Sisters of the Raven

by Barbara Hambly

  “He came here on the night after the full moon, begging Aktis to find her.” The Red Silk Lady waved at a finch, which had flown in from the garden and perched on the edge of the divan. The bird fluttered to Pomegranate Woman’s side and pecked at the wafer she’d left on the floor for Pontifer. “Not that Aktis could have done so, for I’m told it isn’t possible for a mage to scry a Raven sister. You say she was killed?”

  “I saw it in a dream,” Pomegranate Woman said. “At the full of the moon. About four hours after the same . . . the same person, or thing, whoever it is who holds this power . . . tried to seize Lady Shaldis. He killed her, tore her to pieces.”

  “Well, it wasn’t Lohar, at any rate,” remarked the Red Silk Lady thoughtfully. “If the moon was full, Lohar was at House Akarian, preaching to that gullible booby that’s supposed to marry my granddaughter. Which brings us,” she said, her ice-colored glance sliding back to the Summer Concubine, “to the original figure of the dance. That I will speak to my son, if you will keep your silence—I don’t suppose you’ve spoken to that overdressed capon of yours about it?—and scry for my granddaughter. I understand you do it quite well, something not every Raven’s sister is adept at,” she added significantly, “Or so I have been told.”

  “Thank you,” returned the Summer Concubine politely. “I’d be most curious to know from whom you received so glowing a report of my abilities. Do you have an alabaster vessel? I usually use a shallow bowl.”

  The mother of Mohrvine rose from her cushions, disappeared through the latticed screens that surrounded the doorway of the inner room and reappeared a few moments later with a footed cup of the kind lovers share wine from. The Summer Concubine took it out into the courtyard again and felt, to her shock, chill wind blowing down from the north.

  She looked up quickly and saw clouds in the sky.

  Thin clouds, puffs and streaks of white.

  The high walls of the house prevented her from seeing to the horizon, but she felt her heart turn in her chest.

  I should be rejoicing, she thought, panic fluttering her breath. Her hands trembled as she dipped water from the tiny fountain in the court. Am I so selfish that I grudge salvation and life for everyone, if it comes from the hand of someone I don’t like?

  The wind swirled and lifted her gauze overdress; there was a smell of water and dust in the air, and above it all a whiff of magic.

  Aktis, she thought. Dear gods, has Aktis actually found a Summons that will bring the rain?

  That must be what Mohrvine meant. How dare he use such power—such a blessing—only as a tool for the domination of other men?

  The spell that would bring the rain would bring Lohar to power. It would be Nebekht’s mark of approval, for Lohar and Mohrvine. How can he do this? her mind was shrieking. It would place Mohrvine on the throne, and cost Oryn his life. I must know that Nebekht is with you . . . .

  Dear gods!

  She felt sickened, shocked, shaken to her bones. I will be able to accomplish what you’ve asked.

  If the rain came before they spoke to Mohrvine—before they got Oryn out of the temple . . .

  Briefly she closed her eyes, praying to Rohar for strength.

  Then she set the bowl on a bench beside a potted jasmine where the afternoon’s graying light could fall on the water. Drew three deep breaths. Let her mind slide into the shadowy place of magic, her body relax into its working.

  Called to mind the child she had briefly glimpsed on two or three occasions, that laughing, black-haired girl who’d cajoled for dolls and ribbons.

  Mohrvine’s treasure. The child of the Waterlily Concubine, the one girl out of so many whom he’d truly cared for, dead now twelve years. The one weakness, in that cold, serpentine strength.

  The surface of the water glimmered in the dappled light. The finches twittered in their cages. The daylight itself seemed to soften and refract in the cup, colors moving in the shallow depths; ghostly at first, then brighter. Her bones ached, from the endless Rite of the day before. Her head throbbed. Please don’t let me be too exhausted.

  The colors seemed to clear away suddenly, leaving her looking at the polished grain of the stone.

  Snakes and turtles, she cursed, a ladylike little oath and all that Pearl Women were permitted even to think. She closed her eyes again, drew several more breaths and looked into the water once more.

