The Black Raven

by Katharine Kerr

  “And so they should,” Keeta said. “It’s spectacular. I’m not prying into his trade secrets, mind, but you can’t help wondering how he gets those effects. I’ve never seen him mixing chemicals or anything like that.”

  “Do you want to know what’s really strange? I don’t know how he does it, either.”

  “Really?” Keeta stared for a moment. “Well, by the Wave Father! Your man’s a tight-lipped fellow, that’s for sure. I hope he’s at least teaching Kwinto.”

  “No, he’s not. He keeps saying it’s all real magic, just like they have in Deverry. There’s a funny name for it. Dwimmer or something. But Ebañy said Kwinto doesn’t have the talent for it. That’s why we have him juggling instead.”

  They walked a ways in silence, then paused by the fountains, where clean water bubbled up into white-marble basins.

  “I know it sounds like I’ve gone mad myself,” Marka said at last. “Talking of magic, real magic I mean.”

  “Well, yes, but what if it isn’t mad? What if your husband’s telling the plain and simple truth? They always say that studying sorcery drives men insane, don’t they?”

  “But it can’t be true!”

  “Why not? The sun rises and sets again on many a strange thing. If Ebañy says he calls fire out of the sky with magic—well, do we have a better explanation?”

  Marka merely shook her head.

  “I keep thinking about Jill,” Keeta went on. “You remember her—she was travelling with Ebañy when we first met him, all those years ago now, but I can still see her in my mind quite clearly. A wandering scholar, she called herself. Huh. She was a lot more impressive than that.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Marka said. “And Ebañy was always trying to get her approval for things, but he was afraid of her, too. I never knew why. Ye gods, I was so young then! I don’t suppose I really cared.”

  “Well yes, it was a long time ago, all right. My memory could be playing tricks on me, but you know, looking back, I really do wonder if Jill was a sorcerer, and if your husband knew a great deal more about such things than we would ever have believed.”

  Marka could think of nothing to say. The idea made a certain bitter sense.

  “Ah well,” Keeta went on. “After the show tonight, when we know how much coin we have to spend, I’ll come back into town and start asking about the priests. If one of them can drive out demons, everyone will know about it, and maybe it’s only a demon that’s troubling Ebañy so.”

  Since in winter the Bardekian days ended early and lacked a proper twilight, the troupe of performers went into Myleton well before sunset. At nightfall the western sea swallowed the sun in one gulp to leave only a faint greenish glow at the horizon. As oil lamps began to flicker into life in the bazaar, the troupe set up for a show. Although they carried a portable stage of planks in their caravan, Myleton supplied—for a suitable bribe to the archon’s men—a better stage than that, the long marble terrace running alongside the Customs House at the edge of the bazaar. While some of the acrobats set up brass poles for the standing torches, the musicians, led by Kwinto and Tillya, paraded through the crowd and cried the show with a loud banging of drums. Below, an audience gathered, small at first, then suddenly swelling as the word went round the bazaar: the Great Krysello is here! He’s going to perform! By the time the parade returned, there were too many spectators to count.

  The Great Krysello, or Salamander, as Ebañy thought of himself, because on that particular night Salamander was the only name he could remember, waited in the darkness at the far side of the stage while the dancers performed, swirling with scarves to a flute-and-drum accompaniment. While he watched, he sang along to the music and laughed. Once he stepped onto the stage, he felt in command of himself again, sure of where he was and what exactly he should do there.

  Many years ago he’d been a juggler, and juggler only, and to warm up the crowd he still tossed scarves and juggled eggs and such, talking and singing all the while. But somewhere along the years he’d discovered he could do much more to entertain. Or had he perhaps always known he could summon the Wildfolk of Fire and Aethyr to fill the sky with fire in lurid colors? Dimly he could remember being warned against such things. An old man had spoken to him harshly about it, once a long time ago. Somewhere in his mind, however, he also remembered that this fellow was no one. Since nothing was left of the memory but those words, “he’s no one,” Salamander could assume the memory image of a tall old man with ice-blue eyes and white hair was just another dream come to walk the day.

