Legend of the Ravenstone

by M. S. Verish

  The man’s face tightened, but then a middle-aged woman hurried to his side and whispered in his ear. Arcturus and Kariayla waited expectantly.

  “One opening,” the innkeeper said. “It’ll cost you a chime.”

  Arcturus’s eyes widened. “A room in Belorn’s palace would not cost a chime!”

  “That is my price. The alley is free.”

  The Markanturian thumped his staff. “This is robbery. You are purposely charging us more because we are foreigners in these parts.”

  “Welcome to the Freelands,” the innkeeper said with a dark grin. Several of the men at the bar chuckled.

  “Come, Kariayla,” Arcturus said. “We will find another inn.”

  “There isn’t one,” the man said. “Mind you, the rats come out once it’s dark. You’ll need that stick of yours to beat them off you.”

  Arcturus looked at Kariayla, then back at the innkeeper. He gave a sharp thump of his staff and dug into his purse. “You should be ashamed,” he grumbled, “to take advantage of paying customers.”

  The innkeeper shrugged and called to a lanky, sleepy-eyed boy standing at the hearth. He took the lad aside, gave him instructions and a lantern, and pointed him to the travelers. “Ben will show you to your room and bring you your meal.”

  “Such service,” Arcturus muttered, following suit behind the boy. They moved into a hall lined with several doors. Ben took them past these, rounded the corner into a darkened passage, and presented a door at its end. He opened the door and held the lantern out as far as his arm would stretch, picking his way down a narrow set of stairs.

  Kariayla felt the cool, dank air and shivered. Arcturus stood beside the boy and folded his arms. “Please do not tell me that I paid a chime to sleep in a cellar.”

  “This is your room, sir,” the boy said with a shrug.

  “Does it not seem strange to you that there is no bed? Or do you make a habit of sleeping atop barrels and crates?” Arcturus asked, furious.

  “It’s all right,” Kariayla said, trying to be positive. “It must be better than an alley.”

  “Only in that the rats may have alternative food sources,” Arcturus said, his voice rising. “This is unacceptable. Take us back to your employer so that he can return my chime.”

  “There were a few people at the bar,” Kariayla whispered to him. “Are you sure we should confront the innkeeper?”

  “He must answer for this injustice. Neither of us will gain anything, as he will return my coin, and he will keep his cursed cellar free of foreign travelers. I will take care of this, my dear, and then we will find another place to take shelter—even if I must knock upon every door of this town to plead our situation.”

  Kariayla bit her lip and followed him back up the stairs. The innkeeper’s cruel smile faded when Arcturus made his demand.

  “I think I’ll keep your chime for the trouble you’ve caused me,” he said. “You best leave now before I have you removed. We don’t like casters around here.”

  “Casters?” Arcturus exclaimed. “You take us for some common magicians? We have done nothing more than ask for a room.”

  “Your kind causes trouble,” the innkeeper said. “And I don’t take kindly to trouble.”

  “Then you will return my money, and we will be on our way,” Arcturus said.

  The innkeeper did not budge, but several of the patrons did. They approached the counter.

  “Arcturus,” Kariayla whispered, tugging on his sleeve. “We should go.”

  He bent to speak in her ear. “I have this matter under control. All I ask is that you follow my prompting. If they see us as casters, casters we shall be.”

  Before she could protest, he straightened and cleared his throat. “Since you insist on stealing from my purse and ejecting us from this hovel, I have no choice but to act in our defense.” He thrust Whitestar before him, and the men beside the counter exchanged nervous glances. In a loud, clear voice, he uttered three foreign words, and the staff began to glow. The men backed away.

  “You will either give us a room, or you will return my money,” Arcturus said. “If you do neither, I will bring such a storm as to raze this building from its foundation.” He nudged Kariayla.

  She tried to focus on the lingering clouds in the sky. She did not need to summon a raging tempest—just an echo of thunder would be enough to give Arcturus credibility.

  “You wouldn’t dare use your magic on us,” the innkeeper said, though he had backed away with the rest of the men.

