited unguarded.

When the cacophony diminished, sinking down into the Core, Cal-raven emerged. Too terrified to set eyes on what remained of the magnificent creature, he ran like a wild animal fleeing a forest fire.

O
ceanhawk eggs.” Lifting the copper cover from the plate, Queen Thesera inhaled a cloud of spicy fragrance. “This is my favorite.”

The blinking puffball on her shoulder wiggled its pink nose and sighed with pleasure.

While the ruler of Bel Amica smiled down on the fried eggs, each having been neatly rolled like a napkin, Tabor Jan reminded himself that staring would not improve his chances of winning her favor.

But how could he not stare at a woman who looked, for all the world, like her daughter’s daughter? The seams that stretched from her ears to her jaw line made him wonder what her true face might have been.

As sisterlies placed more plates on the crescent table, Tabor Jan tried to ignore the aromas of tempting but insubstantial fare that had become all too familiar for him in the markets. Nectarblooms. Salty sand-digger cakes. Slices of mushy, syrupy meyerfruit. Handfuls of crunchy pulmynuts, appealing but hard and hollow.

He stood at the foot of the dining dais like a man waiting to be sentenced.

Cyndere and Partayn sat on the near side of the curved table, half-turned in their cushioned chairs. They offered him apologetic smiles as they, too, waited for Thesera to grant him permission to speak.

“If you’re here out of concern for your king,” said Thesera at last, “I’m told he’s in good hands.”

The rail train rumbled below, its vibration upsetting the levels of hot seaweed tea in the glass goblets.

“Henryk and his troop are waiting at the edge of the Core,” said Partayn. “Our mission has a greater chance of success if Cal-raven and Jordam stay inconspicuous.”

“I notice you stayed here,” Tabor Jan said curtly.

“You’re enough of a strategist to know I need to stay at the planning table.” Partayn’s glare was a clear reprimand. “But believe me, Captain, I understand your frustration. I wanted Cal-raven to stay. I needed him here. He wouldn’t listen. He demanded we let him go.”

“Is this breakfast conversation?” The queen sounded exasperated. Tabor Jan had to stifle a laugh when he saw the bright red grin that the fruit had painted across her face.

“It’s my birthday,” Thesera continued. “We can talk of the world’s troubles anytime. Today, my mind is on escape.” She glanced to the window. “Or rather,
the Escape
. I saw the most magnificent oceanhawk sweep past the tower this morning. Your father would have taken it as a sign. Perhaps we should perform Helpryn’s eagle ceremony to bring blessings on our voyage.”

“I thought the Seers discouraged the old signs and ceremonies.” Cyndere smiled sideways at Emeriene.

“I have not forgotten the moon-spirits,” came the queen’s sour retort. “My moon-spirit will grant me my wish. I’ll have a safe voyage, far from trouble, where I can rest and recover from my…improvements.”

Seated on a couch beneath an arching, stained-glass window, Emeriene gazed into the sunlight that blazed through that morning rush of fog. But Tabor Jan could hear the tension in her voice. “It’s not any concern for his king that brings Tabor Jan to this table. I do hope we will hear his appeal before you set sail for the islands.”

Cyndere put down her glass, choking on her drink. Clearing her throat, she said, “Forgive us, Tabor Jan. There’s urgency in your visit.”

“There is duty in my visit,” he replied. “I carry out my king’s pledge to serve House Bel Amica during our short”—he paused, then repeated the word—“
short
stay here. Last night down at the docks…” He stumbled to a stop. “Queen Thesera, you are in danger.”

“You speak of the ship that burned,” the queen replied. “There is danger, yes. Ryllion has dealt with it.”

“My discovery has nothing to do with the trouble in the harbor waters.”

“Summon Ryllion,” the queen interrupted, waving a hand at Partayn. “If there is a threat, he’ll take care of it.”

Tabor Jan glanced about at the large mirrors that surrounded the room. He felt exposed, as if the Seers might sweep in and upset his errand.

“Ryllion is busy, Mother,” said Partayn. “He is on the
Escape
, examining every inch to ensure it will carry you safely.”

“So, what kind of threat—”

“Beastmen, my lady,” Tabor Jan blurted.

The queen paused, lips parted, a forkful of eggs halfway to her mouth. She closed her mouth, rested her wrist on the edge of the table. Then she laughed. “We have some frightening old fellows down by the docks. Only dead beastmen are allowed in House Bel Amica. And believe me, I sought to prevent it.”

“It would be so much better if I could take you to see for yourself what troubles me.”

“You’re offering to show me something upsetting on the morning of my birthday voyage? How charming!”

“How,” chirped the whiskiro.

“Queen Thesera,” said Emeriene, “Tabor Jan has been to Helpryn’s Punchbowl.”

The forkful of eggs had almost reached the queen’s mouth again. It hovered there, and then she lowered it back to the plate. “The Punchbowl’s been sealed for years.”

“How would he describe it to me if he hadn’t been there?”

“I saw forty beastmen. In the Punchbowl.” Tabor Jan hesitated, then took a step that felt like a dive. “Ryllion and a Seer were speaking to them.”

The queen sat still. There was no longer any steam rising from the shred of egg on her fork.

“It’s heavily guarded.”

“Then how did you get in?”

“I had…” He cleared his throat. “I had a disguise.” Thesera rapped the fork on the tabletop, fragments of egg flying into the air. “Am I being mocked?” And then she laughed like a young girl being
tickled. She aimed a sharp kick at her son’s shin under the table. “It’s been so many years since anyone’s attempted a good birthday prank. I cry mercy.”

“This isn’t a ruse, Mother,” Cyndere said.

The queen’s mirth dissolved. “Listen,” she said. “I’ll not miss my ceremony. I am departing this house as planned. My boat awaits. The crowd’s assembled. Like Tammos Raak, I set out to discover a new land, one that the moon-spirits have promised me.”

“Me,” chirped the whiskiro.

She stood, took hold of her cup with its howling wolf emblem. Then she lifted her fork as if to strike its glassy bowl in a pronouncement. “I’ll have Ryllion search the Punchbowl for beastmen, and the matter will be settled.”

“Ryllion
is
a beastman,” Tabor Jan muttered.

“I will go with him!” Cyndere announced, leaping to her feet.