  And on nights like this one, when he walked onto the stage and looked out at the dark swelling shape of the audience, a single animal it seemed, lying just beyond the glare of oil lamps and the torchlight, he forgot any strictures he might have once heard. When the crowd roared and clapped, he felt its love pour over him, and he laughed, throwing his arms into the air.

  “Greetings!” he called out. “The Great Krysello gives you his humble thanks!”

  From his sleeves he flicked scarves and began to circle them from hand to hand, but always he was aware of the Wildfolk, sylphs and sprites, gnomes and salamanders, gathering on the stage, forming above the incense braziers, flocking around him and flitting this way and that, grinning and pointing at the crowd. In a flood of Elvish words he called out orders, and for the sheer love of play they obeyed him. Suddenly, far above the crowd, red-and-blue lightning crackled. With each boom of false thunder, sheets of color fell and twisted in every rainbow the Wildfolk knew. The crowd roared its approval as the sheets broke into glowing drops and vanished just above their heads.

  A green-and-purple mist burst into being around the stage, and deep within it voices sang alien songs. Once the crowd fell silent to listen, Salamander added explosions and bursts of gold and silver. Then back to the colors sheeting the sky—on and on he went until sweat soaked his costume and plastered his hair to his head. He let the colors fade and the music die away, then bowed deeply to the crowd.

  “The Great Krysello is weary! But lo! we have other wonders to show you.”

  At the signal Vinto’s acrobats, all dressed in gaudy silks, rushed onto the stage. The crowd roared and threw coins in a copper-and-silver rain. As they tumbled around the stage, the acrobats scooped them up. Salamander stepped back to the shadows at the rear. While he mopped the sweat from his face and hair with a scarf, he looked out over the crowd.

  One man caught his attention immediately, a tall fellow, standing right in front. His body seemed to waver like a reflection on moving water, and his clothes looked more like wisps of fog or smoke hung around him, or maybe just placed in his general vicinity, than solid cloth. Yet no one standing near him seemed to notice the least thing unusual. When the acrobats arranged themselves into a human pyramid, he clapped and smiled like anyone else. The flute and drums began their music; applause rippled, then died. The flickering stranger crossed his arms over his chest and stood reasonably still.

  But always his eyes searched through the shadows. Salamander knew at once that the man—no, the being, some strange nonhuman thing—was looking for him. He could feel a gaze probing, feel alien sight run down his body like clammy hands. With a shriek lost in the music, he turned and leapt down from the stage, then took off running through the night. Down long streets he raced, panting for breath; in alleyways he stopped and looked around him. The door. He had to find the dark wood door bound in iron.

  Past taverns, past craftsmen’s shops he jogged, looking at each door, peering into shadows while cold sweat ran down his back and his chest ached—nowhere did he find it. He ran again, then slowed to a stumbling walk. Around him the city lay dark and silent. The night hung over the river, an oily rush of dark water against a darker sky. Salamander stopped, listening. Water slapped against wooden docks. Footsteps rustled on stone. With a roar to the Lords of Fire, he spun around and flung up both hands. A gust of silver flame towered up and lit the alley in a cold glare. Black shadows outlined every stone on wall and street
and seemed to carve some incomprehensible meaning into them. Thieves shrieked and ran, dashing away down the alley—two small men, carrying knives. In the dying light from the silver flare he watched them till they skittered around a corner and disappeared. Salamander laughed, then headed to the riverbank. He could follow it upstream to the caravanserai.

  He arrived to find the troupe clustering around a fire and talking. Marka paced back and forth at the edge of the pool of light, and every now and then she dropped her face to her hands as if she wept.

  “Here!” Salamander called out. “What’s so wrong?”

  The troupe froze, then burst out laughing and cheering all at once. Marka ran to him and flung her arms around him.

  “My thanks to every god!” Her voice quavered on the edge of sobs. “I was so worried.”

  Salamander slipped his arms around her waist and held her while he murmured small soothing noises. At last her trembling quieted.

  “Have I been gone so long?” he said.

