Silver Ravens
Synopsis
The Celts knew it as Annwyn, the Otherworld—certainly not a destination IT professional Lori Cooper anticipates when distracting herself with a magazine puzzle page in the dentist’s waiting room. Clues buried in the answers lead her to Tamsin, who claims to command a band of warriors for the queen of the fay. From this, Lori concludes that Tamsin is both insane and dangerous. She’s also quite worryingly attractive.
However, Lori’s own sanity becomes a bigger concern when she finds herself held captive in a strange world with yet more puzzles to solve. She must pick her way through layers of illusion and deceit. Nothing and nobody, including Tamsin, is quite as they seem. Who can Lori trust? She will need to uncover the full truth if she is to return home, mind and body intact.
What Reviewers Say About Jane Fletcher’s Work
Isle of Broken Years
“Fun, fast, and deeply entertaining, Isle of Broken Years is one of the better uses of the Atlantis myth I’ve yet seen in fiction. I enjoyed it a lot, and I feel confident in recommending it.”—Tor.com
“Isle of Broken Years is an amazingly inventive story that started off being the tale of a noblewoman being captured by pirates and veered off into something way more interesting and fantastic.”—Kitty Kat’s Book Review Blog
The Walls of Westernfort
“Award-winning author Jane Fletcher explores serious themes in the Celaeno series and creates a world that loosely parallels the one we inhabit. In The Walls of Westernfort, Fletcher weaves a plausible action-packed plot, set on a credible world, and with appealing multi-dimensional characters. The result is a fantasy by one of the best speculative fiction writers in the business.”—Just About Write
“…captivating, well-written stories in the fantasy genre that are built around women’s struggles against themselves, one another, society, and nature.”—WomanSpace Magazine
“The Walls of Westernfort is not only a highly engaging and fast-paced adventure novel, it provides the reader with an interesting framework for examining the same questions of loyalty, faith, family and love.”—Midwest Book Review
“The Walls of Westernfort is…a true delight. Bold, well-developed characters hold your interest from the beginning and keep you turning the pages. The main plot twists and turns until the very end. The subplot involves likeable women who seem destined not to be together.”—MegaScene
“In The Walls of the Westernfort, Jane Fletcher spins a captivating story about youthful idealism, honor, and courage. The action is fast paced and the characters are compelling in this gripping sci-fi adventure.”—Sapphic Reader
“Jane Fletcher has a great talent for spinning yarns, especially stories of lesbians with swords. The Walls of Westernfort is a well written and suspenseful tale…Fletcher effectively intertwines the intrigues of the assassination plot with a young woman’s inward exploration…and yes, there is romance. …This book is a page-turner; you will have a hard time finding a stopping place.”—Lesbian Connection Magazine
Rangers at Roadsend
“In Rangers at Roadsend Fletcher not only gives us powerful characters, but she surprises us with an unexpected ending to the murder conspiracy plot, pushing the story in one direction only to have that direction reversed more than once. This is one thrill ride the reader will not want to get off.”—Independent Gay Writer
“Rangers at Roadsend, a murder mystery reminiscent of Agatha Christie, has crossed many genres including speculative fiction, fantasy, romance, and adventure. The story is an incredible whodunit that has something for everyone. Jane Fletcher, winner of the Golden Crown Literary Award 2005 for Walls at Westernfort, has created an intelligent and compelling story where the reader easily gets drawn into the fascinating world of Celaeno, becomes totally absorbed in the well-designed plot, and finds herself completely enamored with the multi-faceted characters.
