Legend of the Ravenstone

by M. S. Verish

  “I don’t want to be a burden,” Kariayla protested. “This is your time, your money, and your journey. I don’t deserve—”

  “Enough,” Arcturus said, thumping Whitestar upon the ground. “I will hear no such talk. If you are to travel with me, you will be clothed, fed, and cared for. You are no longer under any servitude; you are my companion.”

  Kariayla nodded.

  “Now, I must inquire as to when and where we are to meet our party. If you are comfortable remaining here, I will return as soon as I have confirmed these specifics.” Despite her second nod, he searched her for any fear or hesitation.

  “I will be all right,” she said at last.

  “Very well.” He handed her several coins. “Keep these concealed, my dear. I should return before you see a need to relinquish them.” Then he left the shop and stood, pensive, facing the busy city street. Where would one inquire about a caravan? He would think such a scheduled congregation would be obvious, but Belorn was a large city, and everyone in sight had a destination and a purpose. He merely had to find someone who shared his intended course.

  There was a strange cry from above him, and Arcturus turned to see a white hawk perched upon the tailor’s sign. It cocked its head toward him and opened its hooked bill as if to speak.

  More than a coincidence? Feeling rather foolish, he queried, “Hawkwing?”

  The bird merely stared with its piercing blue eyes.

  “Such nonsense,” Arcturus muttered, waving the bird away. It did not stir, but he had already turned his back to the creature and was walking down the street. He did not have to try hard to avoid the pedestrians and carts; most people avoided him. The aroma of fresh bakery drew his attention, despite the fact that he had eaten before he had left the castle. Kariayla will be famished, he thought, his mouth watering at the sight of the pies and pastries. He purchased a pair of cheese tarts from the gawking baker and was delighted to spy a wine-seller across the way. Just a little will do, as I will be without for some time, I expect.

  Arcturus asked for a taste, and the vendor did not deny him. He brought the cup to his lips and breathed in the fragrance he knew so well. Humans made a fair drink, but the quality could never match Markanturian wine. How he longed to taste the sweet nectar of his native grapes! One hundred and eighty-two years since I have gone, and I can still recall the flavor….

  “The white is mellower, I find.”

  Arcturus looked up from his cup to see the owner of the deep voice. He looked higher still, for the man was exceedingly tall—at least a foot taller than most men. This was a gentleman, for he was well-dressed, his dark hair combed away from his face, his beard neatly trimmed around his mouth. Arcturus was hard-pressed to determine his age, though he doubted this stranger had reached his middle years as far as Humans were concerned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I admit to being a poor judge of flavor,” the gentleman said, “but there is a taste to the white that appeals to me.” He extended a gloved hand. “Jaharo Halensa.”

  “Arcturus Prentishun.” They shook. I know I have heard that name before.

  “Like you, I am not a native to this city, but I have been here before—mostly on business.”

  “You are a perceptive man,” Arcturus said, still unsure of the stranger’s motives. “What manner of business brings you here?”

  Jaharo smiled. “The same business that takes me everywhere: maps. I am a cartographer.”

  Arcturus’s mouth fell open. “That is where I have heard your name,” he murmured in awe. “You are the Jaharo Halensa? Your work is known throughout Secramore. And I must say that your maps are the most detailed, most accurate pieces of art that I have had the pleasure of reading.” He extended his hand again and shook Jaharo’s vigorously. “It is an honor to meet you.”

  “Come now, Arcturus, you award me far too much acclaim.”

  “Not at all, my good man. I am in the profession of assessing antiquities, and I can appreciate excellent craftsmanship when I see it.” He raised his cup to Jaharo and took a drink.

  “Are my maps so old?” Jaharo asked with a laugh. “I am overwhelmed by your flattery, and I regret that our meeting be truncated so abruptly. I am committed to a caravan traveling east. The party will be departing shortly.”

  Arcturus brightened. “My good man, you have inadvertently been the deliverer I had been seeking. My companion and I are also scheduled for this caravan, though I was uncertain where to rendezvous.”

