Copper Ravens

by Jennifer Allis Provost

  “Those who are truly beyond the pale I banish, but I’ve not been called on to do that in a long, long time.” Micah took a long look up and down the street, blood-drinking tailor and murderous tree included, and smiled. “Yes, my people are good to me, and I, in turn, am good to them.”

  Micah fell silent then, and I was left contemplating the many shades of gray present in the Otherworld. I remembered Ferra’s court, stuffed full with some of the scariest creatures I’d ever seen in the flesh. Now, that court had been evil, beginning right at the front door that had looked suspiciously like a gaping maw. Ready to have swallowed me whole and gnaw me to bits.

  But then, Ferra had been an evil woman, no doubt about that, and Micah was her opposite in every way. Perhaps the demeanor of the ruler influenced their people, or maybe evil just attracted evil, and good did the same. Before I got the chance to ask Micah for his thoughts on the matter, we arrived at our destination.

  The smithy turned out to be a lean-to that stank like burning rocks and belched thick, black smoke. The blacksmith, a burly Satyr called Ash, seemed to have earned his name from the substance he was smeared with. It coated him like a second, flaky skin, save where rivulets of sweat had worn away little valleys, his skin starkly pale against the soot. That crumbly layer, and his leather apron, served as his only garments.

  Once Micah had explained the purpose of our visit, Ash grunted and set about examining my form with a level of scrutiny I hadn’t experienced since my college entrance exams. At least he only used his eyes.

  “What sort, eh?” I blinked when I realized that Ash was directing his question at me.

  “What sort of what?”

  “Sword, lassie,” he replied gruffly. “Ain’t that what yer here for, eh?”

  “Sword. Um…” I spread my hands and looked hopefully at Micah. The only sword types whose names I knew were claymores and rapiers, and I didn’t think either would be a good answer.

  “Perhaps a short sword?” Micah offered.

  Ash grunted again, which was evidently his all-purpose response. “Probably best. She’s a wee lassie, don’t want ’er to topple over, eh?” Before I could decide if I should be flattered or outraged at being called a wee lassie, Ash turned his back and rooted around for something in his shop, thus revealing his bare Satyr bottom and fluffy little Satyr tail.

  “Like a little goat,” I murmured, a few lines from Three Billy Goats Gruff struggling to burst forth from my tongue. Micah, always one to sense my distress, decided to be unhelpful and quirked an eyebrow. That was way, way too much, and I nearly burst out laughing, right there in front of the blacksmith’s forge. I turned to face the street and became intensely interested in a butcher hacking up something. Then the something squirmed a bit, and I decided I’d be better off studying the shop’s awning. Yes, a fine awning it was, all green and shady and not at all blood-spattered…

  “’Ere, lass, ’ave a go at these.” Biting my lip, I turned around and saw that Ash held out a few plain swords in varying lengths. I tried the largest first, which was so heavy I almost dislocated my shoulder. That’s what I got for laughing at the blacksmith’s behind.

  Just as Ash had predicted, the short sword won out, with the second smallest and lightest sword feeling the best in my hand. The actual smallest probably would have been better, but I wasn’t about to give Ash the satisfaction of being that right. Once Micah and Ash had agreed on a price, and Micah gave the smith a small purse as a down payment, we left the smith to work his magic.

  “That was fast,” I murmured. I’d imagined that ordering a sword would take all day, though I was a bit disappointed that I’d have to wait a week or more for it to be done. I do hate waiting. “So, why don’t you come down to the village more often?” I asked. The village was nothing if not exciting, with better live entertainment than anything on my old Picture Vision, and it wasn’t even noon. I couldn’t wait to witness the nightlife firsthand.

  “I’ve no need to,” he replied. “I prefer the solitude of the manor.”

  “Don’t you get lonely?”

  “I have you to fend off loneliness,” he replied, his mouth quirking in that half-smile of his.

  “You’ve had me for only a few months,” I pressed. “What about before?”

