Raven's Edge

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Raven's Edge Page 11

by Alan Ratcliffe


  If my heart is broken, then the wound was self-inflicted, she thought. “Does he feel it too?” It took her a moment to realise that she’d spoken aloud.

  “Probably,” Zhao replied. “In matters of the heart men are no more immune to pain than women, though we like to pretend otherwise. In this, the gentler sex are far more honest.”

  Raven sighed. “If I could have one wish, it would be that he forget me. More easily than I can.” This pain is my burden and I will bear it, but I wish I could spare you, my love.

  Zhao chuckled. “You’re certainly more forthcoming than earlier this evening. Interesting, is it not, how a few minutes beside our fire can put one so at ease?”

  The swirling stars above were starting to make Raven feel nauseous. She closed her eyes to block them out, but her head was still swimming. “That smoke,” she said. “What is it?”

  “Hm? Oh, just a concoction of my own making. After a hard day on the road, a pinch is just the thing to soothe one’s aches and worries. And to loosen one’s tongue.”

  Raven took a few deep breaths, hoping that it would help clear the cobwebs and cotton-wool dulling her mind. She opened her eyes again to test the theory, and thought that the stars had slowed their dance somewhat. Then something Zhao had said earlier came back to her. “When I first came into your camp you called me an outsider. What did you mean by that?”

  “Is it not obvious?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Everywhere you go you feel different to the others you see, do you not? Feel them watching you with suspicion in their eyes? Do mothers pull their children closer as you approach, and whisper as you pass?” When Raven said nothing, he let out a bark of dry laughter. “Don’t take offence! It’s no different for the likes of us. Or do you think we choose to sleep beneath the stars instead of a cosy inn? But I think we feel it doubly, you and I.”

  Raven turned her head sharply. The sudden movement made it feel as though her brain was swirling round inside her skull like water sloshed around a glass. “What do you mean?”

  “You were correct when you said earlier we have travelled over much of the kingdom. And in all that time, never before have we seen one with hair such as yours... as black as the darkest night. Even if you had chosen the life of a milkmaid or a farmer’s wife it would mark you as different.”

  Raven cast her mind back to her childhood. “The other children used to mock me for it,” she said. “They called me ‘crow’ and threw things at me if I tried to join in their games.”

  “It is the nature of people to be afraid of that which is different,” Zhao said.

  Raven rolled onto her front and looked at him. “It’s the same for you, isn’t it?” He nodded. “You have the look of the sailors you find sometimes in the harbour cities, never far from their ships. But they’re from Xanshi.”

  Zhao gave a rueful laugh. “You have touched on the nature of my birth, but only in part. Of my blood, half is Imperial, the other half Xanshian. My father was a sailor, you see. A wife in every port, that sort of thing. And so here I am, neither one thing nor the other and shunned by all.”

  “Your mother... where does she live?”

  He smiled sadly. “It doesn’t matter now. She died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was a long time ago. I do have something to remember her by, however.”

  He opened his jacket, and pinned to the inside was a flower. It looked grey in the moonlight, though Raven could tell it would have a brighter colour by day. “It’s very, um, nice,” she said diplomatically.

  “I’ve only ever seen these blooms in one place, in my mother’s garden,” he said. “After she died, I took a cutting and planted it at my own home. Whenever I return, I pick a few of the flowers to take with me on the road.”

  Raven smiled. “That’s... surprisingly sweet.”

  Zhao groaned. “Just don’t tell the others, would you? I’d hate to lose the aura of mystique I’ve been cultivating.” He turned those exotic eyes upon her. “Well, we seemed to have entered the part of the evening where we bare our secrets and scars... and I believe it’s your turn.”

  “I suppose that’s fair,” she said, plucking at blades of grass. “What do you want to know?”

  “Can you not guess? This man you’re looking for, the green-eyed fiend you speak of with such ferocity, what is he to you?”

  “He...” Raven began, plucking more intently at an ever-widening bald spot in the grass. “He took something from me.”