  “Companion?” Jaharo queried, looking around them.

  “Dear me!” Arcturus nearly dropped his cup. “I left her at the tailor’s. Where might our party be meeting?”

  “The eastern gate,” Jaharo said. “I will tell our leader that you are en route.”

  “You are most kind! I look forward to continuing our conversation,” Arcturus said. He gave the man a nod and hurried back to the tailor’s shop. Kariayla was waiting for him, a smile upon her face as she presented her new attire. The back of the shirt had been modified to suit her wings, and while the outfit had clearly been intended for a boy, it was practical for travel.

  “It was all I had for someone her size,” the tailor defended. “It is a child’s—”

  “It is adequate,” Arcturus interrupted, dropping money into the man’s hand. “And now we must hurry, for we will be late for our appointment.”

  “You know where to go?” Kariayla asked as they rushed from the shop.

  “Fortune was kind,” he said.

  “Thank you, Arcturus.”

  “Of course, my dear.” Now where is the east gate?

  “Would you like your coins back?”

  “Hold on to them for now.” He hated feeling pressed for time. It was a stress he could do without. “If we could see—” She was not behind him. “Kariayla?”

  “Arcturus, look!”

  She was standing beside a market stall, pointing toward the sky.

  “My dear,” he said, exasperated, “we really cannot delay.”

  “It’s circling,” Kariayla murmured. “It must be a sign from the Spirits. Maybe it is guiding us.”

  Arcturus followed her sight to the white hawk soaring a distance from them. “That is a reassuring notion, but there is no logic behind a connection between us and the bird.” He took her hand. “We cannot spare a moment.”

  Kariayla nodded, and they were off again.

  As it turned out, the east gate was exactly where the hawk circled. The caravan was assembled with a collection of nobility and wealthy merchants. Jaharo was among them, waiting for Arcturus and Kariayla to join him. He seemed surprised by her appearance.

  “Mr. Halensa, this is Kariayla, my companion,” Arcturus said.

  “Nemelorean,” Jaharo mused. He gave a slight bow to her. “A pleasure.”

  Kariayla blushed.

  “My dear, Mr. Halensa is a renowned map-maker.”

  “Cartography,” she said, clearly impressed.

  Jaharo grinned, and Arcturus took his turn to blush, though it was impossible for anyone else to tell.

  “You should know that I am hardly a distinguished passenger on this journey,” Jaharo said. “We are surrounded by important people.” He gestured to a decorated carriage encircled by mounted guards. “Duke Dinorthon, for one.” He went on to mention names associated with other carriages and wagons. Neither Arcturus nor Kariayla were familiar with any of them.

  “I am certain introductions will be made as we travel,” Jaharo said, leading them to a particular wagon. “There is room inside for the both of you.”

  “Will you not be joining us?” Arcturus asked, disappointed. He watched as the tall man approached an equally tall horse laden with saddlebags and supplies.

  “I will be riding alongside you,” Jaharo assured him. “If you should need anything, our guide is Mr. Grifynn. I would be happy to fetch him for you.”

  “Thank you,” Arcturus said, and he and Kariayla set to climbing in the wagon. Despite the rough appearance of
its exterior, the inside was padded with blankets and pillows for their comfort. There were a few other passengers who regarded them warily.

  Arcturus ignored them. “I think we should be able to manage this.”

  Kariayla smiled.

  Just as they settled in, the caravan began to move, and soon they were passing through the gate and out of the royal city, bound for Valesage.

  *

  There was a deep reverberation—an occurrence of increasing frequency. Not unlike an advancing thunderstorm, Arcturus’s stomach was a brewing conflict. His irritability grew stronger as he became hungrier. He had since ceased his apologies for the sound. “I do hope they intend to provide the passengers with some manner of sustenance,” he grumbled. “It would be grossly negligent for them to allow us to starve during this journey.”

  Kariayla would have admitted that she was hungry, too, but her support might just be enough to send the Markanturian to voice his complaint. “I’m sure we will have to stop soon,” she assured him. “They will need to rest the horses.”