  Micah began his reply, but for the life of me I couldn’t pay attention to what he was saying. We had turned a corner and there, right in front of us, was the apothecary. And, of course, the crone was standing in the doorway, staring right at me. “Love?” Micah said, and repeated before I swiveled around to look at him. “Is something the matter?”

  “Do you…Do you think the apothecary has any tea?” I asked. “I mean, I know the silverkin can brew up anything, but sometimes I just want to make a cup without bothering with them.”

  “It may, but there is an excellent tea shop next to the cobbler.” He slipped his arm around my waist and tugged me away from the crone. “Come, love, I’ll take you there now.”

  With that, we made another turn and left the apothecary behind. Before we were out of sight, I dared to glance over my shoulder and saw the crone mouth the words, “Thank you, dearie.”

  Ack. What had I gotten myself into?

  10

  The tea shop did indeed offer a vast selection of teas, along with eggshell-thin tea services nestled on hand-painted trays. Micah indulged me by purchasing a different blend for every day of the week and a set of pink and green teacups shaped like lotus flowers. That led to the agreeable problem of how we were going to transport this many awkward and breakable items, being that most shops in the Otherworld didn’t stock those annoying plastic bags. Turned out we didn’t need them, since the shop’s proprietor readily agreed to have them delivered later that day. Actually, he practically begged for the privilege of bringing our purchases up to the manor himself, which gave me the impression that only a select few were allowed to visit Micah’s home.

  “Not so,” Micah replied when I asked. We had left the village and were enjoying a leisurely walk home. “Any one of my people may approach me at the manor. All in the Whispering Dell are aware of this.”

  “Then why did he act like it was such a big deal?” I pressed.

  “Perhaps because he has never been to the manor before?” Micah would have said more, or rather he would have answered more of my questions, but our attention was captured by a group milling about before the manor’s front door. They were led by my favorite Elemental, Old Stoney.

  “Farthing Greymalkin,” Micah barked. “What misfortune has caused you to darken my door?”

  “Lord Silverstrand,” Old Stoney greeted with a mocking bow, completely ignoring me. Good. “I have been instructed to escort you to the Golden Court.”

  Micah eyed the assembled guards. “On whose authority?”

  “Why, the Gold Queen’s authority,” Stoney replied. “Late yesterday evening, several iron warriors were found near Oriana’s court. They had been attacked and were terribly maimed. One looks as if he will never speak again.”

  “Oriana bears no allegiance to iron,” Micah stated.

  “She does not,” Old Stoney conceded. “However, she wishes to know if you were somehow involved in this event. It seems that vigilante acts disturb her most delicate constitution.”

  “Why would Oriana suspect me?” Micah demanded. Micah trusted the old rock about as far as he could throw him, and Old Stoney was made of granite. “And why has she sent her guard?”

  “Oriana suspects you because very few Elementals possess the strength to defeat a single iron warrior, much less several. As for the guard, that was my suggestion. For the queen’s safety, of course,” he sneered.

  Great. So in a lame attempt to suck up to the queen, Old Stoney had decided to play the hero and round up Micah like a common criminal. I was about to run inside and get Mom, to show Old Stoney how intimidation was really done, when Micah spoke.

  “Allow me a moment, Farthing, to speak with my consort,” Micah said. “Then I will a
ccompany you to the Golden Court and explain my actions directly to our queen.” With that, Micah ushered me inside the manor and shut the door, while I stared at him in disbelief.

  “You’re going to go somewhere with that maniac?” I demanded. “He could hurt you!”

  “He will not,” Micah replied. “Oriana’s guard will not allow it, and Farthing is still begging her favors. I will simply explain what happened, and the queen will understand.”

  If only life really were that simple. Aloud, I only said, “Are you sure you’ll be safe?”

  “Of course. He is only of stone.” With that, Micah kissed me goodbye, and I tried not to look too pathetic as I watched him walk off with Old Stoney and the goon squad. Consorts need to be strong, you know.

  “Where’s he going?” I turned and found Max standing behind me.