  Zhao seemed bewildered. “Was it coin? Or jewellery perhaps...?”

  “He took everything.” Images of the past played out in Raven’s mind as she spoke. “He and his men attacked our village at night while most slept. Many were killed before they realised what was happening. Those they didn’t kill they took, throwing them into iron cages on the back of carts. My father among them.”

  It was Zhao’s turn to be apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realise. How old were you?”

  “Six. I hid until they left, leaving nothing but bodies and burning houses behind them. Then I ran. I only stopped to take this.” She drew her sword from its sheath. “You were right, I was tense when you asked for it earlier. But it wasn’t from fear. My father was the village blacksmith, and he forged it for me. Or so I think. He hid it in the eaves of his workshop, likely until I was older, but I found it anyway. I took it again that night, before the fires reduced our home to ash, and I’ve carried it ever since.” She resheathed it. “That night I swore that I would find the green-eyed man and force him to tell me where my father is. And then I would take revenge for what he did.”

  As she finished, Zhao was quiet for a few moments, then he said, “Thank you for telling me, Raven. I hope you find the one you’re looking for. Both of them.”

  Raven rolled onto her back once more and stared up at the stars. “Me too,” she said.

  They were silent after that. They lay together for a time, each lost in their own thoughts. And then, with Raven being unsure of quite when, sleep found her.

  * * *

  She was woken by a soft whinny. Opening her eyes she saw a sky of unbroken blue above. She turned her head, trying to ignore the pounding in her temples, and saw Meara nearby, head down and plucking at the grass of the meadow.

  Of the players and their caravans there was no sign.

  Raven raised herself up on her elbows. Several long ruts in the ground, the kind made by heavy wheels, led away to the east.

  A dash of colour caught her eye. She glanced down. Lying on the grass beside her was a flower, its colour a deep, vibrant blue. Though the hue was unfamiliar, from the shape of the petals she recognised it as the one Zhao had shown her. It seemed he’d left her a memento of their time together.

  She picked it up and, after a moment’s thought, placed it carefully inside her jerkin. It was a pretty, delicate thing, and although its existence would likely be fleeting, she found it cheered her nonetheless. In that, it was a perfect metaphor for her night among the players.

  Raven gathered herself then climbed to her feet, causing both her head and stomach to lurch simultaneously. She waited a few seconds for both to settle, then made her way unsteadily to her mount. Though it was hard to tell with horses, Meara seemed significantly less affected by their detour. Certainly it would be a while before Raven could face the prospect of breakfast.

  Before hauling herself into the saddle she gave a cursory look through her saddlebags, and was both pleased and not a little surprised to find her belongings – as meagre as they were – were as she’d left them.

  All the same, as she mounted she chided herself. It had been foolish to let her guard down like that. She’d travelled the roads of the Empire long enough to know that she’d been lucky all it had cost her was her appetite and a small amount of pride when recalling the events of the previous night.

  The next time she might not be so fortunate.

  “Come on then, girl.” The horse’s head raised at th
e sound of her voice. “It’s time to put some miles behind us.”

  She pressed her heels into Meara’s flanks, steering her towards the mountains to the north. Though broadly speaking she needed to head in the same direction the players had taken, she wanted to get beyond the wood before striking east, keeping the snow-capped peaks and rolling foothills to her left. And, if she was being honest with herself, while she’d enjoyed their company, she knew it would feel strangely awkward to run into them again, especially so soon.

  Perhaps sensing the impatience of her rider, Meara broke into a long, loping stride and then a smooth canter. Although the land was rising, the slope was gentle and the ground flat and open, so Raven let her have her head.

  At first she found the motions of the animal jarring, causing her head to throb and her neck and shoulders, already stiff after laying all night on the hard ground, to ache. But soon, with the wind whipping past her face, seeming almost to snatch her breath as it passed, she felt the cobwebs begin to clear.