  “Bother the horses. We will have to consume the beasts, which will be counterproductive to our travel.”

  There was a pause where Kariayla decided whether or not to introduce her questions. She was not so concerned about furthering his aggravation as afraid that her logic would burst the dream. Her situation was too wonderful to be true. To be free of Belorn, free of slavery, traveling with the luxuries of shelter, food, and company—how could she dare tempt fortune with a question?

  Before she could say a word, however, Arcturus sighed and eased back against the cushioned bench. “I suppose I should inform you of my purpose on this journey.” He made a strange face before pulling free the bag he had crushed. “Oh dear. I had forgotten…” From the bag he pulled out a bundle that looked like a smashed pastry. It was, in fact, two smashed pastries.

  Kariayla tried not to smile. “A terrible waste,” he said dryly, “and in our greatest time of need. We must salvage what we can. I am sorry, my dear.”

  She thanked him and tried not to devour the cheese tart too eagerly.

  “As I was about to divulge, my purpose is to meet with a tracker who calls himself—” He made another face. “‘Hawkwing.’ He is to take me to meet an old friend of mine, a wizard by the name of William.” He took another bite of the pastry. “Now that I consider it, this is a rather convoluted quest, and I am not entirely certain of my level of enthusiasm. If this is one of William’s ruses, I will be incredibly cross when I see him.”

  “William is not in Valesage, then?” she asked.

  “I have no notion of where William resides,” Arcturus said with a scowl. “And his letter revealed no destination. I know only that Hawk—the tracker—is to take us to him.” His expression softened. “Though as far as I am concerned, my dear, his invitation has been extended to you. It is the least he can do to accommodate his guests on such hasty notice.”

  Kariayla swept the crumbs from her lap. “I didn’t think wizards lived outside Mystland.”

  “William is always the exception to traditional thinking.” He reached for his costrel and took a drink. A slight smile spanned his face.

  “May I please have a sip of water?” Kariayla asked.

  “Oh. Yes, of course,” Arcturus said, though he hesitated to hand the vessel to her. “It—er—is not water.”

  A fermented fruity fragrance reached her nose when she took the costrel. He brought wine? She was thirsty enough that she drank it anyway. The sweet liquid warmed its way down her throat and into her chest. Presently she felt her face bloom with a rush of heat. She handed the costrel back with her thanks.

  “It is good, is it not? It is one of the finer gifts this world has to offer, if it is indeed of any quality.”

  Kariayla found him gazing at her thoughtfully.

  “Have you given any thought as to what you will do with your freedom?”

  Her spirits fell, if just a little, and she shook her head. I am hoping the opportunity will come for me to prove myself. In all of Secramore, there must be someone I can help, some way of earning back my life.

  “Do not fret, Kariayla. We have plenty of time for such considerations.”

  No sooner than he had spoken, they felt the wagon lurch to a halt. Kariayla peered out the back to find Jaharo approaching on his horse. He is like a giant knight from one of the old Human tales I read in the library. Ardrix the Great or Sir Norbert of Dalanthos. He must have traveled everywhere, to know even my people. It is hard to think of him as a cartographer, sitting at a desk and drawing maps. His hands are bigger than my head.

  She found Arcturus had come up behind her. “I confess, I would have envisioned him to be older. He must have started his career young, for my maps date back many years….”

  Jaharo smiled at them. “Our leader has stopped for the afternoon meal. We will not likely stop again until dark, so I hope you are hungry.”

  “I suppose we could stand a light meal,” Arcturus said politely, and Kariayla bit her tongue.

  The wagons had been circled away from the road, and within that circle gathered their community of fellow travelers. Most of them were wealthy and of higher social standing—a fact that initially made Kariayla feel even more an outcast in spite of her wings. But while the aristocracy may have avoided her and Arcturus, they were too polite to pass their comments or forgo proper etiquette. She did not mind the formality, and Jaharo was happy to bridge the gap in conversation.