  “You have been given a fair choice,” Arcturus said. “My companion and I deserve as much respect as any of your patrons. If I must use my great powers to prove us worthy, then so be it. The choice is yours.” He spread wide his arms and looked toward the ceiling.

  A celestial growl rattled the windows and inspired shouts from the defending patrons. The innkeeper cursed and gaped at Arcturus. “Wh-what do you want?”

  The Markanturian sighed. “As I have said: a room and a hot meal would be my preference to finding another location.”

  “Fine! Done!” The man tossed the chime onto the counter.

  Arcturus spoke, and Whitestar’s glow faded. “We will pay for the room so long as it does not resemble a cellar.”

  “Take whatever room you want,” the innkeeper said.

  “You are most generous,” Arcturus said dryly. “And please do not forget our meal. Kariayla and I will be dining in privacy.”

  *

  The following days passed curiously without incident. As they moved from town to town, there were always places to stay and meals to be had. Arcturus’s mood brightened considerably, and he even took the liberty to travel with his hood down. At his encouragement, Kariayla no longer concealed her wings, but there was nothing he could say to ease her concerns.

  “Though I regret how we have come to earn this grudging respect,” Arcturus said, “we must look well upon it. Had we not asserted ourselves, I am reluctant to think what would have become of us in this ‘lawless land,’ as they call it.”

  “I don’t know if it is respect,” Kariayla said. “I think they’re afraid of us.”

  “In fear there is often healthy respect,” Arcturus defended. “But this is only a short stint of our journey. According to our map, we should reach Valesage tomorrow. We will find our tracker and never once look back upon these concerns of yours.” He gestured to the sky. “Even your hawk spirit has been with us this entire time. I am starting to believe your theory of its protection.”

  There was a moment of silence as they walked, and Arcturus looked down at his companion to find her brooding. “What is the matter, my dear?”

  “Do you believe in the Great Spirits, Arcturus?”

  He adjusted the bag on his shoulder and cleared his throat. “By ‘spirit’ I assume you mean an influential and intangible presence that governs some unnamed power. No, I do not believe in such beings, for I have never been presented with evidence of their existence. I do, however, place credence in natural forces such as magic, life, death—” he glanced at her— “storms….”

  “Do you not think that some of those forces are governed by spirits?” she asked, obviously perplexed by his answer.

  “I think some things are difficult to explain. It would be easy to attribute such things to mysterious forces, but there is a logical cause for all that we see if we take the time to observe. I can, for example, tell you that a giant dragon lives in the sky and stomps upon the clouds to make it rain. But it is a fantastical notion with no basis in reality, no proof to be witnessed. However, you in particular would know that the clouds carry moisture and follow cycles. By observing the type of clouds overhead, you could tell me if it would rain today.”

  “The spirits are part of that natural order, Arcturus.”

  He stopped and faced her. “Have you ever seen such a spirit, Kariayla?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, then there—”

  “I have heard them,” she insiste
d.

  “You have heard them,” he echoed, dubious. He could see she was earnest, and he did not want to shatter her beliefs, but nor could he accept that such an intelligent young lady would place faith in fairies and folklore.

  “In the temples of my homeland, they would speak to us. The Great Spirits are real.” Her brow furrowed. “Must you see them to believe in them?”

  “A visual appearance would help convince me,” Arcturus said. He patted her shoulder and started walking again. “In all my years I have seen many fantastic occurrences but never a ‘spirit.’” He chuckled to himself. “Or perhaps they speak too softly for me to hear.”

  Kariayla lagged behind him. “You don’t believe me,” she said.

  He could hear the hurt in her voice. “My dear, do not take insult. I believe we all interpret our world differently—not only as individuals but culturally as well. Look at the Humans. They believe in a giant man named Jedinom who carries a golden sword.”

  She hurried to catch up. “Then you do not believe in the Cataclysm?”

  “I do not believe the Cataclysm was a battle of two demi-gods. It was a natural welling of magic—the Great Welling, as Markanturians call it—that, for whatever reason, altered a large piece of our world. It was witnessed by many, interpreted and reinterpreted. Stories were integrated, facts were stretched. Primary accounts are difficult to find, and as a former curator, I can attest to that.