  After the third attempt, she turned her mind not to the daughter of Mohrvine, but to Moonjelly the maid. Almost at once she saw the girl standing in the kitchen court of the House of the Marvelous Tower, towel in hand, looking up at the lowering sky. The palace pastry chef came out and gave her an order: Moonjelly trotted inside obediently, and the Summer Concubine let the image fade.

  So there was nothing wrong with the way she was attempting to scry. She was not too exhausted—except that she was too exhausted, and in spite of the excellent heavenly morsels she was beginning to feel cold and giddy.

  Wind clashed the tops of the tubbed orange trees and blew down a scatter of sand from the roof.

  Temptation pulled at her to summon Oryn’s image, and she thrust it away. He’s in the temple, she thought. Hidden by the magic of whatever is there—whatever is Summoning this rain. I’ll never see him, and I will only waste my strength.

  So why couldn’t she see the daughter of Mohrvine?

  She’s with a mage, she thought. Or with a Raven, some Raven we know nothing of. It’s the only explanation.

  And then, raising her head to look at the shadows of the pavilion again, hearing the Red Silk Lady’s bark of laughter at one of Pomegranate Woman’s tales of her husband’s encounters with Nahul-Sarn: Not the only one. She is a Raven herself.

  It’s in her blood, after all.

  She looked back at the bowl, drew a deep breath and called to mind the image of young Iorradus Akarian. Formed his face in her mind, golden and handsome, as he’d stood so many times at the head of Oryn’s horse, or on guard outside the baths. A dull young man, but without malice.

  Tire colors in the bowl deepened to darkness. Then like a pearlescent mist they rolled away, showing her more darkness still.

  She recognized the place at once. The sandhills southeast of the city, not far from the old Salt-Pan Quarter, on the other side of the Slaughterhouse. She saw the arches of the aqueduct in the distance. The district was long deserted now, and the dunes were creeping in. The sky was the same as that above her own head: deepening blue streaked with gray and white. Wind flung sand along the ground, tossed and twisted the sagebrush and the thorns. Her first thought was Clever of them to escape in that direction. They’d be sought along the lake’s southern shore, toward the Akarian lands.

  Then she saw, more clearly, what it was that scuffled and circled in the sagebrush.

  Jackals.

  Jackals scraping at a shallow hole in the sand where a dead body lay.

  THIRTY

  Buildings burned everywhere in the city now. Warm, moisture-scented winds flickered among the alleys, whirling dust devils of dry leaves and rumors: The king’s been killed. Prince Barún was behind it all along. The nomads are coming. Bax has gone over to Lord Sarn. Bax has gone over to Jamornid. The king’s fled to the City of Reeds . . . .

  As the Red Silk Lady’s curtained litter passed the barricades of the Circus District the Summer Concubine reached our with her mind to the men clustered in the cafés: Who’s in charge now? Did Sarn break with the king? I heard Akarian’s men came in on the side of the Believers.

  The Believers are behind the drought. Have been all the time. They’ve put the whole land under curse.

  No, it’s the Sun Mages themselves who aren’t doing their job, like grain speculators holding out for a higher price.

  In the Potters Quarter the clash of weapons, the shouting of voices, blocked their way. The bearers turned silently aside, through the sewery alleys behind the Charcoal Yard. Intent on keeping the cloak around the whole party—and around Soth too, who followed at a distance,
still ready to go for help in case of betrayal or disaster—the Summer Concubine had no energy, no mind to spare for Oryn beside the small, desperate prayer, Keep him safe till we come.

  She did not know to whom she prayed.

  Through the curtains of her own litter—such as a serving maid would ride in, behind her mistress’s greater palanquin—she could feel the daylight dimming above the saffron walls. Could feel the tension of the slow-gathering clouds.

  Aktis, she thought. It has to be. He’s the only one who would have known of Foxfire Girl’s powers. And if Mohrvine knew of Amber Girl’s, Aktis would haw known too.

  The bloody crosses and circles of the teyns’ sacrifice came back to her mind, all noted in Oryn’s neat hand. It’s a sacrifice of some kind, she thought. It’s the way he’s raising power—raising power with their deaths.

