Blood of Ravens

by Jen McIntosh

  Copyright © 2021 by Jen McIntosh

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  All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Jen McIntosh has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.

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  Cover Artwork & Illustrations © 2021 by Jennifer Ross

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  First published in Great Britain 2021

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  ISBN: HB: 978-1-914434-00-6; PB: 978-1-914434-01-3; eBook: 978-1-914434-02-0

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  Published by Jen McIntosh

  www.jen-mcintosh.com

  For Andrew,

  Without whom my heart would be but ashes in the wind.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The raven on the door was scarred, the carving disfigured by long, ragged furrows, cut deep into the aged wood. Running a small, hesitant hand over the destruction, the young boy tried to ignore the trembling in his fingers. His gaze narrowed. These were not deliberate marks just to deface a sigil. Whoever had wreaked this havoc upon his father’s crest had done so in a frenzied rage. His hand drifted lower, searching in vain for the handle. He knew the door would be locked, knew he could go no further – wasn’t sure what had drawn him here, truth be told. But drawn he had been, beckoned by soft murmurings that never ceased.

  His fingers brushed the cold iron of the lock: there was no key, not even a handle. But as his skin touched the metal, it heated beneath his touch, and the lock turned with an audible click. He snatched his hand back, but caution soon gave way to curiosity as the door swung open in silence. Beyond, there was only darkness. The flickering candle in his hand did little to lighten the gloom. Shivering as the chill from within seeped out into the hallway, he drew his coat tighter around his shoulders. Then he took a deep, steadying breath, and the smell hit him – stale air and a hint of damp, along with the faint, musty aroma of old books.

  It was this that drew him forward.

  The light from the candle was just enough to see by, casting faint shadows on the far wall as he stepped through the door, hardly daring to breathe. There was a torch in a bracket beside the door and, as he raised his candle to light it, heat flared once more in the palm of his hand, and it sparked into life. He jumped back, eyeing the now burning torch with suspicion, sure the flame had not touched it but at a loss to explain how else it had caught. Then he turned around, and the torch was forgotten as uncertainty turned to wonder.

  His father’s library.

  The man had hoarded knowledge, the dusty shelves reaching up to the high ceiling, each one stuffed full of books. There was an armchair by the empty hearth, the once-elegant table beside it buried beneath countless tomes, more stacked on the floor beside it. An enormous desk occupied the alcove opposite the door. He hesitated, but determination steeled his spine. He’d never known his father. Perhaps this was his chance.

  A book lay open – a heavy volume, the vellum pages bound in black leather. He didn’t dare touch it but could not see through the thick layer of dust. He blew on the pages, noting how his breath misted in the chilled air. But as the dust cleared, curiosity chased the chill from his bones. On one page was a picture. A woman, her arms laden with fruit, and behind her, a vast tree with a snake wrapped around its trunk. The boy studied it, glancing between the artwork and the text across from it – elaborate and written in golden ink. The words were not in a language that he understood, but the picture stirred something in his memory. Whispers of a bedtime story his mother had once told him.

  His gaze drifted as he searched the recesses of his mind, his attention snagging on a sheaf of parchment beside the book. Brushing the dust clear, he lifted it to the light. This writing he recognised. And not just for what it said. It was his father’s handwriting. He’d seen it before, in the only letter his mother had kept. She’d burned the others after he died but refused to explain why she had spared that one in particular. He didn’t understand it either, not even when he’d snuck into her room while she slept and read it by moonlight. It had contained just three words: ‘I know’, and then his father’s name signed at the bottom.

  Ignoring the dust that flurried at his every movement, he climbed up into the too-big chair and, feet dangling, pulled the parchment onto his lap and started reading. The scrawl of his father’s handwriting was illegible in places – sharp and savage, as though written in a fit of anger. But as he read on, it was more than the writing that sent a shiver down his spine. These were the ravings of a madman. The words seemed to leap off the page, churning with dark power. The boy glanced up at the raven-feather quill still perched in the now-dry ink pot. Hard to believe something so innocuous could create so much hate.

  He threw the parchment away and slipped out of the chair, continuing to search. There was a task unfinished – a reason that murmuring voice had called him here. He glanced at his reflection in the tarnished mirror that hung above the mantle. Through the cobwebs, he could just make out a small, skinny boy with dark hair staring back at him with peculiar, pale eyes. He looked away. They frightened him. Marked him as different. Tainted. Other.

