Eyes of Crow

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  Would Torynna take her place in Arcas’s affections? Others had left home for their Bestowing and training for only a few months, yet returned to find their beloved in another’s arms. Rhia might spend a year or more in Kalindos.

  “I was going to eat that,” Lycas said.

  Rhia tossed the last piece of bread—a chunk too large for anything but a crow—on the ground and brushed her hands together. “Better hurry up, then.”

  He beckoned her over with the wave of a bloody, short-bladed knife. She stood across from him and waited. Without taking his eyes off the rabbit, he spoke at last,

  “Remember the batch of tanglefoot Nilo and I distilled when we were sixteen? The one that almost set the woods on fire?”

  “Yes.”

  “You never told Mother and Tereus.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You’re good at keeping secrets, Rhia.”

  “For you, not from you.”

  He examined her, then tilted his head in admission. “We shouldn’t have acted like you were our enemy. I’m sorry.”

  “I forgive you.”

  “Lately the whole world feels like our enemy.”

  “It’s not.” She stepped closer to him. “If you’re ever going to fight for Asermos, you have to believe you’re one of us. Has anyone ever treated you differently?”

  He considered for a moment, then shook his head.

  “They all knew,” she said, “but they didn’t care.”

  His mouth formed a tight line. “Mali cares. Apparently I’m just a ‘termite’ to her.”

  “Mali’s frightened.”

  “How dare you?” Lycas’s glare nearly set her on her heels. “She’s as brave a warrior as I am.”

  “And you’re scared, too. You’d be crazy if you weren’t. But being brave isn’t about cramming your fear deeper inside you. It’s about bringing it into the light.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You’re one to talk about facing fears.”

  “I know. I made mistakes in the past because I was afraid. I won’t do that again.”

  Lycas laughed and turned back to his work. “Bravery’s a habit, little sister, and you’re definitely not in the habit.” He glanced at her crestfallen face but didn’t retract his statement. “Sorry, but it’s true. I have faith in you, though. You’ll find a way.”

  A warmth enveloped Rhia. “Thank you.”

  He shrugged. “Mother told me to be nice to you or she would find a way to nag me from the Other Side.”

  “Good.” Rhia’s foot nudged the paw of the biggest, fleshiest rabbit. “This one’s rather scrawny.”

  Lycas rolled his eyes at her. “Take it.”

  He even let her have the bag. As she turned to walk home, Nilo appeared in the doorway of their hut. She held up the bag and waved. Her grin broadened at the sight of his scowl.

  09

  The landscape was swollen with winter’s first snow the day Arcas visited Rhia.

  Nearly a month had passed since she had last seen him, during a chance meeting in town. They had each brought animals to market—she a pair of young hound bitches and he a ram and a ewe—and had been too distracted by business to speak more than a few words. She sensed that a few words would not suffice to discuss the distance that had grown between them since her mother’s death.

  When she lay alone in bed at night, her thoughts no longer turned by reflex to his face, his arms, his body, except to imagine them lifeless on a battlefield. Gone were the memories of summer heat between their skins.

  More often she meditated on Galen’s lessons, pondering the mysteries of life and death. She drifted to sleep amidst images garnered from the Spirit World, where pain subsided and anguish disappeared. She welcomed the numbing cold of winter and saw the season’s first snowstorm as an excuse to remain at home, inside, cozy and safe.

  Now Arcas appeared on her doorstep, and he looked anything but cozy and safe. The hood of his fur parka gave his head a bestial appearance, and the chill air had flushed his face a wild, meaty red. He looked past her.

  “Is your father home?”

  “No, he’s gone to see if Silina’s family needs any help after the storm. Their roof leaks sometimes, and her husband is too sick to fix it.” She smoothed her hair, wondering if she looked as unkempt as she felt. “Did you come to see him?”

  “No, I just wanted to know if we were alone.”

  She opened the door all the way. Arcas stomped the snow from his boots before stepping into the house. He laid his outerwear near the fire to dry, then without further ceremony, pulled her close to him. She tensed.

  “What’s wrong?” he said. “Are my hands cold?”

  “No. But now is not a good time.”

  “Not the right moon? I thought—”

  “Can we just sit and talk? It’s been so long.”

  “Of course.” Arcas moved toward the bed in the corner, still holding her hand. She pulled out of his grip and sat at the table. Instead of joining her, he reclined on the bed and gave her a steady, seductive gaze.

  Something inside her stirred, and she felt drawn to him, not with a lover’s attraction, but with the compulsion of one under a predator’s spell. She turned away to pour herself a cup of cold water. A mass of melting snow floated at the bottom of the pitcher.

  “Would you like some?” she asked Arcas without looking at him.

  “Please.”

  She slid the pitcher down the table. After a few moments, he got up and sat across from her.

  “I’m sorry if I’m pushing you,” he said.

  “You’re not.”

  “What I mean to do is pull you. Back into life, that is.”

  “Life is not my calling.”

  “It’s everyone’s calling, even you. Life is the one thing we all have.”

  How profound, she thought with a sarcasm that shocked her.

