Voice of Crow

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  He hoped the baby’s noise would alert someone on the riverbank to their dilemma, assuming the sound of the water didn’t smother it. But the soldiers—if that’s what they were—shot Nilik a hostile glance every time he so much as gurgled. Marek wouldn’t put it past the Descendants to throw a child overboard if it jeopardized their mission.

  He crooned a nonsensical string of words to the baby, lilting his voice the way Nilik seemed to like. But he knew that this particular cry, at this time of night, meant that nothing would soothe his son but food.

  “Can’t you shut him up?” asked the ugliest of the six soldiers who flanked Marek—four on one side, two on the other, to balance the boat against the wind’s pull.

  “He’s hungry,” Marek said.

  “So am I, but you don’t hear me whining.”

  The other soldiers laughed, but silenced when the woman came out of the cabin below. She was dressed simply, in a long gray dress that covered her from neck to toes. When the wind tossed her dark hair across her face, she pulled a cowl over her head, making her look like a turtle with its nose poking out of its shell.

  “I’ll take him.” As she reached for Nilik, her sleeves fell back to reveal slender wrists and hands. Marek reluctantly passed his son to her.

  She sat beside him and unfastened the front of her dress so that Nilik could feed. Marek was half relieved and half dismayed at how willingly the child acquiesced. His tiny fist opened and closed as he drank. Two of the soldiers watched them, while the others scanned the riverbanks.

  “I’m glad you’re along,” the woman said to Marek. “It will be less work for me. Four babies, one of them my own.”

  “What’s your baby’s name?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Neyla. She’s five months old.”

  “Pretty name. And yours?”

  “Mila.”

  “Mila, I’m Marek. And this is—”

  “Don’t tell me his name.”

  “His name is Nilik.”

  She blinked hard. “Not for long.”

  “Is it easier for you not to know their names? That way you can’t imagine the pain felt by the people who named them?”

  “Stop it.”

  “His mother’s name is Rhia. My wife. Think how she must feel.” His throat closed for a moment. “Imagine if someone ripped your child out of your arms.”

  Mila trembled, hard enough that Nilik broke off and cried. Marek stroked his son’s light brown tuft of hair. Soon the boy fed again, hunger overtaking fear for the moment.

  Marek looked eastward to the lightening horizon. At this part of the river, a quarter of the way between Asermos and Velekos, the banks steepened. Memories from his trips south told him that cliffs would soon surround the channel, cutting them off from the stray hunters, fishers and trappers living between the villages. By the time the sun rose, if someone saw the abductors’ vessel, there would be no way to reach them. The Descendants had timed their escape well.

  Inside the boat, another child whimpered. Mila sighed. “Come with me,” she said.

  Marek helped her down the stairs into the cabin. One of the soldiers followed them, clasping Marek’s shoulder tightly.

  The close space felt suffocating, though it was warmly lit by lanterns fixed to the wall, one in each corner. An open doorway on the other side showed a small cockpit, where the captain, with one hand on the wheel, was leaning over a table to examine a chart. He didn’t acknowledge Marek’s and Mila’s entrance.

  One of the babies on the left berth was crying. Mila nodded to it. “See if she needs changing.”

  “She doesn’t, I can smell.” Marek pointed to the baby on their right, who slept alone. “That one needs changing.”

  “Then do it.” She sank into a chair in the corner. “But first hand me Neyla. That’s the crying one.”

  He did as she asked, exchanging Neyla for Nilik, whom he placed in the left bed. Then he found the babies’ supplies in a wall compartment. Keeping one eye on Mila and the captain, he cleaned the squealing young Asermon.

  “Did they kill this one’s guardians?” he asked.

  Mila looked at him, mouth open.

  “They slaughtered an old woman to get Nilik,” he told her. “Stabbed her in the stomach. Did you know that?”

  She spoke to the captain. “Sareb, is that true?”

  “Of course not,” he said laconically, without looking up.

  “Liar,” Marek snarled. “What do you want from us?”

