Voice of Crow

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “In the four years after that, there were countless times when I could have taken women in lands we conquered. But I kept seeing Palia in their faces—scared, helpless.” He dug his heel into the sand. “With the wars, I had no opportunity to find what your people call a mate, and after my injury I lost hope of ever finding such a person.”

  She wanted to reassure him that she was that person, but something he’d said made her stomach quake. “If your army had won in Asermos, would the men under your command have raped me?”

  He looked at her. “Possibly.”

  “And you’d have let them?”

  “The enlisted aren’t well paid. The spoils of war are the only way to motivate them to fight. Like I said, I never took part myself.”

  “But you let them,” she said.

  “If I hadn’t, they’d have killed me.”

  “You were their commander.”

  “I was a lieutenant. They respected me as much as they would a trained dog. Maybe less.”

  She felt sick. “What about the women your people took from Kalindos? My neighbors, my friends. Their daughters. What happened to them?”

  “I don’t know. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On their ages, on their—suitability for various roles.” He rubbed his knuckles together. “When I spoke of this in the hospital with your friend Adrek, he tried to kill me.”

  She scoffed. “Maybe I should have let him.”

  “Maybe you should have.”

  “Filip, I was only—”

  “It was what I wanted.”

  “—joking.” She stared at him. “What did you say?”

  “I did it on purpose, said things to anger him, cruel things about what might happen to his little girl. Hoping he would end my life.”

  “He never told me what you said to set him off.”

  “That’s to his credit.” Filip turned to her. “I hate what my people do during war. But without the power of fear, our lands would be overrun, and we’d be the ones enslaved.”

  “We? They’re still your people, then? After all this?” She gestured to the space between them.

  He shook his head and looked away. “I spent twenty-one years as an Ilion, and not yet a year as one of you. And in that year, only a handful of you have treated me as a friend. So I suppose I no longer have a people.”

  “You’re with us now, trying to save Marek and Nilik. That means a lot.”

  “I hope I can be of worth.” He joggled his left foot. “Even with this.”

  She touched his arm. “Whatever happens in Leukos, please believe that you’re worth something to me.”

  He turned to her, and in the nearly nonexistent moonlight she saw him search her eyes for the lie that wasn’t there. “I believe it,” he said. “I don’t understand it, but I believe it.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her.

  Alanka shivered, and not only from the strengthening breeze that warned of more rain. As Filip’s warm fingers slid down her neck, she imagined lying underneath one of his men, fighting for her life in a field of dead warriors, or trapped in a Leukon brothel exchanging her body for the privilege of survival.

  She broke away.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  She looked at the sky. “It’s about to pour again. I can smell it, even without my powers.”

  He took his hands off her. “The rain’s not what bothers you, is it? It’s those things I told you.”

  “I’m glad you told me. I want to be with you, but to do that, I need to see you clearly, the way I never seem to be able to see any man.” She looked away. “But it hurts sometimes, like staring at the sun.”

  He sighed. “How do we make this work?”

  “We can start by realizing we deserve each other. No more ‘I’m not worthy of you’ talk, all right? We’re a couple of busted-up misfits, but at least we’re equally busted up.”

  He stood and helped her to her feet. “It’s a start.”

  They made their way back to the campsite, hand in hand, as the rain broke over them.

  Filip ran.

  In his dream the trees and trails of Letus Park flashed by faster than ever, blurring in the corners of his eyes. His brother was gone, and he ran with no man.

  But not alone. He looked down to see that it wasn’t his own feet running, but the hooves of the white horse. Her muscles strained and bulged under his legs as he rode without saddle, bridle or blanket.

  They shot into an open field, too large to be part of the park. Its rolling hills of waving grasses undulated to the horizon. The rising sun shone behind them, so that Filip and the horse raced their own shadow. He held his arms out straight to the side, and the shadow grew wings. A long laugh burst from his lungs.

  The horse stopped. Filip pitched over her head and landed on his back on the grass. The dream ground was soft and spongy, so he bounced and rolled without pain, but not without humiliation.

  When he came to a halt, he lifted himself onto his elbows. “Why?”

  The horse snorted and shook her snowy mane. “I told you, this magic isn’t yours yet. You don’t want it enough.”

  “I do.” He got to his knees. “More than anything.”

  She stepped closer, her hooves soundless, and huffed a warm breath upon his forehead. “Prove it.”

  He woke to the patter of rain on the tent above his head, with Bolan’s snores providing the storm’s thunder. Filip reached over and nudged his shoulder.

  Bolan jerked awake, then wiped an arm over his face. “I was doing it again, wasn’t I?”

  “Never mind that. I need your help.”

  Rhia’s head felt as heavy as a rock. Hearing voices by the campfire and noises of breakfast, she tried to push the blanket off her body, but it tangled in her legs. She sank back to the ground, pulse pounding in her temple.

  Koli appeared in the tent door. “I thought I heard rustling. Hungry?” She entered with a plate of food.

  “It’s late,” Rhia said. “We need to keep moving.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” Koli held out a slice of toasted bread, burned on one side. “That soul retrieval took all your strength, and then some. I wish we’d brought an Otter. When I woke up, I thought you were dead.”