  Dear gods, don’t let it be Raeshaldis who was sacrificed to the bringing of the rain!

  Twice and thrice they detoured around fighting where Bax’s troops, or Sarn’s, or Barún’s, engaged the rioters in small, ugly struggles under the barricades. Usually the cloak worked, though on a barricade near the East Gate—the narrow streets around the Grand Bazaar filling steadily with blue shadow—a man with the cropped hair of a True Believer strode up to them with sword in hand, calling out to them to stop.

  The curtains of the leading litter slashed open; the Red Silk Lady’s unmistakable voice snapped, “Garmoth, get back to the house! And your squad!”

  Garmoth stopped in his tracks, eyes widening. “Ma—madam . . .”

  “And don’t say madam for everyone in the street to hear. Let us through.”

  He must have been related to Jethan, because he bowed deeply—an announcement to anyone who saw them about who was in the litter—as they passed; the Summer Concubine half expected the Red Silk Lady to hit him with her cane as they went by. It didn’t surprise her that Mohrvine’s men were stiffening the ranks of the rioters. Please let us be in time.

  Oryn talked his way into a delay. That whining fanatic may be going back on us . . . .

  I will be able to accomplish what you’ve asked . . . .

  And why not.? she asked herself in bitter fury. They’re only women.

  She forced her mind to return to the thin mists of the cloak spells, to such effect that when Bax’s men at the East Gate gave the Red Silk Lady an argument about passing through into the Slaughterhouse—”It’s not secured, lady, and you don’t have any guards”—she wasn’t even certain that they knew there were two other litters in the party. Pomegranate Woman had had to have help getting into her litter. Doing so without oversetting the chair was a trick one learned as a child if one was wealthy—or if, as a teenager, one was in training to be a Pearl Woman.

  Let him still be alive.

  Let this not be Raeshaldis’s blood that has called this rain.

  She wasn’t sure whether Soth managed to slip through the gate on their heels or not.

  The streets of the Slaughterhouse teemed with beasts taken from the shambles by the True Believers, driving them toward the temple in tangled mobs. Goats, sheep, pigs kept escaping, running madly through the darkening alleyways. Shrieks of animal pain came to her as they neared Chicken Lane, animals slaughtered by the dozens in the temple as Lohar performed whatever filthy rites his madness suggested to Summon the rain.

  And the rain was coming.

  She fingered apart the litter’s curtains, saw the temple, square and black against the fading sky. The smell was horrific, and the screaming of the animals seemed to be coming from somewhere deep in the ground.

  The litters halted. “Fetch my son. Don’t tell me you have no idea where he is because I know he’s here. And I won’t appreciate it if you mention to anyone but my son who is here to see him.”

  “Madam . . .”

  She must have recognized that guard, too.

  “And don’t bow! I’ve just told you I’m here in secret—who else would you bow to? If I were your mother my husband would divorce me for bearing fools.”

  “Yes, madam.” Footsteps fled. A gate opened somewhere, closed. The bearers set down the litters. The Summer Concubine parted the curtains again. They were in Little Pig Alley, around the side of the temple by the gate to the court of the animals, hidden in the lane’s darkness. Torches burned in Chicken Lane, and she heard the mutter of men’s voices, and the occasional clunk of a spear butt dropped on stone. The place stank like a shambles.

  Small magic, dirty and ugly, filled the air. Pointless spells, like the magic wrought of ijnis. Magic that would go nowhere, that would expend itself attaching to other spells and twisting them askew, or peter out in eddies of ill luck, anger, madness.

  Nowhere near strong enough to call the rain.

  “Get away from here,” snapped Mohrvine’s voice. “All of you. And not a word of who you saw, do you understand?”

  His gesture must have included the litter bearers, because when she pushed the curtains back the Summer Concubine saw Little Pig Alley empty, save for the three litters and Mohrvine himself. He was plainly dressed in dark blue, as he had been yesterday, though she glimpsed a steel cuirass under his cloak. His cropped hair glittered in the far-off reflection of the torchlight, and his face, stripped of that silvery dark frame, was haggard as he leaned over his mother’s litter.

