Raven's Shadow (30 page)

Benroln met her gaze for a moment, then dropped his head in the respectful bow of a vanquished opponent. “And so I learn from your wisdom.”

Lehr, who'd come upon them as Seraph had been giving her last speech, snorted and then grinned at Benroln. “
She
knows better than that. That's what
she
always said to Papa when she didn't want to agree with him but he was winning the argument.”

Seraph smiled gently. “We can agree to disagree.”

 

The Travelers were a highly organized people—just like a well-trained army, and for the same reasons. Every person had an assigned role.

Seraph hadn't realized, not really, how independent the life that they'd led in Redern had been. As long as the Sept's tithes made it to him, they were left largely alone to do as they wanted. If she'd been married to another Rederni man, that might have meant that she would have been at his mercy. But Tier was Tier. He'd sought her advice, and she'd worked shoulder to shoulder with him both in the fields and in the kitchen. She'd grown used to the freedom of making her own decisions.

When Isfain had pointed to a place and told her to make camp there, she'd nearly told him where to take his orders. If she hadn't caught Lehr watching her expectantly, Seraph would have done just that. Instead she'd just nodded and gotten to work.

At least they accorded Seraph some leeway for being Raven, and clan leader, if only just of her family plus Hennea. Lehr they treated like a green boy—Tier had never treated him so. She just hoped he was enough his father's son to hold his peace until she'd had time to learn more about this clan: they might be a great help in retrieving Tier.

Seraph pitched in to help prepare the evening meal. Some of the men tended horses and goats, some set out to fish, and a smaller group set out into the forest to see what game they could find. Jes and Lehr joined the latter group. She'd had time to talk with Lehr, and Seraph knew he wouldn't give himself away. He didn't care for Benroln much either.

“My Kors told me that you married a
solsenti,
” said the woman on Seraph's left, while her clever fingers and sharp knife were making short work of deboning one of the rabbit carcasses that were the basis for tonight's meal.

There was such studied neutrality in the words that Seraph didn't reply, pretending that skinning her own rabbit took up all of her attention.

“What was it
like?
” said the woman on the other side of her with hushed interest. “I've heard that
solsenti
men—”

She was quickly hushed by several of the other women who were giggling as they chided her.

“Would you look at this!” exclaimed a woman in gravelly tones. Seraph turned and saw a tiny, ancient crone approaching the tables set up to prepare food. Her hair was pale yellow and thin; it hung in a braid from the crown of her head to her hips. Her shoulders were stooped and bent, and her hand as knobby as the staff she balanced herself with. “You'd think you'd never had a man before the way you act here! She is a guest. Ah, you embarrass the clan.”

“Brewydd,” said the woman who had begun the conversation. “What brings you here?”

“Brewydd?” said Seraph, setting down the naked rabbit carcass and wiping her hands on the apron someone had given her. “Are you the Healer?” Even twenty years ago, Brewydd the Healer had been ancient.

The old woman nodded. “That I be,” she said. “I know you child—Isolda's Raven. The one who survived.”

The woman on Seraph's right put aside the food she was working with and hurried over to tuck her hand under Brewydd's arm and lend support. “Come, grandmother. You need to get off your feet.” Scolding gently and prodding, the woman took Brewydd away toward a wagon built up on all four sides and roofed like a small house on wheels—a
karis
it was called for the
kari,
the Elders, who were the only Travelers who rode in them.

“Raven,” said the old woman, stopping for a moment to turn back and look at Seraph. “Not all shadows come from the evil one.”

“People can be evil all on their own,” agreed Seraph.

Satisfied with Seraph's reply, the old woman tottered back to her
karis.

“She can still heal,” said the woman on Seraph's left. “But she's a little touched. It's the years, you know. She won't tell anyone how old she is, but my Kors is her great-grandson.”

 

Three days of travel with Rongier's clan taught Seraph a lot about them. Benroln and the old Healer were the only Ordered among them, though they had a few who could work magic in the
solsenti
fashion—with words and spell casting that hoped to gather enough stray magic to accomplish their task.

It was most remarkable, she thought, watching as a young man named Rilkin used a spell to light a damp log, that they got any results at all. Her father had been gifted that way, and they'd spent many a Traveling day exploring the differences between her magic and his. A
solsenti
spell cast out a blind net into the sea to haul in whatever stray magic might attach itself to the net; Ordered magic was more like putting a pail in a well.

She turned back to grooming Skew and to her current worries. Tier she could do nothing about until they reached Taela, so she tucked her fear for him away until it might be useful. Lehr and Jes were more immediate concerns. They were growing more and more unhappy with the continued association with the Traveling clan.