  More than anything, it was the feeling of at last making progress in her quest that lifted her spirits. Much of the last two days had been like groping blindly through the dark, relying on guesswork and her instincts. Now, though, she had her quarry’s location and directions, however vague, to get there.

  By this time tomorrow, she thought, I’ll have my witch.

  * * *

  That day’s trek passed largely without incident. Which, frankly, after all the distractions of the previous days came as a relief. It was more usual for Raven’s travels through the wilds to be comprised of long hours of solitude, rather than witch-hunters, surly innkeepers, lecherous old men and uncommon players.

  Others more accustomed to company and excitement that might find that unbearable, but it suited her just fine. In her experience, adventure was a myth conjured up in the minds of bored youths, their heads filled with visions of the romance of the road. It rarely took long for such fantasies to be crushed, ofttimes fatally and occasionally literally. Incident was better avoided than actively sought out.

  It didn’t take long for them to circle around the western edge of the forest. At this furthest boundary it was little more than a narrow strip of tall, conical firs clinging to the ridge overlooking the town, and once it was past she steered Meara in a lazy arc until the snow-capped mountain peaks formed a solid wall to their left. As long as she kept them there they would eventually stumble into Blackrot Mire.

  Their path carried them past the verdant dell she’d visited the day before, but this time there was no sign of Lothar and Mhairi. Raven was relieved. It was better that they were left in peace to come deal with their grief. As they passed the small orchard, her eyes fell to the mound of earth, and again she felt a sharp stab deep inside at its small size and the fresh bouquet lying atop it.

  Then they were gone and soon the cottage and the dell in which it sat were far behind. Instead, the rolling foothills of the lowlands spread open before them. By the afternoon, a familiar blankness fell over Raven’s mind, lulled by the serenity of the land and the rhythmic motions of her mount. Her brain continued to pick over the various problems that had occupied her last few days, but it was without any conscious prodding on her part. Occasionally a particular thought would rise to the forefront of her mind like bubbles disturbing the calm surface of a mill-pond, but she was content to let them sink from sight to once again be mulled over in the hidden recesses of her brain.

  That night she made camp in the open. It was never her preferred option; she always felt too exposed to do much more than snatch a couple of hours of shallow, wary sleep. But no trees grew in this part of the lowlands. The ground was rocky and loose underfoot, the vegetation sparse. She found a dry, thorny shrub to offer a modicum of protection from prying eyes, but decided against lighting a fire. Even so close to the mountains the nights were not yet unbearably cold, and as unsatisfying as dried rations were they at least didn’t attract unwanted attention.

  The next morning dawned bright and when Raven set off again it was in high spirits, the feeling of at last making progress even stronger. It was always like this, as a job neared its end. She knew what it must feel like to be a hunting dog, the scent of its quarry filling its nostrils, lending ferocious strength and power to its legs as it closed the distance between them.

  It didn’t last long.

  The sun was yet barely clear of the horizon directly in front of her when it disappeared from sight. A colossal bank of ash-grey clouds seemed almost to tumble down from the mountains like an avalanche, near as tall as the peaks themselves. Soon it had obscured all the blue sky ahead, the grim thunderheads standing poised over the land like a vast tidal wave frozen in time, daring her to approach. In amongst the darkening grey wall, Raven saw smudges of purple and dirty yellow, as if the gods themselves in a fit of pique had lashed out at the world and left it bruised and sullen.

  Beneath this gathering tumult the rolling foothills were wreathed in a dingy grey haze. Raven recognised it immediately. If the timing had been better, she might even have been pleased to see it.

  Rain had come at last to this parched land.

  Beneath her, Raven could feel a wildness in Meara’s movements, as if she might lose control at any moment. Raven could feel it too. The atmosphere was charged, so much so that she wouldn’t have been surprised to glance down and see electricity crackling along her fingers. The air was heavy, thicker somehow, making the blood pound in her temples. She felt a sense of foreboding about the storm, but had no choice but to plunge headlong into it.