  “Trinnad Markanturos, for whom my country is named, wrote an entire journal about the Cataclysm. Incredibly, my long-lived kindred lost his account. Lost the records of the most renowned Markanturian in history!” He outstretched his arms. “It baffles me. Pains me.”

  “Then you do not have his account of what really happened?” Kariayla asked. “How do you know it was a welling of magic?”

  Arcturus shook his head. “Such events are not uncommon, but none with such magnitude are documented. While there is speculation, there are results that are irrefutable. My people originally came from Morwind. They were dark-skinned—not unlike yourself—and they were Human. The Great Welling was a magical wave that altered us into the race we are today.

  “Trinnad Markanturos was sent to learn about this welling. From that point, the facts grow muddled. Some say he returned with his journal and is buried in our founding city, but there is no exact date of his death, and there is no marked location of his grave. Others say he did not return, but then how do we claim to know of his accounts, and where are they now? The answers are beyond our reach at this point.” He sighed and grumbled something beneath his breath.

  “So you must rely upon some level of faith—in him and in what he wrote,” Kariayla pressed. “You don’t have the facts, but you know what you believe to be true.”

  “I—” He paused. “Yes, I see your point, but you hint at the difference between fact and religion. Religion is based upon faith. Trinnad Markanturos did, in fact, exist.”

  “But what if religion was also based upon fact? The Spirits, for example, who guide my people. In them there is both faith and fact.”

  Arcturus regarded her thoughtfully. “Kariayla, my dear, you are an interesting partner in conversation. While I would delight in continuing this discussion, I fear we would reach no satisfactory conclusion—fact or faith employed. So I offer a truce with a nod to your white hawk.” He gestured to the circling bird.

  “A truce,” she agreed, a genuine smile upon her lips. Then the smile faded as she stared into the distance. “There is smoke up ahead.”

  “Smoke?” Arcturus squinted and sniffed the air. “We will have to proceed with caution.” He drew his hood and helped her conceal her wings.

  They walked a distance down the road and were soon greeted by the sound of music and laughter. Though it was only late afternoon, a fire blazed high and bold, and around it danced pairs of women and men. There might have been twenty or so occupants in the camp, but children darted amongst the wagons and animals, and they were impossible to count. There were goats, dogs, donkeys, and chickens in addition to the cart horses, suggesting a modest and nomadic way of life.

  The music did not stop as they drew nearer—nor did the dancing and the chatting. Arcturus and Kariayla had every intention of keeping their course, but when a man hailed them, they were obliged to stop.

  “Hey! Hey there! Fellow travelers of the Southern Link!”

  Kariayla and Arcturus looked at each other before approaching the man. He was middle-aged with a grand moustache that spanned the entirety of his face, and it curved upward to echo the grin he sported.

  “Can we help you?” Arcturus asked politely.

  “Only by sparing a bit of your time,” the man said. He held out a hand. “Bedrasius Copperkettle.”

  Arcturus looked at Kariayla again before shaking his hand and introducing themselves.

  “This is my family,” Bedrasius said, gesturing to a growing audience. “Please, join us for a meal. The soup is still hot, and there is plenty of it.” He led them to the fire and asked them to sit. Once they had, a bowl of steaming broth found its way into each of their hands.

  “You are most generous,” Arcturus said, and sampled a spoonful. “How can we return this kindness?”

  Bedrasius sat adjacent to them and held out his hands. “Well, there was talk on the road of some unique foreigners traveling the Link: a Blood Wizard and his winged companion. It has been said that you bring the thunder and the rain, that the elements bow to your command. We were curious to meet you.”

  “Hm,” Arcturus said and gave Kariayla a knowing nod. “So we have earned a reputation.”

  “Magic stirs interest.” Bedrasius sat a small child upon his lap. “Magic lives in stories and folklore, and every now and then, we see that magic is real. Just before we learned of you, we had heard rumors of the White Demon’s capture.”