  Sareb set down the chart with a sigh and turned to Marek. “We’re just doing what we were hired to do, Mila and me. The others, they’re following orders, like good little soldiers.” He crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “We don’t want to hurt you, but we won’t mind it, either.”

  Marek looked at the soldier by the door, who mirrored the captain’s smirk. Swallowing the lump of rage in his throat, he reached for a clean diaper. He had to stay alive for his son. Based on how the Descendants had treated him in their army camp, Marek expected to be beaten or worse when they arrived in Leukos.

  Whatever they had planned for Nilik would no doubt last the rest of his life.

  18

  For the first time, Filip heard Alanka coming before he saw her. Her feet scuffed the leaves as she shambled across the forest floor toward the edge of the meadow. Unlike the three other times they had met in secret, she wasn’t trying to sneak up on him, nor did she wear her bow and arrows slung on her back.

  She quickened her pace into a near trot when she saw him. A closer view revealed a face creased by the tracks of tears. He fought the urge to pull her into his arms. In the two weeks they’d known each other, he had yet to touch her except to help her onto horseback.

  “Good morning,” she said. Her gaze flitted to his face but didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m glad you came.”

  He wanted to smile in response, but it didn’t match her mood. “I’m glad you did, too.”

  She drew a loose strand of black hair behind her ear, tucking it into the braid that fell down her back, and said nothing more.

  “I heard what happened to Marek and his son last night,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It didn’t have to happen,” she said softly.

  “But Tereus said the kidnappers were armed.”

  She wiped at her face, though it was dry. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  They crossed the meadow, their feet rustling through the brown grasses. Though their conversations usually flowed easily, hopping from topic to topic whenever a random thought entered Alanka’s mind, this morning Filip couldn’t think of a thing to say. He took her hand.

  She stopped walking, and he cursed his mistake. Alanka turned to him and covered his hand with her other one, so that she was holding it in both her own. His breath quickened.

  “Can I tell you something awful?” she said.

  He nodded, unable to speak.

  “Don’t hate me afterward.”

  He shook his head.

  “I could have stopped Marek’s kidnappers. I followed him, I had a clean shot. I might have saved him.” Her voice choked. “But I couldn’t.”

  Filip tightened his grip on her hand. “Why not?”

  “I aimed at my target, but I couldn’t see him. All I saw was the battle. It was like I was there again. I could smell it, hear it, even taste it.” Her mouth twisted, as though she had bitten rotten meat. “When it was over, when I could see Marek again, he was already on the boat. It was too late. I failed him.”

  “You might not have been able to save him if there were two soldiers. Or what if you’d missed and hit Marek?”

  “I never miss. I mean, I never missed. Not when I had my Wolf powers.”

  A coldness seeped into Filip as he understood her words. “You’ve lost them?”

  “Since that moment. I turned away from my Spirit brother in need, so Wolf left me.” She rubbed her cheek. “I can’t hear or smell very well anymore. I can’t shoot a bow, I can’t wal
k with stealth. I had just started getting better, since I met you. But now I’m back to—I’m just nothing.”

  “No.” He lifted her chin to look in her eyes. “Whatever Wolf thinks, you have great power.”

  A tear dribbled onto her cheek. Instead of wiping it away, he pulled her to him, slowly, as though she could shatter. Alanka tucked her wet face against his neck and let him hold her close as sobs quaked her body. He stroked her hair, wondering how, at a moment like this, he could dare to feel so happy.

  That night, Filip’s dream of racing his brother through Letus Park ended in a new way.

  At the head of the dock leading out into the man-made lake, where their races always ended with a leap into the water, stood a white horse. Not a spot of gray dappled its coat; not a strand of yellow sullied its mane. It gleamed pure alabaster in the afternoon sunlight, the breeze wafting its mane and tail like tufts of thistle. It wore no bridle or saddle and seemed untouched by humanity.

  Filip stood alone in front of the horse. His brother had disappeared. The mare’s neck looked as soft as a cloud. He reached to stroke it.