  Rain, as anyone in the Empire who spent the majority of their time out of doors could tell you, was never simply rain.

  There was the constant drizzle of a grey day, a relentless falling of droplets ever beating the same steady rhythm. There was rain so fine it seemed almost to hang in the air like mist, that permeated clothes with deceptive speed. Drops so big it actually hurt to be struck by them, or so cold it was like being pricked by hundreds of tiny needles. Sudden rains that appeared from nowhere on a sunny day, and those that built up to their full strength over long minutes; sparse, even refreshing at first but growing steadily harder until the memory of their tentative start was a faded, happy one.

  Then there was the kind that hit Raven now.

  There was no build-up nor warning of what was to come, save the grey haze she’d spied from a distance. One moment she was dry, her muscles nicely warmed from the morning’s ride, then the next she was soaked to the bone, her hair plastered wetly across her face and whipping crazily around her head. There was no apparent progression between those two states. It was as if she’d stepped beneath a waterfall, experiencing that same shock at the sudden change in temperature. She shivered in her wet clothes, not daring to wipe her eyes through fear that if she let go of reins that were already slipping in her grasp, then her numbing fingers might not be able to grip them again.

  The ground, cracked and dry after the summer drought, soaked up the water like a sponge. Then, when it had absorbed as much as it could it turned to slop and Raven could feel Meara’s hooves slipping and sliding beneath her. It was little better where there was no mud; where before there had been large areas of loose, shifting stones now there were rivers, the deluge running straight down the mountainside in sheets of fast-moving water. Raven steered her mount to the right, back down the slope, but there was no need – the animal had already decided it had had enough of the treacherous high ground and changed course.

  When the initial shock had worn off, Raven found herself speculating as to the cause of the abrupt change in weather. Arriving just as she was nearing her destination made her wonder whether its origin was supernatural. She often rolled her eyes at the superstitions of the common-folk, but could witchcraft be responsible for this tempest?

  There are no witches, she told herself, as her rational mind reasserted itself. Healers, wise women yes, but none who could wield that kind of power. All the same, a part of her knew she was trying to
convince herself.

  It was hard after that to tell how far they travelled. Though it had not yet been noon when the downpour began, it was so dark it may as well have been dusk. The rain filled her world. It was in her eyes, running down her skin and causing her clothes to cling and chafe... she could even feel it sloshing around inside her boots. She’d swum across rivers and climbed out drier on the other side.

  So it was that later in what Raven guessed to be sometime in the late afternoon, she was gladdened by what she saw in the distance. Even in the gathering gloom it was possible to make out a dark mass of trees, entirely unlike those standing watch over Firbank. These were gnarled and ancient, their branches twisted into eldritch shapes clutching at the sky like skeletal fingers. Beneath their boughs naught could be seen but shadows, and Raven knew at once what it was.

  Ahead of her lay Blackrot Mire.

  * * *

  “Fuck!”

  Raven squelched to a halt, caught mid-step as if she’d been suddenly turned into a particularly grubby statue. Slowly, she pushed a questing foot back inside the boot that had been sucked loose by the cloying, sticky mud of which the mire was seemingly entirely composed.

  Another second and I’d never have seen it again, she thought, and the idea of negotiating the rest of this blasted bog with only one boot was too ghastly for words. As Meara waited patiently a few steps behind, Raven hooked the inside of the boot with her toes and pulled it tentatively upwards. After a few seconds the mud grudgingly released its prize with a wet splorp, but Raven had been exerting so much effort that when it finally came free she was hopelessly overbalanced. She tumbled forwards into the muck with a despairing wail.

  As Raven sat up to her waist in the dirty brown water, she felt almost like crying. Then another wave of anger overtook her self-pity and she once again sought comfort in profanity. “Shit!” In a fit of pique she slapped at the surface water. The resulting splash serving only to drench her further. She tipped her head back and screamed at the sky.

 

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