”Jane Fletcher, an amazing talent, gifted storyteller, and extraordinary plot developer, is one of the best authors of contemporary fiction today—in all genres. Rangers at Roadsend will convince you of that.”—Just About Write
The Temple at Landfall— Lambda Literary Award Finalist
“The Temple at Landfall is absorbing and engrossing tale-telling of the highest order, and the really exciting thing is that although this novel is complete and ‘finished,’ the door is left open to explore more of this world, which the author has done in subsequent books. I can’t wait to read the next Celaeno Series volumes, and this book is a keeper that I will re-read again and again. I highly recommend it.”—Just About Write
“Jane Fletcher is the consummate storyteller and plot wizard. Getting caught up in the action happens as if by magic and the fantasy elements are long forgotten. The world Fletcher creates, the characters she brings to life, and the rich detail described in eloquent prose, all serve to keep the reader enchanted, satisfied, yet wanting more. A Lammy finalist, The Temple at Landfall is surely a winner in this reader’s book. Don’t miss it.”—Midwest Book Review
Dynasty of Rogues
“Jane Fletcher has another triumph with Dynasty of Rogues, the continuing story in the Celaeno series. This reviewer found the book clever and compelling and difficult to put down once I started reading and easily could be devoured in one sitting. Some of the characters in Dynasty of Rogues have visited us in other Celaeno novels, but this is a non-linear series, so it can be understood without having read the other stories. …Dynasty of Rogues has it all. Mystery, intrigue, crime, and romance, with lots of angst thrown in too, make this fascinating novel thoroughly enjoyable and fun.”—Just About Write
“When you pick up a novel by Jane Fletcher, you will always get a riveting plot, strong, interesting characters, and a beautifully written story complete with three-dimensional villains, believable conflicts, and the twin spices of adventure and romance. Ethical and moral dilemmas abound. Fletcher writes real characters, the type that William Faulkner once said ‘stand up and cast a shadow.’ The reader can’t help but root for these characters, many of whom are classic underdogs. I give the highest recommendation for Dynasty of Rogues and to the entire Celaeno Series.”—Midwest Book Review
The Exile and the Sorcerer
“Jane Fletcher once again has written an exciting fantasy story for everyone. Though she sets her stories in foreign worlds where the traditional roles of women are reversed, her characters (are) all too familiar in their inner lives and thoughts. Unlike the Celaeno series (which I highly recommend) where there are no men, this series incorporates male characters that help round out the story nicely. …Fletcher has a way of balancing the fantasy with the human drama in a precise way. She never gets caught up in the minor details of the environment and forgets to tell the story, which happens too often in fantasy fiction. …With Fletcher writing such strong work, readers of fantasy will continue to grow.”—Lambda Book Report
“The Exile and the Sorcerer is a mesmerizing read, a tour-de-force packed with adventure, ordeals, complex twists and turns, and the internal introspection of appealing characters. The author writes effortlessly, handling the size and scope of the book with ease. Not since the fantasy works of Elizabeth Moon and Lynn Flewelling have I been so thoroughly engrossed in a tale. This is knockout fiction, tantalizingly told, and beautifully packaged.”—Midwest Book Review
Wolfsbane Winter—Lambda Literary Award Finalist
“Jane Fletcher is known for her fantasy stories that take place in a world that could almost be real, but not quite. Her books seem like an alternative version of history and contain rich atmospheres of magic, legends, sorcerers, and other worldly characters mixed in with ordinary people. The way she writes is so realistic that it is easy to believe that these places and people re
ally exist. Wolfsbane Winter fits that mold perfectly. It draws the reader in and leads her through the story. Very enjoyable.”—Just About Write
The Shewstone
“I was hooked on the plot and the characters are absolutely delightful.”—The Romantic Reader Blog
Silver Ravens
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Silver Ravens
© 2020 By Jane Fletcher. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-632-2
This Electronic Original Is Published By
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: July 2020
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design by Tammy Seidick
eBook Design by Toni Whitaker
By the Author
Celaeno Series
The Temple at Landfall
The Walls of Westernfort
Rangers at Roadsend
Dynasty of Rogues
Shadow of the Knife
Lyremouth Chronicles
The Exile and the Sorcerer
The Chalice and the Traitor
The Empress and the Acolyte
The High Priest and the Idol
Wolfsbane Winter
The Shewstone
Isle of Broken Years
Silver Ravens
Note to Readers
The story makes reference to Playfair, Caesar, and Vigenère ciphers. I have not tried to describe the encoding processes in detail, judging that, in my hands, the cryptographic intricacies would not make for exciting reading (Dorothy L. Sayers could do it, I can’t). For anyone interested in learning more, information about all three is readily available online.
I have also taken huge liberties with the Mabinogion.
With a host of furious fancies
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning spear and a horse of air,
To the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghosts and shadows
I summoned am to tourney,
Ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end,
Methinks it is no journey.
from Tom O’Bedlam’s Song
Anonymous—first recorded early 17th century
Prologue
Dorstanley, Dorset
The first May Day following the restoration of King Charles II to the throne.
“I dare you.”
“Why should I? What do I get?”
“I’ll think of something.” Eleanor spoke with her head tilted coyly to one side. Her eyes glinted, taunting, teasing, under heavy lids. The sway of her hips promised a reward that would not be forthcoming. She was playing games again. Tamsin knew it, but was unable to say no. She tore her gaze from the strand of blond hair fluttering across Eleanor’s cheek.
For the sake of her pride, she should tell Eleanor to find herself another toy. Yet, as much as Tamsin wanted an end to the games, even more she wanted Eleanor to smile at her again, although this did not mean she had to roll over like a puppy. First, she would make Eleanor work a little harder.
“You’re being childish.” Tamsin crossed her arms and looked away in a show of indifference.