  “Well past the midnight bells, yes.” She looked up at him. “Why did you run like that?”

  “I don’t remember.” He felt himself yawn and shook his head. “I’m exhausted, my love. I’ve got to go lie down.”

  That morning Marka gave up on sleep early. When the sun was rising in a pink blaze of distant fog, and the sea wind was making the tents flap and rustle, she put on a short dress and went outside, yawning and stretching in the cool air. As she glanced around, she saw a stranger, dressed in Bardekian tunic and sandals, leading his horse through the camp. He saw her, waved, and strolled over. His skin was as pale as Ebañy’s, and his eyes a strange turquoise color, as vivid as the stones, but since he wore a leather riding hat pulled down over his ears, she could see nothing of his hair.

  “Good morning,” Marka said. “Are you looking for someone?”

  “Yes, actually. The magician who performed in the marketplace last night.”

  “Indeed? Well, I happen to be his wife.”

  “Ah. How do you do?” The stranger swept off his hat and bowed to her. “I’m a friend of his father’s.”

  Marka stared like a rude child, then pulled her gaze away. His ears were impossibly long, impossibly furled, and pointed.

  “Well, then, good sir.” She found her voice with a little gulp. “You’re certainly welcome in our humble camp.”

  “Thank you. My name is Evandar.”

  “My husband’s still asleep.” Marka glanced back at the tent and saw the flap moving. “Or no, here he is.”

  Salamander stepped outside, saw Evandar, and screamed aloud.

  “No, no, no!” Evandar said. “I’m here to help you, truly I am. What’s so wrong?”

  “There’s nothing to you,” Salamander said, and he was shaking so badly his hands knocked together. “You’re not really here.”

  “Well, I’m here as much I can be anywhere.” Evandar looked down at himself and frowned. “Everyone else always thinks I look solid enough. Your charming wife, for instance, didn’t shriek at the sight of me.”

  “Indeed?” Ebañy turned to her. “What do you see, when you look at him?”

  “Just a man like any other, as pale as you are, and so I guess he must be from your homeland. But I don’t understand what you’re saying. His ears are—well, forgive me, sir—but they’re awfully strange, but otherwise, he looks ordinary enough.”

  For a long moment Ebañy stood unspeaking, glancing back and forth between the two of them. Behind him Kivva, their second daughter, flung open the tent-flap and stared out, a tall girl, dark like her mother, with tight black curls cut close to her head. Zandro wiggled out between his sister’s legs, saw Evandar, and squealed one high-pitched note. He laughed, stuck out his tongue, then threw his head back and pranced around in a tight circle whilst waggling his fingers in Evandar’s general direction. Everyone stared, speechless, until Marka found her voice.

  “Zan! What are you doing? Stop that!” Marka stepped forward and grabbed. “This man is our guest, and taunting him is very rude.”

  Giggling, Zandro raced back into the tent. When Marka pointed, Kivva obligingly went in after him. Marka turned back to find Evandar considering her with a smile as sly as that of any merchant closing a deal.

  “Please, let me apologize for my son,” Marka said.

  “Oh, no apologies needed,” Evandar said. “He must be an unusual child, yes? Difficult to handle, perhaps?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “I’m not surprised. He’s not really human, you see.”

  “That’s what my husband says!” Marka turned to Ebañy. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “No doubt.” Evandar bowed to her. “But I see this interests you. Perhaps we can discuss it?”

  Ebañy merely glared at him, trembling on the edge of rage.

  “The Guardians,” Evandar hissed. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  All at once Ebañy laughed, relaxed, and began speaking to him in an incomprehensible language. For a moment Marka felt like screaming herself, but the stranger seemed to understand the words; he answered in the same tongue. When she started to ask them what it was, Ebañy silenced her with a wave.

  “I’m sorry, my love, and truly, I’m forgetting all my manners.” Ebañy laid a soft hand on her arm. “We have a guest, a stranger in our camp!”

  “So we do.” She saw her chance for escape and took it. “We’ll all have a lovely breakfast. I’ll go attend to it.”

