Copper Ravens

by Jennifer Allis Provost

  Max is always game for causing a ruckus, and soon we’d passed the village gates and were walking down the darker path toward the apothecary. Just as Sadie and I had, we found the crone inside. This time there weren’t any heaps of freshly skinned pelts, thank the gods for small favors. Instead, we found the crone sorting powders behind the roughly-hewn counter.

  “How did the tincture perform?” she croaked, by way of greeting.

  “I’d rather talk about this,” I replied. With that, Max heaved a burlap sack onto the counter and dumped out one of the giant boggart’s toenails. I’d been disgusted when Max had suggested that we should dig up the boggart’s corpse and just rip off a trophy, more so when he explained that a toenail, which was curved and cracked (not to mention smelly) and the length of Max’s forearm, would be the easiest, and least messy, body part to carry with us. Really, who could argue with that? And he assured me that he could match the residual magic on the toenail to whoever had cast it.

  Based on how the crone’s eye twitched at the sight of it, she also thought we could trace any leftover bits of magic. Or perhaps it was just an involuntary reaction to the stench of putrid boggart flesh. “Are you looking to sell this?” she asked.

  “Would someone buy it?” I asked.

  The crone cackled. “Fools will buy anything!”

  She had a point. She also wasn’t going to distract me from the purpose of my visit. “Well, someone cursed this boggart to make it a giant pain in my ass. Any idea who would do that?”

  “Who are your enemies?” she countered.

  “I don’t have any,” I said, while Max murmured, “Lots.” Confused, I turned toward my brother. “Think about it, Sara. Micah’s got lots of enemies—basically, any Elemental who doesn’t want metal to rule, not to mention the rest of metal who think they should be ruling. If they take out Oriana, Micah’s next in line. And you know what metal comes after silver.”

  I so did not need to be reminded about that. “Why a boggart?”

  “Why not? It can annoy us, distract us long enough that we don’t see what’s really going on.” Max was thoughtful for a moment, as he studied the yellowish, dirt-caked toenail. Then he raised his eyes, his hard gaze wiping the smirk right off of the crone’s face. “And you’re the one who did it.”

  “I did nothing—”

  “Don’t lie,” Max commanded. “This powder is identical to the stuff in that jar.” Max indicated a reddish, crumbly substance caked on the underside of the nail and jerked his head toward the shelves of jars. “Besides, I can feel your magic on it. It’s as unique as a retina scan.”

  The crone’s eyes burned, and I mean burned; flames actually leapt across her pupils. “Just because my powder was used on the beast does not mean that I cast the spell.”

  “But you know who did,” I said. “We won’t hold it against you. We know that you’re only trying to make a living here, selling your wares.” I leaned across the counter and asked, “Come, dearie, I thought you wanted a few friends in Lord Silverstrand’s house?”

  She glared at me for a long moment, so long that I worried she was about to blast us with her fiery eyeballs. As it usually does, self-preservation won out in the end. “Farthing Greymalkin.”

  Old Stoney. Figures. “Why?”

  “I’ve no idea, other than it was easy enough to accomplish. You might want to take up something other than gambling,” she added, with a pointed look at Max.

  “Why did you give me an apple?” I blurted out. It was so not the point of our visit, but I had to know.

  “It was a test,” she hedged.

  “A test of what?”

  “Your intelligence.” She cackled again and produced a basket of the shiny red fruit. “Had you been foolish enough to eat it, I would have been summoned to save you, and Lord Silverstrand would have been indebted to me. Since you chose to burn my gift, I know you aren’t as stupid as other mortals. Be glad you passed the test, Lady Silverstrand.”

  “If I’d eaten it and gotten sick, Micah would have killed you,” I said. “Or my mother, if she got to you first.”

  The crone shrugged. “Maeve would have been furious if her own child had fallen for such a common trick. Furious with you,” she added.