  “They are not rumors,” Arcturus said. “Kariayla and I were there when the thieves attacked. The ‘White Demon’ will be a hindrance no more.”

  Bedrasius raised an eyebrow. “A hindrance? Ah, well, I suppose there is variation in all stories.”

  “What do you mean?” Kariayla asked.

  “To some the Demon was a thief, a nuisance,” Bedrasius said.

  “A murderer, a criminal,” Arcturus added flatly.

  “There are others who admired the creature, the Prophet, and his clan of thieves.”

  Arcturus leaned in. “Is that so? I cannot think of a single reason to venerate a miscreant of society.”

  “Then you haven’t heard the entire story,” Bedrasius said. By now all the children had gathered near him, anticipating the tale to come.

  “No, I have not,” Arcturus said, accepting another helping of soup. “Have you, my dear?”

  Kariayla shook her head.

  Bedrasius smoothed his moustache and nodded. “It is a rare tale, told amongst us wanderers, and so I am inclined to believe it true. You see, we value our freedom, to live as we do.”

  “But you do not do so at the expense of others,” Arcturus said.

  “No, but you raise an interesting point: the expense of others.” Bedrasius motioned for the wineskin, and he apportioned some for his guests. “Even children know that stealing is wrong.” He looked at each of the surrounding young faces, and they all nodded. “Criminals are not the only thieves.

  “There was a young duke—Duke Omarand—who had wealth and land in Southern Secramore. At the time, there were yet kings and lords and knights in the south. But things began to change. The merchants began to move to the Amber Coast, their eyes set upon the riches found in southern mines. Before long, the merchants outnumbered the nobility and grew so powerful that they conspired to take the land for themselves. Meetings were conducted in secrecy—meetings where even Duke Omarand’s most loyal supporters saw opportunity for advancement.”

  “What happened?” Kariayla asked when Bedrasius had paused. He gave a cup to her and to Arcturus, and she took a sip.

  “The merchants made
their move against the nobility,” he said. “It was a quick and brutal coup, and a great many of the old blood were killed. Omarand escaped with a group of his family and followers. He wanted to take back the land that was stolen from him, but to remain in Southern Secramore would result in his death. So he set sail for the northern shore.

  “Here he was no one. He had no land and no money, but he did have his people to support. He did what he had to do: saw to their survival. In the desert, he forged a hidden community. He and his men would stop the rich caravans along the road, taking only what they needed and harming no one. As their enterprise grew, Omarand’s clan gained supporters in the cities: the poor with whom the noble shared his profits in exchange for their eyes and their ears.”

  Arcturus dabbed his mouth dry from the drink. “Ah, so ‘the Prophet’s’ foresight was truly the attentiveness of his spies.”

  “No.” Bedrasius twisted his moustache. “The ‘spies’ were helpful, of course, but Omarand is known as the Prophet because he is gifted. He knew when the caravans were coming. He knew exactly what to take and from whom. He ruled the desert for years—even before the Demon appeared.”

  “Then from where did the Demon come?” Kariayla asked, stifling a yawn. “Did the Prophet summon it?”

  “No one is certain,” Bedrasius said. “But the White Demon is the Prophet’s loyal servant. It protects the thieves and serves as a warning not to trifle with the Prophet’s clan.”

  Arcturus sat back and chuckled. “The Prophet’s gift has failed him, then, for his thieves and his demon were apprehended easily.” He rubbed his eyes but found his sight blurry. “I still fail to see how a wronged noble can justify robbing innocent passersby. Whether the travelers are wealthy or not, stealing is stealing.”

  “Arcturus…” Kariayla’s voice sounded sluggish, as though she was half asleep.

  “Yes, my dear.” Arcturus found his tongue was heavy. He tried to sit up, but his limbs would not obey him.

  “Stealing is stealing,” Bedrasius repeated. “Don’t you think that taking advantage of people’s fears is also a form of stealing? When they freely offer you the best room at the inn, the richest of meals… Don’t you feel slightly guilty that you had used your magic to intimidate them?”