  “No,” she said, “this cannot be yours.”

  His hands ached to touch her. “Not ever?”

  “Not yet. You are not whole.”

  He lowered his gaze to his leg, which hung incomplete. “I know.”

  “Not because of that,” she said, “but because you are alone. You don’t have to be alone.”

  “But how do I—”

  “They’re waiting.” The horse touched her velvet nose to his forehead.

  He woke with a longing matched by confusion. Who was waiting? Had one of the gods sent the horse to his dream, or did the Spirits now control that realm of his life, too?

  Tereus’s snore came from the loft above. Filip found the sound comforting, for it meant he wasn’t alone. It still felt odd not to be surrounded by hundreds or even thousands of men in an army camp or barracks.

  His mind tripped over a sudden thought of Tereus, and his breath turned cold in his lungs. Third-phase Swans could alter a person’s dreams. Perhaps his host had lodged the dream in Filip’s mind to encourage him to undergo the Bestowing. Maybe the Asermons were waiting for him to become one of them.

  Bolan had told him that some people wondered if Tereus had planted the Raven dreams to build up his daughter. But from what Filip knew of third-phase magic, it required exhausting amounts of power and held grave consequences even when used for good. And from what he knew of Tereus, the man preferred to persuade through heartfelt conversation, not devious manipulation.

  Tomorrow night the Velekon pigeons would return with word of Marek’s fate, which no doubt was taking place even as Filip lay here safe in his bed. If Marek and the baby weren’t rescued, Alanka would leave the next morning for Leukos. She would walk the streets he’d trod since childhood. His home was part of him, one he wanted to share with her, one he had to share if she would ever understand him.

  He rolled onto his side. The rough scars of his left leg scraped the sensitive skin behind his right knee, reminding him that no matter how much he longed for home, it would never be his again.

  19

  Just after Marek watched the last flickers of twilight fade into night, the village of Velekos appeared. About half the size of Asermos, it perched on the edge of Prasnos Bay. Lights glittered along its main thoroughfare near the docks.

  The soldiers bound Marek’s wrists as the boat entered the harbor. The sail flapped loud in the breeze as it was released to cut their speed.

  Captain Sareb came out of the cabin, dressed in a long blue wool coat, the neatness of which accentuated his disheveled brown curls. “We’re transferring to another ship,” he told Marek. “One word or move on your part, and a baby goes in the harbor.”

  The boat slid closer to the dock, and Marek scanned the edge of the village for anyone who could help. The streets were empty for this time of night, and no one had entered or left a tavern in several minutes.

  The hull hit the pier with a light thud. The captain and one of the soldiers scrambled over the deck, securing the boat to the dock posts.

  Two soldiers flanked Marek, while the three others filed out of the cabin, Mila following. They each carried a baby basket. The baskets’ covers had been drawn up, ostensibly to keep out the damp night wind, but Marek knew it was to keep him from knowing which child was his. If he got closer, he could sniff Nilik out of the group.

  As if they understood this, the soldiers seized his shoulders and pushed him ahead. He stepped onto the dock, wobbling as he regained his land legs.

  They proceeded down the long wooden pier. A larger, seafaring vessel sat several docks over, near the deeper end of the harbor. Ahead of him, Mila carried her basket close to her body, murmuring to the baby inside.

  “We’ll be home soon, Neyla,” she whispered.

  The three soldiers behind Marek held their baskets so that they dangled over the edge of the pier. He knew the children were too valuable to be discarded. But the thought of Nilik sinking to the harbor bottom suppressed Marek’s itch to escape.

  “Quickly,” Sareb said once he and Mila had turned left off the pier. “I have a bad feeling about—”

  A high-pitched zing sliced the air. Instinct made Marek duck into a crouch. A moment later, the soldiers flanking him fell to their knees with arrows protruding from their chests. Their mouths opened and closed as they clawed at the vibrating pieces of wood.

  Mila screamed. Marek disappeared.