  A painting of a man adorned the opposite wall. His father. Tall and imposing, with blue-black hair, crowned in iron wrought like ravens’ feathers. In his hand was a sword the colour of night, and he looked down at his son with cruel, dark eyes. The boy shuddered. Perhaps it was for the best they’d never met. His mother had said as much. More than once.

  Then his gaze fell on the chest. Tucked away in a corner, hidden beneath books and a shield that bore his father’s crest of a raven in flight. Something inside him clicked, a key turning in a lock.

  Triumph pounded in his veins as he crossed the room and cleared the detritus covering the chest with a sweep of his arm. The chest was wrought iron, inlaid with pieces of darkest ebony – near black, save for the reddish sheen of the grain running through it, and carved like the door to the library. Ravens … dozens upon dozens of ravens. Certainty settled in his gut. This was why he was here.

  The moment his fingers traced over the catch, there was a flash of heat, and it sprang open. He paused, frowning at his hand. Whatever power was helping him, it did not come from him. He was too young. Someone – or something – wanted him here. Magic was a tang on the air, but it could only be a slumbering remnant left behind by his father, now waking at his presence. Wit
h a deep, calming breath and lifted the lid.

  He was not sure what he’d expected. Not mountains of gold or jewels – his father had been a Prince, not a pirate – but not this assortment of useless items either. A dress of midnight velvet, embroidered with stars of silver thread. A pendant of a crescent moon and a circlet to match. A ring adorned with a black diamond, the setting shaped like feathers. Those he shoved aside without a second thought. A dozen scrolls – maps and sketches of lands and castles he didn’t recognise. A pile of letters, folded with seals unbroken. He did not bother opening them. A dagger, sheathed in black leather, the hilt set with obsidian and quillons fashioned like outspread wings. That, he put in his pocket.

  Then his eyes fell on it, tucked away at the bottom of the chest: a leather-bound journal, the cover embossed with scattered, silver stars. This was what had been calling him. Its song whispered in his mind, begging to be free. His hands trembled as he reached in and lifted it from the darkness. It was remarkably heavy, as if the gravity of its contents added to its weight. The leather was smooth from years of use and cracked along the spine, the midnight-blue dye long since faded. Lowering himself to sit cross-legged by the chest, he laid the book on his lap and, with shaking fingers, opened it.

  This handwriting he did not recognise, yet the graceful lines of ink sweeping across the pages were somehow familiar. He flicked through them, eyes darting across the words which could not have been more different from the ramblings of his father. These were full of quiet grace and steady strength, warm and wise, and the boy felt a peculiar sense of calm settle over him, as though the author of this diary had laid a cloak around his shoulders while he drank in their words. He drifted, floating into the peace of the writing, losing all track of time, all sense of self.

  But then he came to the last pages.

  I am plagued by dreams. Vivid, tangible visions so palpable they haunt my waking eyes. So it has been every night since I left him. But they are more than dreams. They are prophecy. Glimpses of a past so ancient it has long since moved from the realms of history and into legend, fleeting glances at a dozen different futures, each possibility infinitely more wretched than the last – but futures I may yet help shape.

  Others would believe these dreams, these visions, are a gift from my Goddess. That Rionna, Queen of the Night Sky, has smiled upon me. I know better. They are a curse. I wonder if they are my punishment for failing to stop it. To stop him.

  Sephiron. I see him whenever I close my eyes. Alone in his tower, bitter and twisted, seeking only the power to destroy those who had wronged him. Power better left bound and buried, banished to the forgotten depths of history for eternity. Instead, he used it to bend others to his will, turning them into something … other. Not Immortal, not like us. But no longer mortal either. Darklings.

  The Council called me in for questioning yesterday. The old fools think he does not understand what he has unleashed, what he risks with this madness. They do not comprehend that he willingly embraces the Chaos – that he revels in it. Even when I warned them, they refused to listen. They still believe he can be reasoned with.

  War is coming. There is no stopping it now, though I fear it could rage for generations and, despite our best efforts, innocents will suffer. If we fight, they will die in their millions. But if we do not fight … their fate will be far worse.

  Last night my dreams rang with warnings of that fate. Of the horrors yet to come. I saw Sephiron defeated, his evil contained by children forged by my own two hands. But I saw what followed. And even when I woke, the vision did not leave me. The nightmare haunts my every breath. My children, heir to naught but ashes. Their cities and dreams crumbling. Ravens rising. Darkness spilling across the world. Shadows conquering, bindings breaking. The world drowning in blood, choking on it.

  And above it all – Sephiron’s heirs upon his throne, smiling at the havoc they wreak. For a moment, hope is kindled. A light, born amongst ashes and shrouded in shadow. And the world trembles as it flickers into life – for it will shine so brightly darkness will flee before it. But even that hope is lost. Crushed and swallowed whole by the night.