Skew stretched his neck out appreciatively when her brush rubbed a particularly good spot. Skew, at least, was having the time of his life with all the attention he was getting.

Lehr, however, chafed under the commands that all of the men and most of the women of the clan felt free to throw at him. Without hinting at what he was, he couldn't win their respect by his hunting skills so they treated him as they treated all the other young men.

No one gave Jes orders—they all knew what he was. Her daylight Jes was bewildered by the way they lowered their eyes around him and avoided him. Seraph didn't remember her clan treating her brother, the Guardian, that way. The Librarian's clan hurt Jes's feelings by their rejection, and that made the Guardian restless: Jes was one of the people he protected.

Hennea helped. She knitted in the evenings, and found things that required Jes's aid. He was calmer around her, too; perhaps it was the discipline of being Raven that made Hennea easier for Jes to bear. Some people, like Alinath, were hard for him to be in the same room with.

“Mother?” It was Lehr. “Have you seen Jes? He was with me at dinner, but someone decided they needed a dray mule and I was the nearest they could find. When I went back to the dining tables, Jes wasn't there. I checked the horses and he wasn't there either. Hennea was looking for him, too. He's not in the camp, Mother. I told Hennea I would check with you.”

To see if she wanted him to search, even though someone might notice what he was doing.

“I don't—” Seraph stopped speaking abruptly.

Over Lehr's shoulder, Seraph saw Benroln, Kors, and Calahar approach with intent. Isfain, the fourth man, was nowhere to be seen. The air of grim triumph Benroln wore was as damning as the guilt on Kors's face.

She stepped around Lehr so she stood between him and the leadership of the Clan of Rongier.

“Is something wrong?” asked Benroln.

“I don't know,” Seraph replied softly. “I think that's something you can tell me. Where is Jes, Benroln?”

Benroln held his arms out open-palm to show her he meant no harm. “He is safe, Seraph. I won't harm him unless there is no other way to save my clan.”

Seraph waited.

“Jes is in one of the tents with Isfain at watch.”

“What do you want?” she asked.

Benroln smiled as if to say,
See, I knew you'd do it my way.
Three days had obviously not taught him much about her—she hoped that her other secrets were as well-hidden.

“My uncle has been scouting for work for us, and he found some not five miles down the road.”

“What kind of work?” asked Seraph.

“There is a merchant who buys grain and hauls it to Korhadan to sell. Last year one of the farmers with whom he had a contract delivered his grain himself and cost our merchant money and reputation when he wasn't able to deliver the
grain he had promised his buyers. He went to the courts for redress, but they were unable to help him.”

“I see,” said Seraph neutrally.

“I want you to curse this farmer's fields.”

“To teach him a lesson,” she said.

“Right,” he smiled engagingly. “Just like that man who assaulted Hennea.”

“But this merchant will pay you money.”

“Yes.” He didn't even have the grace to look uncomfortable.

“And what will I get out of it?”

“Your family will have a home at last. A place where they fit in and no one taunts them for their Traveler blood. We will share with you all that is ours,” said Calahar, as if he were offering her a gift instead of blackmailing her.

Benroln was smarter than that. “Safety,” he said. “For you and your family.”

Seraph stared at them for a minute.

“You can't hold Jes for long,” said Lehr confidently. “He doesn't like strangers much—he'll know that there is something wrong.”

He was right—or should have been. Seraph watched, but Benroln's confidence didn't falter.

“You have a
foundrael,
” she said, suddenly certain it was true. There weren't many of them, but then there weren't many clans left either. They weren't such fools as to try to keep a Guardian prisoner without something to keep him under control.

“What is that?” asked Lehr.

“Guardians can be difficult to control,” she explained without looking away from Benroln's face. “They are driven to protect their own at the expense of everything else. Sometimes their imperatives are inconvenient; guardians don't follow orders well at all.” She wasn't going to tell them how common it was for an Eagle to lose his daytime persona and become completely violent, even toward the people he had previously protected. “A Raven a long time ago came up with a solution. She created ten
foundraels
—collars that keep the Guardian from emerging—before she realized what the end effect of repressing a Guardian is.”

“What's wrong with it?” asked Lehr. “Is Jes in danger?”

Seraph fingered the knife at her hip. “Let's just say that if they thought they had problems with their Guardians when they decided to use the
foundrael,
they had real problems the first time they decided to take it off. The use of
foundraels
is forbidden except under the most dire conditions.”

“My father will keep him calm—your Guardian will experience no difficulties unless you give him reason to think that there is danger,” said Calahar, stung by the contempt in her voice.