  “A pile of mangled iron warriors turned up at the Golden Court, and Micah needs to go and explain himself to the queen.” Max’s face remained impassive, which was no surprise. In Max’s world, his judgment was always correct, regardless of any unintended side effects. Understanding that continuing to discuss the iron warriors would only lead to an argument, I opted for a subject change.

  “All that stuff you said about Juliana’s uncle,” I began, “how do you know what he’s been up to?”

  “Newspapers, mostly.”

  “Which you get how, exactly?” I pressed. I’d experienced a lot of weird happenings here in the Otherworld, but home delivery of the Daily Bugle wasn’t one of them.

  “The newsstand.” I pulled back to smack him. “You know, the one where we used to buy slushies and ice cream.”

  My hand hung in midair, the threat of violence forgotten in light of my brother’s apparent insanity. “You didn’t.”

  “Why not? I like to know what’s going on.”

  “Max! We’re wanted! If they find you, it’s back to the Institute!”

  “Nah. You pretty much destroyed it, remember?”

  And I wanted to hit him again. As if Micah and I—and Sadie and Mom, for that matter—hadn’t risked everything to get him back. In the case of Sadie, she had lost almost everything, from her dream career to her sense of safety. Before I could well and truly give Max a piece of my mind, he brought me back to the one subject even I couldn’t dispute.

  “Listen, after the war ended, Armstrong was the engineer behind all the Elementals getting rounded up,” he said. “I bet he’s got some intel on Dad.”

  For a moment, I almost accused Max of having tunnel vision, being that his singular goal in life was creating foolish, not to mention “likely to get him killed super extra dead,” plans in order to find out what had happened to Dad. He never acted with the tiniest bit of common sense or self-preservation, and I was sick and tired of his attitude.

  Instead, I shut my mouth with a clack. Dammit, I wanted to know what happened to our father just as badly as he did.

  And that was how Max and I ended up skulking around the Mundane realm about half an hour later. We’d hopped through the static portal at the wooded edge of the Whispering Dell, which had brought us right to my former employer’s parking lot.

  “You really worked in that monstrosity?”

  I tore my eyes away from the Lovers’ Pine and followed Max’s gaze toward the concrete box that housed the sham company of Real Estate Evaluation Services. “Yeah. I worked there with Juliana for a little more than a year.”

  Max shuddered. “Place looks like a cross between a mausoleum and a prison.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, scrutinizing the unopenable windows and badly maintained entrance. Someone should really trim the shrubbery. “It kinda reminds me of the Institute.”

  “Same thing.”

  Even though REES appeared to have been abandoned, Max and I knew better than to underestimate Peacekeepers. Well, I did; I think Max just wanted to play spy. Instead of walking across the parking lot to the sidewalk, we went to the back of the lot, scrambled over the fence (which, thankfully, wasn’t electrified) and slunk around the abandoned office park. In no time, we were walking through the Promenade Market’s main entrance.

  “C’mon,” Max said, turning up his jacket collar. My brother, the master of disguise. “Let’s see what’s up.”

  My heart raced and my palms sweated as we approached the wide entrance, and I imagined that our faces were plastered across those “most wanted” posters that decorate post offices. But there weren’t any posters, at least not that I could see, and, being that it was still early, I didn’t even see any armed Peacekeepers prowling among the stalls.

  Then we were in the maze of crooked streets crammed full of booths and hawkers and a wave of homesickness hit me full-force. I missed the afternoons Juliana and I used to waste away, trolling this overgrown junk shop, searching for prewar books and movies, funky shoes that I never had the guts to wear in public, and, most often, lunch. The market had a whole section of booths that sold non-government sanctioned foods, like real cheese and hearty bread, as long as you knew who to ask. It was pricey, but so very worth it. While the government-run grocery stores were a lot cheaper, and legal, you could only buy processed crap that tasted like sawdust or rubber.

  Max raised an eyebrow when he saw me eyeing a selection of aged cheddar. “Cheese?”