  “I’ve been dead, and this isn’t dead.” Rhia tried to sit up. Every muscle felt like a tug-of-war rope. She hissed in a breath. “Although it’s close.”

  “You have time to get your strength back. We’re not leaving for a few days.”

  “Why? Is something wrong with one of the horses?” She wanted to throttle the Velekon stable master. “I knew that gray gelding wouldn’t last cross-country.”

  “It’s not one of the horses.” Koli uttered a dry chuckle. “Actually, it is. I’ll get Filip, let him explain.” She shoved the plate into Rhia’s hands and left the tent.

  Rhia picked at the bread and meat, hunger overcoming curiosity. A sharp, sudden memory of Marek’s succulent poached quail eggs tightened her stomach and made her want to cry.

  “Rhia,” said Filip from outside the tent. “I wanted to tell you myself.”

  “You can come in. I’m dressed.”

  He flipped open the tent door but didn’t enter or even look at her. Her father had told her Filip’s sense of propriety was extreme even by Asermon standards.

  “I thought about what you said last autumn.” He glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the ground. “How Crow wouldn’t leave you alone until you admitted your Aspect.”

  “Horse is following you?”

  He put on a grim smile. “When I dreamed of Her in Asermos, I thought your father had planted it in my mind to convince me to help you.”

  “He’s too honest for that.”

  “She came to me again.” He looked straight at Rhia. “There’s no honor in doing anything halfway. Either I become one of you, with my whole self, or I go my own way alone.”

  She lurched to the tent door, her head swimming. When she got there, she saw
his pack sitting on the ground beside him.

  “Filip, no. We need you.”

  “I’m leaving shortly,” he said, “for my Bestowing.”

  She drew in a deep breath and grasped his arm. He seemed surprised by her touch.

  “You won’t regret it,” she said.

  He gave a quick nod. “Lycas insists that he and Bolan watch over me to make sure I’m not meeting a spy.”

  “The Bestowing should be a sacred time between a person and his Spirit.”

  “I can’t blame his suspicion. He says they’ll stay out of my sight to give me the illusion of privacy.”

  “Filip, you ready?” Bolan called from the edge of the campsite. Filip waved to him, then turned back to Rhia.

  “We’ll go to a cove up the coast a mile or two. It has shelter in case of rain.” He stood carefully. “Thank you for helping Alanka. It reminded me who I need to do this for.”

  “For her?”

  “No.” He turned and walked away, shoulders squared like a soldier’s. Exhausted from the brief conversation, Rhia sank back onto her blanket. Though Filip’s Bestowing would cost them a few days’ time, having him as a trusted ally—with complete control of his powers—would help them more in the end.

  Rhia rolled over and withdrew a flat wooden box from her pack. She wanted to open it, hold its contents to her face and feel her husband close to her again. But the box had to remain sealed until they reached Leukos, so she clutched it to her chest instead.

  “Hold on, Marek,” she whispered. “We’re coming.”

  28

  Marek frowned at the ragged paper in front of him, on which he tried for the fourth time to write his name. The late afternoon sun angled through the sitting-room window, stabbing his eyes, which were already sore from squinting. His fingers felt huge and ungainly around the shaft of the feather pen. Black ink stained his palms and created handprints on the old, thick blanket Basha had draped over the desk to protect its wooden finish.

  He grimaced as he ruined another letter with a haphazard slash at the end of its last stroke. Five days of this, and no progress he could see. His hands retained none of the steadiness with which they had gripped a bow and arrow. If Basha was ever going to let him outside the house, he would have to prove he could read and write at a basic level.

  Marek glared at the wolf carving sitting on the green marble table across from him, a table that seemed to have no purpose except to display one of the living room’s many worthless objects. The wolf stared back at him, fierce eyes judging him and his circumstances.

  You should be ashamed of yourself.

  He shifted his chair so he couldn’t see the carving, even from the corner of his vision, but could still keep an eye on Nilik’s crib. The guard at the door watched him laconically.

  Marek resisted the urge to stare at his son every moment. His fear of losing Nilik had diminished slightly, since Basha indicated that her mercy would hold if Marek didn’t displease her. She even allowed him to speak before being spoken to, though he had to choose his words carefully to avoid her wrath. As long as she let him stay at his son’s side, he would indulge her any way she wanted.

  Almost any way. His Wolf senses hadn’t completely died; he could feel her body temperature rise when she came near him. He walked a narrow path—making her appreciate him enough to keep him around but not enough to exact other ownership privileges. At least twice a week, some young man in Marek’s slave quarters would be beckoned to her chamber late at night. The thought sickened him.

  From his new vantage point at the desk he could see a collection of smaller animal carvings gathered around the base of an iron lamp. The fox sat on its haunches, facing away from the others, as if surveying the room. Its eyes gleamed with tiny pieces of silver stone.

  He’d never trusted Fox people. Though they shared powers of stealth with Wolves, as well as enhanced senses of smell and hearing, Foxes always looked out for themselves first. Their magic supported the survival of the individual, not the pack. They’d tell as many lies as they could get away with, as long as it suited their needs.