“Seraph—I've looked all over . . .” Hennea's voice died out as she recognized the confrontation.

“These men have taken Jes,” Seraph told Hennea. “So that I will aid them in cursing a man's field. They will receive gold for their efforts.”

She saw Hennea's face as worry faded, leaving behind a facade as cold as ice—just such a face had Hennea worn as she knelt beside the dead priest in Redern.

“They take gold to curse people?”

Seraph spat on the ground in front of Benroln. “They have chosen to forget who we are. But they have me at a disadvantage.” She shook her head in disgust and then looked at Lehr.

She needed someone to tend Jes, someone he trusted who would sit by him calmly until she could get Benroln to take the
foundrael
off—the collars could only be taken off by the person who put them on. But Lehr was too angry, she thought in near despair; Jes would know that there was something wrong.

“Where's Jes?” asked Hennea.

Seraph looked at the other woman's expressionless face thoughtfully. “Kors,” she abruptly, “will take you to Jes. He's being held with a
foundrael
—Isfain is supposed to be keeping him calm. I would appreciate it if you would do your best to see that Jes is not discomforted while I go with Benroln.”

“A
foundrael?
” If anything, Hennea's voice was colder than before. A blush rose on Kors's cheeks. Hennea's mouth was tight with anger, but she nodded her head at Seraph. “I'll take care of him—he's been helping me knit in the evenings since we met up with this clan. Sometimes simple tasks help.”

“Thank you, Hennea,” said Seraph, feeling vast relief at Hennea's confidence. She pointed to the tent entrance. “Gura. Stay. Guard.” The last thing she wanted was for one of these fools to get their hands on the Ordered stones. Once the dog was sitting where she'd asked him to, she said, “Lehr, my dear, it looks like you might miss the Hunt today. You will come with me—I have no desire to lose anything more than I can help on this fool's errand.”

Hennea stalked behind Kors, the canvas bag that held
her needles and woolen thread clutched tightly in one hand. Her anger was partly self-disgust. She knew better than to getinvolved; that always brought unnecessary pain. Poor Moselm . . . he'd been such a kind man, uncomplicated. They'd been lovers before they'd been taken, but it had been little more than a convenience to both. Moselm's wife had died several years before of one of the mysterious ailments that plagued the Traveling clans. They had come together for comfort.

But it was the Traveler's lot in life to confront things that no one else would face. If Moselm's death brought the light of destruction to the Path, he would have counted his life well-spent. But Jes . . .

There was no peace in dying among kinsfolk—and Hennea, like Seraph, knew that every minute that Jes spent collared by the
foundrael
brought him that much nearer to madness and a merciful death at the hands of those who loved him. She didn't want to do that ever again.

That
Travelers
would come to
this,
Travelers sworn and taught to aid the
solsenti.
For gold and hatred they betrayed
their oaths, and put a good man at risk—perhaps they all deserved the fate that the
solsenti
intended to mete out.

Kors, subdued and somber with doubt, led Hennea toward one of the more distant campsites. The clansfolk they encountered on the way bowed their heads and refused to look her in the eye. They knew, she saw, and they were ashamed—but angry at the guilt they felt. Before long, she thought, they'd turn that guilt into righteous indignation.

See what the
solsenti
have turned us into,
they would say to one another, so lacking in pride that they could not even accept the responsibility for their own downfall.

Kors stopped in front of a large tent and they both heard Isfain's harsh voice snap out. “Sit here and wait, boy, as I told you. Your mother has business with Benroln and then you may do as you wish.”

Hennea's eyebrows climbed. “Supposed to be keeping him calm, is he?” she murmured to Kors, pleased when she saw that he was unhappy with what they'd just heard as well.

She swept open the tent with none of the usual courtesies. Isfain was standing in front of her and she shoved him ungently aside to see Jes perched unhappily on a tall stool in the middle of the tent. It was the only object in the tent—if Benroln had indeed given orders to keep Jes calm he had failed marvelously.

“Woman, watch what you do!” snapped Isfain.

Evidently, he didn't care for her entrance. She ignored him.

“Hennea,” Jes said in soft-spoken relief. “I need to see Mother.” One hand rubbed at the leather strap he wore around his neck, turning it about as if to find a buckle or lacing that wasn't there. To Hennea's eyes the leather was as smooth as if it had just grown around his neck.

“What are you doing here?” said Isfain. “Does Benroln know you are here?”

She ignored him again.

“It's all right, Jes,” she said to the dark young man sitting restlessly on the battered old stool. “Benroln wants to force your mother to curse some poor farmer's land for money. They're holding you with an artifact that keeps your other spirit at bay—there's nothing wrong with you. Lehr went with your mother.”