  “I like cheese.” I sighed; since I didn’t have any Mundane money, I was doomed to admire the dairy from afar. Max shook his head and took off toward the newsstand. I, dutiful sister that I was, followed. What I saw on the racks shocked the hell out of me.

  Each and every periodical bore an image of Mike Armstrong’s face plastered across its cover. Some of the photographs were in profile, showcasing his bulbous nose and a hairline that had receded like the tide; some were full frontal shots, full of smiling, too-white teeth. There was even one of him holding a baby. I hoped it was a doll; I mean, what mother would be foolish enough to hand her baby over to that lunatic?

  I glanced around; I was surrounded by people discussing Armstrong’s excellent plans to restore Pacifica to its former glory, mothers included. I guessed I had found the fools.

  While the photographs differed, the headlines were nearly identical; over and over, Dr. Mike Armstrong was lauded as the human race’s savior, the man who had effectively squashed the Elemental menace.

  “Menace?” I mumbled. I hadn’t meant to strike up a conversation, but a woman near me overhead my musings.

  “Oh, yes,” she gushed. “Before the wars, we were all subservient to those evildoers. Dr. Armstrong’s research is what helped us win the war and put those freaks back where they belong.” My initial reaction was to wonder at the usage of both subservient and evildoer in an impromptu conversation with a stranger, but then I spied the magazine tucked under her arm. She’d just quoted the cover blurb, nearly word for word.

  “I don’t really remember the time before the wars,” I admitted. “I was young.”

  The woman patted my arm. “Be glad that you don’t. And be sure you vote for Dr. Armstrong in the upcoming election. Mark my words, we need him as President.”

  I nodded, then I sidled toward the other end of the newsstand, searching for a magazine that hadn’t devoted itself to politics. My choices were mostly limited to fashion and home and garden, although there was one about raising meat iguanas (chicken of the tree, you know), and another for gun hobbyists. Though, the gun magazine did feature a few action shots of Mike during some target practice with the Peacekeepers. We do want our president to be well-rounded.

  And is iguana really all that tasty?

  “So,” I said, once again at Max’s side. “All this.” I indicated the magazines with my eyes.

  “Yeah. Lucky for us, Dr. Armstrong came along.” Max practically shouted that last bit and was the recipient of a few agreements and even a clap on the back from the newsstand’s owner. He had quickly and effectively worked his audience, just like Dad used to do.

  “Tell me about it,” I mumbled. Max shot me a glare, but
my sarcasm flew right over their heads. “So, what party is he running with?” I asked as I flipped through the pages.

  “Dr. Armstrong doesn’t have a party,” Max said, affecting the patient tone one would use when explaining things to one’s somewhat slow sibling. “He’s running on his own.”

  Okay, now that shocked me. Since Pacifica had become, well, Pacifica, there had been two Mundane political parties—Mirlanders and Pacifists. The Mirlanders weren’t so bad, though they did suck at winning elections. The Pacifists, in no small bit of irony, had become the military force we now call Peacekeepers.

  How these two outwardly similar, yet ideologically different, groups came to inhabit the same country is one of the first history lessons I remember learning. Our country, Pacifica, is so vast that it stretches all the way from one ocean to another; eventually, two separate sets of colonists landed, one group on each shore. The set that arrived first made landfall close to what’s now called Capitol City and had named it Portland in honor of the natural harbor. They named the surrounding land Mirland, which meant Peaceful Land in their native language; there’s a rocky outcrop, called Sunpoint, where these newcomers had watched the sun rise over the ocean. According to the history books, that had been the site of their first meeting hall, a precursor to the government buildings that were raised much later. The Mirlanders were the first Elementals to set foot on Pacifica.

  About a hundred or so years later, the people we now know as Peacekeepers landed on the opposite shore. They called themselves Pacifists because they were all about humans living together and avoiding bloodshed. Yeah, right.

  Anyway, in no time, the Pacifists had made their way over to the Mirlanders, who had been quietly eking out a peaceful existence on their peaceful land. Not surprisingly, the two sets didn’t get along.