A solemn peace surrounded St. Benedict’s parish church. The service was over, and the rest of the congregation had gone to join the revelry on the village green. She and Eleanor were alone in the graveyard, except for the pair of ravens that nested in the bell tower. There was some comfort, knowing the birds would be the only witnesses when she submitted to Eleanor’s silly dare.
“You’re frightened. You’re frightened the devil will snatch you away.”
“No, I’m not.” The denial was out before Tamsin had time to think. Eleanor smirked, seeing her barb hit home. Tamsin stepped away, angry at herself for being an easy target. “But I’m not missing out on the fun. Listen. The music’s starting.”
Distant laughter mingled with the sound of fiddle and drum. The maypole was back on the green after sixteen long years of banishment by Parliament and the joyless Puritans. Now Lord Protector Cromwell was gone, and all the talk was of the new King Charles’s return. There would be dancing around the maypole for the first time since the year Tamsin was born.
“It won’t take long. Then we can go to the maypole.” Eleanor caught Tamsin’s hand and swung their arms to and fro like a skipping rope. As ever, her touch melted Tamsin’s resolve.
“RHARR. RHARR. RHARR.” The old cock raven launched himself from the bell tower, cawing as he swooped overhead.
Eleanor jumped at the sound, jerking her hand free and raising her arm as if to ward off attack. The alarmed reaction was both unexpected and telling, bringing a sudden understanding. Eleanor was on edge but had been hiding it.
Now who’s frightened?
Eleanor had picked the dare not because it was childish and she wanted to make Tamsin play the fool, but because the idea scared her. She dared not do it herself. Tamsin squared her shoulders and turned to face the ancient stone, sheltering by the yews. The game had changed, and the challenge had become irresistible.
Hobs Geat had stood in the corner of the graveyard for as long as anyone could remember. Legend said it was even older than the church. Village children grew up with the stories: the devil had turned a sinner into stone; witches danced around it naked under a full moon; folk who slept in its shadow were never seen again. Children would squeal and shudder, pretending to be frightened, but deep down inside everyone knew it was safe—or so Tamsin had assumed. Maybe some were more gullible than others. Tamsin smiled as she wove between the gravestones, aware of Eleanor trailing behind. The hems of their skirts brushed through the long grass.
Despite the midday sun, this corner of the churchyard was cold. Hobs Geat was a finger of granite more than twice Tamsin’s height, pointing to the sky. The grass around it was clear, as if even the gravestones were unwilling to approach. Only the yew trees seemed drawn to Hobs Geat. Their branches twitched in the breeze, reaching out to caress it. Their weaving shadows flitted over the weathered stone.
Tamsin stopped, close enough to touch the raw, rough rock, pockmarked by weather. How well had she studied it before? Orange lichen mottled the northern side, creating fantastic shapes, like demons or faces contorted in pain. The pagan stone did not belong here, tethered to a Christian church, but it did not frighten her.
“You don’t have to do it.”
Tamsin glanced over her shoulder, amused. For once, she had won. “Why not? You want me to go round it widdershins, right?”
“Tamsin?”
She ignored the plea in Eleanor’s voice. Three times, widdershins. That was the dare, the one detail all the children’s tales agreed on. But she was no longer a child.
Tamsin began walking.
* * *
Eleanor cowered in the relative safety of the second to last row of gravestones. Self scrutiny played no part in her nature, but she was aware of being pulled between two emotions. Teasing Tamsin was so much fun—far more so than with the village boys who trailed after Eleanor, making doe eyes. They were boring. Like fairground puppets, anyone could tug their strings. Whereas she could never be quite sure if Tamsin would come to heel when she snapped her fingers.
But now, Eleanor was feeling nervous, a
nd she did not like it. The stupid stone made her skin prickle. It was Tamsin’s fault, agreeing so easily. The dare was not meant seriously—of course not. Tamsin should have known it and insisted on going to the maypole.
The music was getting louder. Eleanor turned her head and looked in the direction of the green, although it was hidden from sight behind the houses. A burst of cheering must mean the dancing was about to start. Several lads had asked her to partner them. She had said yes to some—not that she really wanted to. Who would Tamsin dance with? She was taller than most boys. Eleanor’s mood brightened. Could two girls dance together? That would make a better dare. They should forget the nonsense with Hobs Geat.
She turned back as Tamsin began another circle. To Eleanor’s surprise, bands of mist were rising from the grass, swirling around Tamsin’s knees. Eleanor looked up. How had the weather changed so quickly? Yet the sky overhead was unbroken blue.
A sudden clamour of church bells pealed out, splitting the air, and driving both ravens from their roost. Eleanor jumped so hard she had to grip a gravestone for balance. Her heart hammered in her chest. But it was just the midday chimes, the same as every day, although seeming somehow duller than normal, as if muffled by fog.
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