She didn't know how much he'd understand in his current state so she was gratified when Jes's swaying slowed down.

“They are safe?” he said.

“I don't think that Benroln will be able to do anything to Seraph that she doesn't want to happen. Lehr is with her.”

He swallowed, “And you are safe here.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I'm safe with you. Would you help me with my knitting until your mother's business is completed?”

She opened her bag and gave him a skein that she'd tangled just for this purpose. After a little hesitation he took it from her. He stared at it for a minute, but at last his long-fingered hands began to work patiently at untangling knots. The rough wool thread had a mind of its own, and it would take a while to unravel the mess she'd made.

She settled at his feet and began knitting with a ball he'd rolled for her yesterday. She leaned lightly against his leg, prepared to shift away if she made him uncomfortable. The long muscles of his thigh softened and relaxed, so she let him take a bit more of her weight.

She glanced into his eyes and saw the fury trapped impotently in the net of the
foundrael
. She shivered and looked back at the sweater she knitted. For a while he seemed calmer. Perhaps if the tent had not been so starkly furnished, or if that idiot Isfain had quit looking at Jes as if he expected him to explode, Jes would have been all right.

“I don't like this,” said Jes, abruptly throwing his yarn on the ground. “I need . . . I need to be somewhere.”

Hennea looked up at him and saw the despair in his eyes. Enough, she thought. “Wait a moment,” she told him.

Kors was not a problem. He knew what was right when someone shoved it in his face, as much as he wished he didn't. Isfain, though, Isfain might be more difficult.

He was one of those gifted with magic, though not Ordered. Hennea knew that other Ravens had a tendency to look upon unordered mages as weak, but she was not so foolish. A good wizard used subtlety as well as power, and like a well-knit wool sweater, their spells could be difficult to unravel.

The trick with wizards was not to give them time to do anything.

“Isfain,” she said simply. “Hush, be still.”

It wouldn't have been worth doing to a Raven, because they needed neither word nor movement to call magic. A wizard could call magic that way, too—but it was a poor business they made of it. It would be a long time before Isfain worked his way free of her binding.

“What?” asked Kors incredulously, surprised at Hennea's rudeness.

She put her knitting away carefully, then she took the yarn Jes had thrown and set it in the top of her bag. Time enough later to unspell it so it could be organized more easily.

“He's too far,” she said.

“What do you mean?” asked Kors, who still hadn't noticed that Isfain was now immobile because of her magic. He didn't know what she was.

“Have you ever seen a Guardian released from the
foundrael?
” she asked. “It's not bad if they haven't been upset—but your Isfain precluded that.”

“Mother,” said Jes sadly.

She nodded. “I know. Lehr will keep her from harm, but that is your job. To protect your family.”

“Yes,” he said.

She turned to Kors. “If I were you I'd leave this tent, so that you aren't the first thing he sees when he's free.”

She'd given him warning enough.
If he didn't choose to follow . . .
she relaxed as she heard him leave. Really, Kors wasn't a bad sort.

“All right, Jes, I'm going to take this thing off.”

She reached up, but he caught her hands. “Can't. Benroln said only him.”

“Well,” Hennea said. “I'm not as powerful as your mother, Jes, but I have spent a long time studying. I think I know how to take the blasted thing off. I'll not lie to you, there is some danger—but not as much as leaving it on.”

“To me,” he said, catching her hands before she could touch the
foundrael
. “Not you.”

“Only to you,” she lied, but she'd had a lot of practice lying and it came out like the truth.

He let her set her hands on the soft band around his neck. The leather was soft and new-looking, as if it had been tanned
yesterday instead of centuries ago. That made it easier, because she knew which one it was.

“No,” he said, pulling her hands away again.

“It's all right,” she said.

“No,” Jes said again. “The Guardian will kill the big man. That would be bad. He thinks that killing would be very bad for us. Killing is bad, but he would have no choice. He is very angry.”

Hennea considered him. Everyone had a tendency, she thought, to ignore the daylight Jes in their fear of the Guardian. Oh, Seraph loved him in either guise, but she treated him with the same indulgence and discipline that she treated their dog and the others followed her example.

Jes, thought Hennea, was more than just a disguise where the Guardian resided. Impulsively she put her hand, still clasped loosely by his, on his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned against it, moving so the light stubble, new-grown since his shaving this morning, prickled her fingers.

He was just a boy, she thought, uncomfortable with the instant response his innocently sensual gesture had called from her.