  That was true, but Mom would have worked out her disappointment in her daughter’s bad judgment on the crone’s hide. Being that I couldn’t stand to be in the apothecary for another moment, I slipped a few silver coins onto the counter; in the Whispering Dell, they were worth far more than gold. “If Greymalkin asks you for anything else, come to me. I’ll pay for the information. Well.” With that, we turned to leave, leaving the rotting toenail on the counter. That’s what the crone got for doing business with people like Old Stoney.

  “I’ll give you a bit of information at no charge, my lady,” she called after us. “To prove my loyalty to the Silverstrand house, of course.” We turned and waited. “Have you noticed that none of copper yet attend you in person?”

  She was right; other than the steadily increasing heap of gifts, I hadn’t seen a single copper Elemental in the Otherworld, save for Sadie and Max. “Are they in trouble?”

  “They’re quite well,” she replied. “They’ve all been instructed that avoiding the Raven clan is the only way they will remain well.”

  Huh. Someone must really think we’re a lot more powerful than we are. “Was it Greymalkin?”

  “No, this is bigger than that foolish rock’s influence.”

  I nodded, murmuring my thanks as Max and I exited the apothecary. We were silent as we left the village, and as we travelled the metal pathway. Once the manor loomed in the distance, Max broke the silence.

  “There’s no one vying for leading copper,” Max said. “All the metals follow Oriana.”

  “I know.”

  “Not many have more influence than Greymalkin.”

  “I know.” There was Micah, but he wouldn’t try to keep those of copper from us, and Ferra, but she’d long since rusted away. That left one person with the power to keep those of our own metal away from us. Oriana.

  Crap.

  18

  “Oriana would never do such a thing,” Micah insisted. Again.

  “Then who would? Who even could?” I pressed. “Who besides Oriana and you has more power than Old Stoney?”

  “Firstly, you overestimate my influence,” Micah said. “Secondly, that crone deals in deceit as much as tinctures. Take care, love, before you take her word as true.”

  I blew out an exasperated breath; yeah, I knew she wasn’t trustworthy. But who around here was? “She practically admitted to cursing the boggart.”

  “That, I do believe.” Micah took my hands, grazing his thumbs across my knuckles. “Why did you go to her alone?”

  “I told you, I was with Max.” Micah harrumphed, which I ignored. “Besides, you said she was of questionable loyalties. Anyone who would send a giant boggart to the manor must be of questionable loyalties, right?”

  “You have a point,” Micah murmured. Then he rose and buckled on his sword belt. “Very well. I will travel to the Golden Court and discuss this matter with Oriana directly.”

  “You will?” I blinked, surprised that he put such credence in my fears. “Right now?”

  “If someone has denied my consort access to others of her Element, I demand to know who is responsible, and why they would do such a thing,” he replied.

  “What if it was Oriana?” I asked, my voice wavering only a bit. Micah squeezed my hand.

  “Then we will deal with it,” he assured.

  I walked Micah to the manor’s front door; before I let him leave, I clung to him for a small eternity. Once it became apparent that I was holding on to him for dear life, Micah gently reminded me that neither he nor I had any reason to fear the Golden Court and promised that he would return home as soon as possible. Reluctantly, I released him and leaned against the doorframe as I watched him approach the metal pathway. Then Micah was gone, on his way to the Golden
Court and an afternoon spent questioning our insane ruler. I did not envy him.

  Gods, I hoped he was back soon.

  I retreated to the inner atrium, deliberately not looking at the ever-growing heap of gifts stacked in the corner. It made sense, now, why those of copper kept sending these offerings; they were sending us (I refused to believe that they saw just me as a ruler; that was just ridiculous) a signal, a clue as to why they couldn’t present themselves in person. Why none of them bothered to send clues about who had ordered their silence, I couldn’t answer. Maybe those of copper overestimated the Raven clan’s influence, and our intelligence.

  Or maybe not. In addition to the casks of ale and tiny sweet cakes we’d been getting all along, we were now receiving a few books and scrolls each day. Apparently, word had gotten out that the new Inheritor of Metal was into libraries, and those of copper wanted to help her out in any way they could. Or maybe they’d sent us the Otherworld’s version of a treasure map.