  “How is your training going?” she asked him.

  Arcas studied the bottom of his cup as he spoke. “Torin has me playing a lot of strategy games, to sharpen my skills. I’m the worst player he’s ever seen.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do better with practice.”

  “Not only have I no talent, but no love for the games, either. Planning ahead several moves, getting inside the opponent’s mind, sorting through all the possibilities to find the best tactics—not my idea of a pleasant afternoon.”

  “No one promised your Aspect would be fun. Mine isn’t.”

  “I don’t need to have fun, I just need to be inspired.” He brightened, then fumbled under the table for a moment before withdrawing a fist. “Put out your hand.”

  Rhia lifted her palm up. Arcas covered it with his own, then revealed a small white stone that fit perfectly in the center of her hand. Its surface was as smooth as milk and marbled in black. The silhouette of a crow, painted black, was carved into one side of it.

  “It’ll fit in your pocket,” he said, “and whenever you’re afraid or nervous, you can run your thumb over the crow and feel your Spirit’s presence.”

  Rhia’s words—or more precisely, collections of incoherent noises—stuck in her throat as her lips moved without sound. Finally a sentence formed.

  “You made this for me?”

  “No, I made it for all the other Crow women in town, but none of them wanted it, so it’s yours.”

  A truth that had gnawed at her for years now sat in her palm, no longer ignorable.

  “Arcas, may I ask you something, and you promise to tell the truth?”

  His teasing demeanor faded. “If you promise never to speak of it again.”

  She held out the stone with her fingertips. “What are you?”

  Arcas opened his mouth to speak. He pushed back the chair and began to pace the floor.

  His movements struck her as odd. It took several pacings before Rhia discovered that his lumbering gait had been replaced with a step so smooth and quick she wouldn’t have recognized him had his face been turned away.

  “Whe
n I went into the forest for my Bestowing,” he said, “I expected to see Bear. Look at me—I’ve got the physique, the strength, the walk—”

  “You’ve lost the walk.”

  “Because I’m alone with you. I can let my guard down, I hope.” She nodded, and he continued. “It was my destiny to lead warriors, to defend my people. I was so sure, my whole life. My father was so sure.”

  “He saw what he wanted to see.”

  “That night in the forest—” He tried several times to finish his sentence. Rhia took pity on him.

  “Spider came to you.”

  Arcas stopped and let out a sigh, as if releasing a burden after a long trek. “I wanted to tell Her to leave, to step aside for Bear, but—”

  “Bear wasn’t coming.”

  “And it felt so right, inside me.” He gave Rhia a look of near-delight. “I can make beauty.”

  “You can.” She fingered the stone in her hand. “But remember the day Lycas rode to find me, when my mother took sick? You heard him coming long before I did. Wasn’t that your Bear senses?”

  “Not that kind of sense, like hearing or seeing. It’s feeling danger or trouble from a long way off, the way a spider senses a tremor in the farthest reaches of its web.” He swept the air as if viewing a huge mural. “And I see patterns in things, connections that others don’t. Not so different from a Bear’s strategic thinking.”

  “So you’ve been faking it.”

  She regretted her choice of words immediately. His face went dark, and his hands dropped to his sides.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What I meant—”

  “No, you’re right. I’ve been pretending to be Bear.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s easier to be what others believe me to be.”

  “Your father doesn’t know?”

  “What happens in the forest is between a person and their Spirit.” Arcas spread his long fingers and gazed at them as if they held the memories of his Bestowing. “I never lied to my father. I just never told him the truth.”

  Rhia looked at the bed where Mayra had died. “Galen told me it’s hard to see the truth about those you love. I wanted to believe Mother had more life in her than she did. My desire hindered my magic, he said.” She gasped. “He knows about you.”

  Arcas mirrored her alarm. “What makes you think so?”

  “It must be why he told me that. Because he knew from experience. He seemed sad when he said it, as if he were disappointed in himself.”

  “For being wrong about me.”

  “No.” She got up and went to him. “For trying to guide you down the wrong path, for guiding you at all. He should have let you become who you are on your own. He knows that now, at least part of him does.”

  “He just wants what’s best for our people. We all do.”

  She thought about the implications of this statement, that Asermos needed men and women to fight a war that might be far on the horizon.

  The war.

  “Arcas—if you’re a Spider, then you won’t be a warrior. You can live a long life.” With me.

  He bristled. “I am a warrior. Not by birth—by choice.”

  “Your Spirit called you for a reason. Maybe our people need your Spider gifts.”

  Arcas gave a bitter chuckle and tapped the stone in her hand. “Our people don’t need more trinkets.”

  “Trinkets?” She drew back her hand, pulling the stone out of his reach. “Is that what you think this is? Is that why you made it for me, for decoration? I can’t draw strength from a trinket.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You said it yourself, you can make beauty. Beauty has meaning.”

  He touched her cheek with a tenderness that made her want to weep. “I know it does.”