  “Move!” Sareb yelled to the soldiers. “Let the man go. Keep those baskets over the water.”

  A teeth-gnashing, spine-rippling sound erupted from an alley between two taverns. Next to Nilik’s first yelp of life, Marek had never heard anything as beautiful as this Wolverine war cry.

  A band of Velekons emptied out of the alley and charged across the cobblestone streets. Marek reappeared before they could trample him.

  “The woman carries her own child,” he shouted as they passed. “Get the other three.” One of the dagger-bearing Wolverines stopped to cut Marek’s bindings before rejoining the charge. Marek vanished again and slunk closer to the soldiers, ready to dive into the water after any discarded infants.

  The soldiers dropped their baskets, but on the dock, not in the harbor. They drew their swords.

  The Velekons advanced, a half-dozen Bears in front with swords, flanked by several Wolverines, who cut off the three soldiers’ paths of retreat. Marek crept forward and grabbed the closest basket, ready to reappear if any swords came too close. He carried it to safety two docks over, then turned to retrieve the next one.

  Beyond the fight, Sareb pushed Mila ahead of him down the docks, their guard running behind them on the way to the larger ship. Marek wanted them brought to justice, but first he had to get his son back. He grabbed the second basket as its guardian’s stomach took the sword of a Velekon Bear.

  The last soldier turned to leap into the water, but he was yanked back by a dark-haired Wolverine, who shoved a long dagger up under his ribs. His feet kicked and twitched as he died.

  Marek reappeared as he ran toward the soldier’s basket. The Wolverine shoved the body onto the ground and turned to him.

  “You must be Marek.” He wiped his dagger on his trousers. “Can we see the Raven baby?”

  Marek’s mind boggled at the Wolverine’s rapid change of focus. No doubt the prophecy had made it easy to gather forces for their rescue. “We don’t know if he’s the Raven baby, but yes, you can meet my son.” He eyed the blood on the man’s hands. “You can look at him from over there.”

  He flipped open the first basket. The Asermon boy stretched and gurgled, kicking at his blankets. Marek dashed to the second basket. It contained the Asermon girl, who had somehow slept through the chaos.

  He ran down the pier to the last basket, the one he had grabbed first. His steps slowed suddenly.

  That basket had been heavy.

  A woman screamed from the ship. “My
baby!” Mila cried.

  Marek sank onto trembling knees next to the last basket. His blood seeped cold to his fingertips as he drew back the cover.

  Neyla gazed up at him, then sneezed.

  “No…” He crushed his hands against his eyes.

  The Wolverine ran up. “What happened?”

  “How could I be so stupid?”

  He peered over Marek’s shoulder. “That’s not him?”

  “This one belongs to the wet nurse.” He stood and stared at the ship. “They still have my son.”

  “We got the wrong baby?” The Bear who’d led the charge stomped over to him. “I knew we should’ve taken them all, killed the woman if we had to.”

  The Wolverine scratched his head. “The captain must’ve switched the baskets without telling her. Clever.”

  Marek picked up Neyla’s basket and walked toward the ship.

  “Where are you going?” the Bear asked.

  “To make a trade.”

  Behind him he heard the Bear order two of the men to take the Asermon babies into the tavern, and the rest to follow him. He caught up with Marek. Though he was probably in his midthirties, his stubbled, wind-roughened face looked much older. His clothes smelled of blood and pipe smoke.

  “I’m Eneas. My sister Nadia’s the Horse who got the pigeon message. Two birds came right before dark. We barely had enough time to gather these men, but it was enough, heh?”

  “Not yet.” Marek turned onto the long dock where the ship was anchored. “We don’t have my son.”

  “I’m sure they’ll trade. They won’t leave one of their own behind.” Eneas peeked at Neyla. “She’s cute, that one.”

  Marek wanted to believe the Bear, wanted to hope that the woman’s child was more important to the captain than the mission. But if Sareb had switched the baskets, as the Wolverine guessed, this was the scenario he’d planned for.