  The cartographer brought them individual bundles from the cook, holding them high as though they contained the answers to all life’s mysteries. “The great equalizer,” he announced, passing one each to Arcturus and Kariayla. He waited until they opened them before continuing. “Whether you are rich or poor, there are only so many foods that will keep during travel. Bread, dried meat, and sometimes cheese—which is what we have here. The cook’s caravan provides only some of our meals. When we pass through the towns along the way, you will have an opportunity to buy what you like.”

  “I expect the same applies to lodging,” Arcturus said.

  “If you prefer mattress and pillow to wagon bed,” Jaharo said, tearing a piece of bread.

  “Indeed.” He had glanced at the ornate carriage parked inside the ring of wagons. “It would seem our duke has no inclination to be social.”

  Jaharo shared his sight. “I had heard Dinorthon was not feeling well. His men are most protective,” he said of the half-dozen figures surrounding the carriage.

  A servant who had been passing by had stopped to listen to them. “You know why that is,” he said, his eyes wide. “That’s because we’re in the Prophet’s territory. He knows we’re coming.”

  Someone shushed him. “Be quiet, Victor.”

  Victor said nothing more and returned to his meal, but more than a few heads had turned in their direction.

  Kariayla gazed absently at the distant landscape, the clusters of trees and the rolling hills. The Prophet only strikes at night, she thought, recalling the rumors in the castle. The moon grows veiled, and the thunder brings the Demon. Bone-white flesh with eyes of flame… She had heard one of the minstrels trying to frighten the children with the story the Eve of the Vanquishing. Of course he had been flogged for that. The children would not sleep for days after.

  She glimpsed movement in the trees and strained to see what it was.

  “I will not believe such nonsense,” she heard Arcturus say to Jaharo. “To perpetuate such rumors is what makes a band of pick-pockets seem like monsters.”

  White. It was white. The hawk? Her suspicions were confirmed when the bird swooped from its perch to another branch. The Spirits are still watching over us.

  “What is it you see?” Jaharo asked.

  “Just a bird,” Kariayla said, turning to face him. Somehow she had not noticed the color of his eyes before. Not brown, not hazel, but golden like the sun or ripened wheat in autumn.

  “Is it?” he asked.

  Before
she could wonder at his strange response, there was a stir amongst the travelers. Murmurs and glances were suddenly directed at her, and in the midst of it, she could see two mounted riders on the opposite side of the camp. They were not dressed in the royal colors, but she knew. A finger pointed.

  No. Please, no. She watched in dread as they started for her.

  “My dear, what is—”

  The hoof beats grew louder, but she was afraid to look. She shrank beside Arcturus, trembling. They came to take me back.

  The riders focused upon her. “We are here to return the girl to the castle.”

  She felt Arcturus move away—only to see him stand in front of her. “This is outrageous,” he said. “For what purpose?”

  The riders did not look at him. “She is a slave, sir. And she has caused a disturbance for which she must answer.”

  Arcturus drew himself straight, his head high. “I know for what she has been blamed, and it would be far better justice to allow those truly responsible to answer for themselves.”

  Blessed Spirits, he knows. He must have heard. Kariayla turned away in shame that Arcturus should know about her role in Eleana’s disappearance. She felt as though she was about to relive the nightmare of that morning, only this time her punishment would be more severe. Doubtless Clerk Melgora would have her sent to the stockade…or worse.

  “His lordship Duke Barendorn has employed us to fetch the girl,” the taller rider repeated.

  “I am afraid you will have to disappoint him. I was his guest, and if you need use my name, then you can tell him Arcturus Prentishun has taken Kariayla as his companion.”

  “She is property of Belorn.”

  “She is not even a native to this land,” Arcturus argued. “I should be curious to see what the Nemeloreans would think of Humans enslaving one of their children. This could result in quite a bruise for your rulers. I wonder if Duke Barendorn considered the consequences of acting above the king’s authority. Clearly he has undertaken this mission upon himself, or you would be officially garbed.”

  The riders looked at one another. They were restless—outright uncomfortable before the Markanturian. Their eyes kept returning to the staff in his hand.