  His mentor, Kerza, had told him to learn from other Spirits, not just Wolf. But he was proud of his Animal and wanted to embody every quality: loyalty, honesty, bravery, protection of others. No compromises, not even for survival.

  But in a place like Leukos, Fox’s lessons might serve him better.

  He stared at the fox carving until his eyes unfocused. Grant me your wisdom. Tell me what to do to get out of here.

  Whatever it takes, came a voice that sounded like his own, and yet not.

  “What a day!”

  Basha swept into the room, uncoiling a pink silk scarf from around her neck. Petrop followed her and picked the scarf off the floor the moment it fell from her hand.

  “How’s my little one?” she said.

  “He’s asleep,” Marek whispered. “At least he was.”

  She leaned into the crib and tickled Nilik. “Mother’s home now. You don’t want to waste time napping, do you?”

  Marek braced himself for the inevitable screech, which followed a moment later. Petrop winced, as well, and shared a look with Marek that bordered on commiseration.

  Undaunted, she lifted the baby into her arms. Marek had to grip his chair to keep from yanking his son away from her.

  To her credit, she imitated the rocking motion Marek used and hummed an approximate version of one of Nilik’s favorite songs. The boy’s cries softened but continued.

  “Your mother made a name for herself on the Senate floor today.” She popped her eyes wide at Nilik the way he liked. “That’s right! Politics are never boring when you have the proper flair. But those bad men won’t let Mother run for reelection.”

  “Why not?” Marek asked. The Senate, from what he could tell, was a larger version of his own village’s Council. A basic grasp of Ilion political factions could come in handy if he ever escaped.

  “All because she’s a woman,” Basha said to Nilik, as if the baby had asked the question. “Women can finish the terms of their dead husbands or fathers but can’t be elected on their own. We weak females aren’t made for such taxing duties.” She released a high titter, though Marek didn’t understand the joke. Nilik let out a full-throated wail. “My reaction precisely!” she exclaimed, then turned a brilliant smile on Marek. “At least he knows I exist.”

  She waved her hand at Petrop, and he departed silently. Carrying Nilik, she shifted over to the wolf carving. “Do you like this one, Marek? You’re a Wolf, right?”

  He nodded, though now it seemed only a half truth.

  “Which animal would I be?” she said. “If I had one of those Spirit Guards.”

  “Guardian Spirits.”

  “Don’t correct me. Which would I be?”

  He thought of a cockroach and stifled a bitter laugh. “If you’re good at politics, you might be a Fox.”

  “I’m very good at politics. Recognizing who wants what and what they’ll do to get it. People underestimate me because I’m young and female and pretty.” She stroked the wooden fox’s head with her littlest fingernail. “It’s a useful weapon.”

  “May I ask another question?”

  She thought for a moment, then tilted her head indulgently. “Speak.”

  He gestured to the artwork displayed around the room. “You seem to have a fascination for my people. Even though we’re the enemy.”

  “Even though you killed my husband? I can’t blame you for that. We invaded your lands—what were you supposed to do, welcome us with open arms and let us take everything you’d worked so hard for?” She tucked Nilik’s blanket under his chin. “That whole campaign was ill-advised and undermanned. It was destined to fail. All the oracles said so.”

  “You consult oracles? I thought Ilions didn’t have magic.”

  “The gods have magic, of course, and they lend a bit of it to their priests and priestesses. It’s one way they keep Ilions in power, where we belong.” She scoffed. �
�Some individuals are overly superstitious, though, and can’t buy a loaf of bread without consulting the oracles. I like to use my own mind.” Nilik’s cries faded into coos at last. “My turn to ask questions. Did you fight in the battle at Asermos?”

  “Not exactly. I was a—a scout.” He decided not to mention how he’d decimated the Descendant cavalry by sedating their horses the night before the battle. No doubt his actions had made him infamous. “They captured me.” He replaced the feather in the ink bottle to avoid snapping it in his fist. “They tortured me.”

  “Tortured you? How?”

  He glanced at the guard standing by the door. “They beat me, left me in the sun.”

  “How long?”

  “Hours. All morning.”

  “My healer said you had no scars. What did they beat you with?”

  “Their feet and hands.”

  A high titter escaped her throat. “That’s not torture. They just roughed you up and let you bake a bit. Torture is having your skin peeled off in strips or having your fingernails ripped out.”

  He gaped at her.

  “There’s much worse, I’m told,” she said, “but not fit for a woman to hear, whatever that means. You’re lucky they didn’t deploy a torture detail in the Asermon campaign.”

  He ran his thumb over his fingernails and had to agree.

  “How’s your magic these days?” she asked him.

  He didn’t want to reveal any weakness, and since it was daytime, she couldn’t ask him to turn invisible. “It’s fine, though I don’t have much use for it here.”

  “Interesting. What’s my cook making for supper?”

  A test. Marek sniffed the air but could only perceive a vague odor. “Meat.”

  “What kind?”

  “Poultry,” he said, keeping the uncertainty from his voice.

  “Good. What kind of poultry?”

  He guessed her favorite. “Duck.”

  “Sorry, it’s pork. Your powers are fading, like some of the others. I wonder why?”