  He kissed her then, so softly her lips ached as if he were bruising them with force instead of caressing them with a profound sense of the moment’s fragility. His mouth moved to her neck and his hands to her breasts, not demanding, only inquiring. When she tensed, he dropped them to her waist again. Rhia leaned against his chest.

  “I want to be with you,” she whispered. “But not here. Not where it happened.”

  “I understand.” He rested his chin on her head. “Do you think the hayloft would be too cold?”

  She slipped the white stone into her pocket. “I don’t think anyplace with us would be too cold.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “Wait.” She grabbed his hand to stop him. “You need to know that I love you no matter what you are.”

  His face turned serious again. “Even if I’m a Bear?”

  She dropped his hand. “If you’re a Bear, you’re a fake.”

  He staggered back as if she had struck him. “A fake? I’m a fake? You spent two years pretending you weren’t a Crow.”

  “Yes, I denied what I am, and others suffered for it. I don’t want you to have that regret.”

  “This isn’t about protecting me from my own mistakes, is it, Rhia?” He pointed at her. “You want me not to be Bear because you’re afraid I’ll die, because you’re too selfish to share me with the world.”

  “Is that so wrong? Is it wrong to want a husband who might live to meet his grandchildren? And what about that, Arcas? When you become a father and move to the second phase of your powers, what happens when instead of becoming a stronger fighter, you start predicting the weather and walking on ceilings? How will you hide it then?”

  “I don’t know how, but I do know this—it won’t be your concern.”

  Rhia’s breath turned cold in her throat, and a dull pain filled the space between her ribs. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you and I…” He shook his head and went to the door.

  “You and I?” She grasped his arm as he jammed his feet into his boots. “What are you saying?”

  “Things have changed, ever since your mother died. You’re so harsh with yourself, and now you’re doing it to me.” He flung his wet parka over his shoulders, splashing melted snow over Rhia’s cheek. “This confusion inside me, it’s hard enough without your judgment.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He studied her face for a moment, then opened the door. “You’re sorry you hurt me, but not sorry for the way you feel.”

  She steeled herself against the cold air and the allure of her own desperation, the feeling that begged her to say anything to make him stay. “No,” she whispered. “I’m not sorry for that.”

  As she watched Arcas trudge through the snow, the stone in her pocket seemed to grow heavier, until finally she slid down onto the doorstep, shivering through her tears.

  The winter would be a long one.

  Snow fell knee-deep, and the hounds frisked like puppies, shoving their muzzles under the white drifts. Some days shone warm enough for the snow to soften, but the ensuing nights gave it a hard crust that made each step a struggle for forward movement. Rhia had to apply beeswax and lanolin to the dogs’ paws before wolf hunts to protect the pads from the sharp ice layered within the snow.

  In the middle of the winter, the wind roared nonstop for three days and nights, and Rhia and Tereus took turns every hour clearing snow from the door. Drifts piled against windows and turned day to twilight inside their home. When Rhia was forced outside to tend the animals, the wind burned her eyes and made her nose run and nostrils freeze.

  The sun shone boldly on those blustery days, making the snow cavort and sparkle like the magic powders Mayra once used in her healing work. Rhia watched the dancing glitter and let the wind dry her tears.

  During the brief thaws, she hurried to Galen’s house for training. Arcas was never home when she came. She dreamed of him often in the first two months of winter and woke most mornings with a wet pillow, but by the approach of spring his face blurred in her memory, until their love seemed like a beautiful but unreachable childhood dream. She kept taking the wild carrot seed, however, for the herb was plentiful and eased her monthly cramps and headaches.

  T
ereus had begun to sleep downstairs after Mayra’s death, allowing Rhia to have the larger bed in the loft, where it was warmer and more private. She knew he could no longer sleep alone in the bed he once shared with his wife. Sometimes in the dark she heard him weep.

  The night before she was to leave for Kalindos, she lay awake worrying more than usual.

  “Father?” she said, loudly enough for him to hear only if he weren’t asleep.

  “Yes, Rhia?”

  “How will you manage while I’m gone?”

  He sighed. “As I told you the nineteen other times you asked, your brothers will help with the animals, and the neighbors will help with anything else. I can cook just fine.”

  She withheld comment. His preparations barely deserved the name “cooking,” but they would prevent his starvation.

  “What if you get sick?” she said.

  “I’ll take care of myself until I’m well.”

  “What if you can’t take care of yourself?”

  “Then I’ll lie here and expire. My last thoughts will be ones of deep resentment against you for growing up.”

  She chuckled. “Stop.”

  “You asked.”

  It was as good a time as any to say, “I think you should marry again.”

  His voice quieted. “I can’t.”

  “Won’t you be lonely?”

  “There are worse things than loneliness.”

  Rhia couldn’t imagine. “Like what?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You should have more children. What if something happens to me and you’re never a grandfather?”

  “Nothing will happen to you.”

  “But what if—”

  “Nothing will happen to you,” he said with a forcefulness that told her more than wishful thinking was involved.

  “Father, is this something you’ve divined?”

  He turned over in bed with a small grunt. “I’ll be a grandfather. Go to sleep.”