  “None for me,” Evandar broke in. “I don’t exactly eat, you see.”

  There seemed to be nothing to say to this announcement. Marka hurried away, calling to her daughters to come help with the meal.

  Inside the tent Salamander offered his guest cushions, and they sat across from each other on a flat-woven carpet of green and blue. Kwinto, dark and graceful with his father’s long fingers and slight build, sat cross-legged on the floor cloth nearby. When Salamander glanced his way he found the boy’s face a tightly controlled mask.

  “Did I ever tell you about the Guardians?” Salamander said.

  Kwinto shook his head.

  “They’re a race of spirits, like the Elementals, but far far more advanced and more powerful than that. This fellow, sitting here? The man you see is just an illusion.”

  “A bit more than that, please,” Evandar said. “I don’t know what I make myself out of, exactly, but it suffices.” He picked up a silk scarf, flicked it, then tossed it to Kwinto. “Illusions don’t have hands that hold and touch.”

  Kwinto smiled briefly, then ducked his head to study the scarf as if perhaps he could read the secrets of the universe from the pale gold silk. Marka and the girls came in, set down plates of bread and fruit, cups, and a pitcher of water laced with wine. When they started out, Salamander called Marka back but let the girls run off.

  “Come sit with me, my love,” he said. “I think this news concerns you, too.”

  “Where’s Zandro?” Marka said. “I should go see—”

  “Terrenz has him.” Kwinto spoke up, his boy’s voice cracking. “They went out the back when we came in.”

  “Leave him be, my love,” Salamander said. “Sit down.”

  When he shoved a cushion her way she sank onto it. For a long moment an awkward silence held, as Evandar studied her and Kwinto both, but neither would look his way. Salamander poured himself a cup of water.

  “I should tell you why I’m here,” Evandar said at last. “Your father is worried about you. He wants you to come home.”

  “My life lies here.”

  “And it seems to be a busy one, I must say.” Evandar glanced around the tent. “And prosperous. Your tents are much richer than your father’s.”

  “Bardek’s a richer country than the Westlands.”

  “Just so, but your father’s getting on in years. He desperately wants to see you. He worries about you, too, off in this far country. And now I see that he has grandchildren, and here he doesn’t even know it.”

/>   At that Marka made a little whimpering sound, quickly stifled. Salamander glanced her way.

  “If he dies without seeing you,” Marka started, then let her voice fade away.

  “And then there’s your brother.” Evandar leaned forward, smiling at Kwinto, to press his advantage. “Did you know you have an uncle, boy? In far-off Deverry? His name is Rhodry Maelwaedd, and he’s a great warrior, one that poets make songs about.”

  Kwinto’s eyes widened. Salamander held up a hand to keep him silent.

  “My father’s concern,” Salamander said, and he could hear the bitterness in his own voice, “my father’s concern comes a bit late. When I rode with him at home all he ever felt for me was contempt.”

  His voice drained all the color from the tent and the people in it. He saw them all turn grey and as stiff as those little drawings a scribe makes in the margins of a scroll. The wind lifted the tent-flap, and Devaberiel walked in to stand with his thumbs hooked in his belt. Salamander got to his feet.

  “What are you doing here?” he snapped. “Evandar just said you were back in Deverry.”

  His father ignored the question and stood looking around the tent with a little twisted smile. He was a handsome man, Devaberiel, in the elvish manner, tall, with moonbeam-pale hair, walking round with a warrior’s swagger as he looked over the tent and its contents.

  “You could at least talk to me!” Salamander took one step toward him.

  Devaberiel yawned in complete indifference.

  “Curse you!”

  “Oh please,” Marka rose to her knees and grabbed the edge of his tunic. “Ebañy, stop it! There’s no one there.”

  She was right. His father had disappeared. No—he’d never really been there, had he? Salamander turned toward Marka and found her weeping. He could think of nothing to say, nothing at all, but he sat down next to her and reached out a hand. She clasped it in both of hers while the tears ran down her face. In a rustle of wind the Wildfolk crept into the tent and stood round the edge like a circle of mourners. Am I dead then? he thought.