  “Do you have word of her?”

  “I do, my son.”

  “Aktis scried for her this morning. Said he could see nothing. She must have coaxed a scry ward out of someone. Not that that love philter he made to bind her to Akarian had the slightest good to it.”

  “That philter didn’t work because your daughter is a Raven child.”

  Night-sighted as a cat, the Summer Concubine watched Mohrvine’s face as his mother spoke the words. She saw his jaw drop, his green eyes flare wide, not so much shocked, in that first moment, as uncomprehending. Like a man who’s taken a step down in the dark where there is no stair.

  The Red Silk Lady added then, “As I am. And this the Summer Concubine will tell Lohar—and all the True Believers—unless you release the king and release him now.”

  He made as if to speak then, but no sound came out of his throat.

  “Your daughter is in deadly peril, my lord.” The Summer Concubine stepped from her litter, and his head snapped around. She saw by his eyes that he could barely distinguish even her shape, but she knew that he knew her voice, and her perfume in the darkness. “As is my king. Where do you think Aktis was getting the power he used to put a curse on the aqueduct and to call the rains? Even to make the love philter you demanded. He has found a way to raise power from the deaths of women who have it. And he will use your daughter.”

  “You’re lying.” Then, reaching her with the savage speed of a tiger, he grabbed her arms, dragged her from the litter, face twisted with rage and horror. “You’re lying!”

  She twisted from his grip like an eel, breaking his hold. At the same moment the Red Silk Lady snapped, “Let her be! I think she’s telling the truth about Foxfire Girl, and I know she’s telling the truth about what she’ll do if one dyed curl of her precious Oryn’s head comes to harm.”

  Mohrvine stepped back, shaking his head like a man who’s taken a hard blow, trying to recover his balance. From beyond the temple wall a holocaust of squeals knifed out: agony, terror, pain.

  The Summer Concubine said, “I’ve scried Iorradus’s body. It’s in a sandpit south of here.”

  Mohrvine’s voice was a snake’s hiss in the dark. “I can’t tell Lohar to release the king! The man’s insane, and those followers of his are worse! Do you know what he’s doing in there! Bathing in blood, talking to that statue in one breath and to the slaughtered pigs and teyn and goats in the next! That thing—the thing that comes out of the idol . . .”

  “I didn’t ask you to tell Lohar anything,” the Summer Concubine said quietly. “I asked you to get Oryn out of there. Quickly—we have no time to lose. Your daughter has no time to lose. We can
probably track Aktis from Iorradus’s body, but I swear to you I will not stir a step in your aid or your daughter’s until Oryn is with me. Look around you, man—do you really want to rule in partnership with Lohar!”

  “Don’t be stupid,” snapped Mohrvine, probably meaning that he intended to put Lohar out of the way as soon as he conveniently could.

  His mother retorted, “Don’t you be stupid. What she’s saying makes sense and whatever power it is that Aktis has found, he’s the only one who could know Foxfire Girl was Raven born. The gods know I’m lucky he didn’t come after me. Now get the king. Foxfire Girl is my only granddaughter, and I won’t have her sacrificed to your ambition or your refusal to believe that you’ve been defeated. Get him.”

  He hesitated. He still wants to believe he can use Lohar, thought the Summer Concubine. The old lady added softly, “Get him—or I swear to you, I will not forgive.” And she held out her hand, and for an instant threads of blue fire flickered from the ends of her fingers, gleaming in her cold, green eyes.

  “I can’t.” Desperation edged into Mohrvine’s voice. “He’s guarded. They’d never let me take him. I couldn’t even trust my own men not to give me away.”

  “Here.” The Summer Concubine took a stub of red chalk from her reticule, and a scrap of paper. This she tore in half, and on each half inscribed the glyphs of the spell she had laid on the men at the gate of the House Jothek: duty, unthinking, obedience. Dreams. Forgetting. She remembered to lay a limitation, as Soth had instructed, and to circle each sigil with wards. “Give these to two of your men; tell them to swallow them. What are the names of the men you’ll give them to?”