  I shuffled through the scrolls we’d received most recently; there was one that told the history of a family with an unpronounceable surname that looked like archaic French, an astronomical chart, and a third that was all about espaliering fruit trees. Frustrated, I dropped them back on the heap of other bric-a-brac. Either we weren’t being sent any clues, or I was just too dumb to see them.

  My stomach rumbled, so I left the atrium and made my way to the kitchens. As I helped myself to some still-warm bread, I saw one of the newspapers Max had picked up in the Mundane realm. I leafed through it, only intending to read the funnies. Instead of the comics, my eyes fell on an event notice, given pride of place above the fold.

  Mike Armstrong – Pre-Election Rally To Be Held Saturday, 12:00 PM

  Hm. It just happened to be Saturday morning, and here I was with nothing to do.

  I found Max in his immaculately clean bedroom, scanning the tabletops for stray particles of dust. It both irritated and confounded me that the same person who tracked mud and other detritus across Shep’s gleaming floors would also have a conniption if someone wore shoes inside his room.

  Max looked up and cocked an eyebrow, his way of inquiring why I’d dared to enter his space. By way of explaining what I was up to, I tossed the newspaper onto the table in front of him. “Want to go?”

  “Micah won’t like it,” he said, after a quick glance at the headline. So yeah, he was in.

  “I can call him back from the Golden Court and ask him to glamour us,” I said, but Max shook his head.

  “We don’t need him to disguise ourselves.” I stared at Max, wondering if he’d forgotten that our images were playing on vid chips all over the Promenade, and who knew where else. If we went to the Mundane realm unglamoured, we might as well ask Sadie to get started baking a cake with a file in it. Of course, that was assuming that the Peacekeepers would let us have visitors. And baked goods. Then Max smirked his “I’m the brilliant older brother” smirk, and produced a few knitted caps.

  “Where did you get these?” I asked. The hats, black and burgundy respectively, were a bit lumpy, and the seams were puckered in places.

  “Sadie made them.” That explained the lumpiness. She’d gone through a knitting phase while in high school, which meant that Mom and I had been temporarily sentenced to wearing asymmetrical sweaters in varying shades of brown and puke.

  “You think a couple of hats will be enough to conceal our identities?” I asked. I mean, my plan to go to the rally was crazy enough, but this was beyond the pale. Even for Max, this was reckless.

  “Nah. I’ve got sunglasses, too.”

  I stared at my insane brother, then at the hat in my hands, mentally listing everything that could go wrong. Danger, capture, torture, death…the reasons for just staying put in the Otherworld were all sound. Still, I had to see for myself if this Dr. Armstrong was also the Uncle Mike I remembered, the fat guy who tried to be jolly but never quite got it, who had grilled hot dogs while wearing a “Kiss the Cook” apron. I know, I’d seen all those magazines with his image on the cover, but those were just pictures. I needed to see this with my own two eyes.

  “How could I have never noticed that he was such an evil man?”

  “Because he didn’t know you were an Elemental,” Max said softly. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud. “And, once he found out, he used you, just like he uses everyone else.”

  “Do you think he used Juliana?” I asked.

  “I know it.” Max jerked his head to the side, and I followed him out of his room, down the stairs and away from the manor. We made our way to the edge of the Whispering Dell, and one portal hop later, we were skulking around the streets of Capitol City, wearing our impenetrable disguises of knitted caps and dark glasses. It was a sunny autumn day on the Mundane side, in stark contrast to the spring currently being experienced in the Otherworld. I would have remarked on the opposite seasons, but it was hot as frickin’ hell, thus making these stupid hats even stupider, and making us in our winter wear stick out like sore thumbs among the sandal- and tank-top-clad masses. We should have just portaled right into a jail cell and saved everyone the bother. At least our dark glasses were somewhat appropriate. Then we turned a corner onto the main thoroughfare, and the sight before me shocked the snark right off my lips.