He might be right about killing. The Order of the Eagle came only to people who were empathic, a rare gift and usually weak. If Jes were a strong enough empath, killing might very well be enough to damage him.

“The Guardian won't calm until we take it off, Jes. He'll just feel worse and worse,” she said, though she didn't move her hand from his face. “The longer we wait the more difficult it will be.”

He nodded, but didn't open his eyes. “He's so angry,” he said. Dark lashes brushed her fingertips, and she shivered.

He looked at her then, his eyes dark and hungry. “You could make him not angry,” said Jes. “He likes you, too. Kiss me.”

His suggestion startled her. She'd never heard of anyone trying something like this. Likely because only an idiot would think of kissing an angry Guardian.

Her lips were still canted in a smile when they touched his. It was an innocent kiss at first, because he called that from
her—though not without arousal. His lips were a little chafed, and the rough surface scraped hers in butterfly-wing caresses.

She could feel him tense when her hands touched his neck again, so she opened her mouth to nip lightly at his lips, distracting him from what she did.

It distracted her, too—but not so much that she fumbled the Unlocking.

As soon as she finished, fear washed through the tent like a flash flood, taking her breath with its strength. She dug her fingers into Jes's shoulders, which had turned to iron. But he didn't fight her as she held him to her and touched his lips with her tongue.

Fear had driven away the embarrassment she felt at seducing him, but it hadn't erased the desire he called from her. When he took charge of the kiss, she softened for him and allowed him to vent his fury into passion.

It was the Guardian who gentled the kiss again and shifted his weight away from her. He rubbed his face against hers, like a cat marking his territory, and then pulled away despite the tension that shook his body.

“Benroln has Mother and Lehr?” he asked hoarsely.

She had to clear her throat before she could say anything. “Yes,” she said.

She averted her face, knowing her cheeks were red, so she didn't have a chance to move away before he touched her again. He pulled her against him, and set his chin on top of her head.

“We'll go find them,” he said. Then he must have noticed Isfain, because he stiffened.

“What have you done to that one?” he growled.

She used the excuse of looking at Isfain to step out of Jes's arms. “Not as much as I'd have liked to,” she said. “Benroln was young when he stepped up to the leadership—if I understand the history that led to this stupidity. But you,” she tapped Isfain's nose reprovingly, “you knew better. He was your sister's son and you taught him poorly.”

“Release him,” said the Guardian.

She cocked her head at him warily. “Why?”

When he growled at her, she found herself smiling despite the way the skin on her back flinched. “I think we'd better just
leave him as he is until we find Lehr and your mother, don't you?”

“Soft-hearted,” he said.

“Better than soft-headed,” she replied. “Should we go after Lehr and Seraph?”

He stepped around her and held open the tent flap. “I'd rather eat someone,” he said—she thought it was for Isfain's benefit, but she wasn't quite sure. “But we'll head out looking for Mother first. Is Gura here?”

“Seraph told him to guard the tent,” she said.

As she ducked through the flap he put his lips near her ear and said, “Don't feel guilty.”

She stopped so abruptly that the top of her head collided with his jaw hard enough that she heard his teeth click.

“Why should I feel guilty for kissing a handsome young
boy?
” she said sarcastically, without lowering her tone at all.

To her amazement he grinned at her. Guardians didn't grin. They smiled with pleasure while they choked the life out of some poor fool who crossed them. They bared their teeth. They didn't grin.

“I don't know. We both enjoyed it very much, Jes and I,” his grin widened. “And we'd like to do it again as soon as possible.”

 

“Here you are,” said a young man in rich clothing who awaited them in a small clearing set in the side of a hill and overlooking a twenty-acre field with a tidy cottage at the far end. “I thought you might not make it.”

Benroln smiled congenially. “I don't break contracts, sir.”

“And besides,” said the young man, “you knew there was more gold where you got the first, eh?”

He looked too young to have been a merchant for long, thought Seraph, then she reconsidered. There was a softness in his face that made him look exceedingly young, but his eyes were sharp and old.

I'll bet that he uses that young face of his,
Seraph thought as she revised her estimate of his age upward by ten years.

“Of course, sir,” said Benroln after he laughed politely at the merchant's comment. “This is the woman who will set the spell.”

“And this is the farm right here,” replied the merchant in a light, pleasant voice. “I want it cursed—you understand. Paid good money for a mage to curse it last year—but Asherstal still got a harvest out. I told that sorcerer I wanted nothing to grow on these fields, not even a weed. I want the other farmers to avoid Asherstal for fear whatever befell him will happen to them. I want him shamed. You'd better do the job or maybe some ill might befall you, eh? Like happened to that mage I hired last year.”