  Then the voice of my doom speaks.

  ‘Fear not. Sephiron’s heirs will rise – and though it may appear that darkness has triumphed, though the Saviour is lost, the sun and the moon will shine on the truth. A tree with deep roots need not fear the storm and not all who fall remain vanquished. An ember may yet raze all to ash. The serpent’s seed holds the key and only with faith can the Raven’s line be cleansed.’

  As it speaks, the nightmare changes. I see what is to come. What I must do. Balance must be restored. The scales must be righted. Fate and destiny are for those too weak to forge their own path, but this task is too important to leave to chance. I will do what is necessary, make whatever sacrifice the Gods demand. Any price is worth paying to end Sephiron’s line, to wipe his stain from all memory. If it costs me my life, I will see it done. With Athair as my witness, this I swear.

  ‘Reith!’

  His mother’s voice echoed from beyond the open door. The boy scowled at the interruption, his gaze lingering on a few words … Sephiron’s heirs will rise. His pale eyes skipped down and narrowed further. An ember may yet raze all to ash … only with faith can the Raven’s line be cleansed … any price is worth paying to end Sephiron’s line …

  His mother called his name again. He looked up, closing the book with a decisive snap, just as she appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were blazing with fury, her shoulders shaking from the effort of containing herself. He did not think he had ever seen her so angry.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ she hissed. ‘How did you get through the door?’

  ‘I wanted to see. I put my hand on the lock, and it opened.’

  ‘Get out.’

  He didn’t argue. He stood and placed the journal back in the chest. He heard his mother draw in a sharp breath at the sight of it. When he glanced back at her, the anger had gone. Instead, her shoulders slumped in defeat, and there was a look of unfathomable sorrow in her eyes. He crossed the room to stand in front of her and stared up into her face. Tears streaked her cheeks, and she trembled with silent sobs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I was just trying to protect you.’

  Reith nodded in understanding and put his arms around her. ‘I know.’

  Chapter One

  Beneath the ancient pines of the Ravenswood, there was only darkness. High above, the moon may well have been full and shining, and the sky littered with stars, but nothing pierced the inky shroud that engulfed the forest.

  It was here that Keriath hunted. She drifted through the dense undergrowth, ghosting over the unforgiving terrain. Below the thick blanket of heather, moss and barbed webs of bramble, tangled tree roots coated the uneven ground like a snare awaiting its prey. Beneath her feet, dead branches and scattered pine cones lingered in silent threat – they would betray her presence if disturbed. The grasping thorns of the gorse seemed to reach for her, as if desperate to snarl her in their clutches. She glared, daring them to try.

  The cold was not unexpected. It was autumn, and she was a long way north. The sigh of the wind whispered through the trees. Bitter and merciless, seeking every tiny gap in her clothing, it bit into whatever skin it could reach with sharp, icy teeth. The air was thick with damp, the relentless drizzle not heavy enough to qualify as rain, yet too substantial to class as mist. A murky fog soaked everything, sharpening the earthy tang of pine and suffocating what remained of her patience. With a soft curse, she drew her hood lower and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

  It was neither the dark nor the cold that made Keriath so uneasy. It was the silence roaring in her mind.

  Forests teemed with life, even during the dead of night. Birds and rodents sleeping, insects scurrying, predators hunting. Her senses should have been ringing with it; the voiceless chatter of their simple minds filling her head with a constant murmur. Instead … silence.r />
  She rolled her shoulders, trying to dislodge the itch of discomfort crawling down her back. The haunting call of an owl shattered the night. She froze, watching from beneath furrowed brows as the bird drifted overhead on silent wings. Her eyes narrowed, body tensed in readiness. She’d learned long ago not to trust first appearances. Learned how to differentiate the benign from the malicious. But this time the owl was just an owl. Nothing more than another lonely hunter, searching through the darkness. The only bright spark of life in an otherwise barren wilderness.

  Her fingers uncurled from the hilt of the dagger at her belt, and she forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. Willed her body to relax, as every sense screamed in warning, clamouring against the wrongness of the place. Had she another choice, she may well have turned and fled. But the choice was not hers to make. For hours, she prowled that forest, ghosting from one shadow to the next, seemingly at random.

  It was magic drawing her forward – humming in her veins as she searched for its source. She lifted her nose to the wind, breathing deep, and caught the undercurrent beneath the overwhelming smells of the forest and whatever power drove the living from this place. The tang of magic was unmistakable.