  There had to be hundreds—no, make that thousands—of people gathered on the lawn before the steps of Government Headquarters. There were so many that even the Peacekeepers who manned the barriers looked a little on edge, despite the fact that they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, each one of them clad in riot gear and armed to the teeth. I noticed that they carried the same plastic guns I’d been shot with at the Institute, though these had blinking red lights rather than green. Dozens of drones buzzed away overhead, and I wondered how they avoided having midair collisions.

  Near the edge of the crowd was a candidate running under the Mirland party. Mirlanders espoused the belief that Mundanes could, and should, live in harmony with Elementals. They preached a dogma that was full of symbiotic relationships, illustrating how the two races complemented, even needed, one another. You would think that, since they hadn’t won an election in years, they would have altered their platform somewhat, but Mirlanders are stubborn folk.

  While we watched, someone threw a cabbage at the speaker’s head.

  I felt bad for the guy, since he obviously wasn’t going to win, vegetal projectiles or no. Maybe twenty years ago he would have had a chance, but not in the Pacifica of today. In the Pacifica of today, no one was safe.

  Max and I threaded our way through the crowd; earlier, we’d decided that we wanted to be as close to the stage as safety allowed. Okay, maybe a few feet beyond safety; I wanted a good view. We pushed past Uncle Mike’s many supporters, at one point nearly becoming engulfed by a drum circle. After we navigated around a group holding aloft a pro-Mike banner the length of a tennis court, we found that we were only two or three bodies back from the stage. Finally, I dared to look up at the man of the hour.

  There he was, Dr. Michael Armstrong, and yeah, he really was the Uncle Mike of my memories. He was the same as ever—a heavy, balding man, clad in perfectly pressed khakis and a collared shirt. He looked like a regular middle-aged man, not how I imagined a crazed politician who hated Elementals would look. He was standing to the side of the podium, conferring with his assistant, who I recognized from the magazine covers as Langston Phillips. In person, Langston was even creepier, all pale and bug-eyed, like a hermit crab that had slithered outside its shell. Then, I looked behind the two men.

  Juliana was there.

  She was seated between her mother and her younger brother, Corey. Mrs. Armstrong was the picture of the ideal housewife, from her perfect bun to her single strand of pearls to her white gloved hands, neatly folded in her lap. Corey, who must have been about seventeen, maybe eighteen by now, wore a slightly more rumpled version of Uncle Mike’s outfit, along with neon-green sneakers. He was absently stretching his fingers, which led me to believe
that he still played piano. They both looked at Uncle Mike attentively, fake smiles plastered across their faces.

  And Juliana…well, she looked like hell. Her thick, dark hair, which I’d always been envious of, was slicked back into a severe bun, which was somehow made her look far more matronly than her mother. She was wearing a plain gray shift dress, which was a dull contrast to her mother’s pink cardigan and blue skirt. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked like she’d lost about twenty pounds. She didn’t wear the fake smile that her mother and brother did; in fact, she looked like she could hardly hold up her head.

  I couldn’t imagine what could have caused her to look so…so used. It couldn’t have been the metal dome that I’d wrapped around the Institute for Elemental Research, where Max had spent time as the resident lab rat. No, whatever had happened to her had happened afterward. Don’t ask me how I knew this, but her symptoms seemed to speak more of a mental exhaustion than physical problems. I wondered if the Peacekeepers had blamed her for Max’s escape. I wondered if they were punishing her.

  I quickly tamped down the tightness in my chest; Juliana had betrayed not only me, but my entire family. She wasn’t worthy of my guilt, or my sympathy.

  “I guess she survived,” I murmured, and Max nodded.

  “Armstrongs are tough cookies,” he said. “Always have been.” He stared at Juliana so intently I worried that she’d feel his gaze, and look over at us. “I bet the bastard’s torturing her.”

  “Why would he do that?” I asked. “Aren’t they bad guys together?”

  “We got away. Someone needs to pay for that.” Something dark skated across Max’s face, and I wondered how often he had been on the receiving end of Uncle Mike’s punishment. And Max had never told me exactly how he had ended up in the plastic tube, only that he’d made a few metal flowers for a girl. He’d even said that the Institute hadn’t been such a bad place for a while. What could Max have really done to end up like that?