Fae of the North (Court of Crown and Compass Book 1)

by E Hall

  “Who’s gathering?” Kiki asks, but he doesn’t hear her as he drops the wood at his feet and begins sawing.

  By late afternoon, we’ve constructed the skeleton of the bird and Trotter circles the structure, now filling the shed.

  “I have some old wheels we can attach, and we’ll need the straw delivered for the feathers.”

  “A wood-colored, brown raven won’t do. Ravens are black.”

  Trotter strokes his white beard. “We’ll need a lot of paint to coat it.”

  “Scriv said he couldn’t help with that.”

  “Scriv doesn’t help with much,” Trotter says wryly.

  “We’ll find it,” I say, though we both know that years ago the king claimed all the paint, ink, and writing implements, punishing those who read and write.

  We put in a bit more time, fitting the odd pieces of wood onto the frame of the giant bird, leaving a large hatch in the belly.

  Gerda appears, surveying our progress, and clicks her tongue. “Interesting. I won’t ask.”

  “I won’t tell,” I retort.

  She snorts. “Everyone is here. Are you ready to do this?”

  I don’t know, but there’s no time to think about that.

  Kiki and Gerda breeze ahead of us, talking in low tones. I’ve never seen my aunt be remotely nice to anyone.

  “Maybe things have changed,” I mutter as we follow the narrow hall back to the main part of the tavern.

  “You’ve changed, my boy,” Trotter says, patting me proudly on the back. “She has her own reasons for being tough on you, but never doubt that she cares for you.”

  I spit a laugh.

  With a sharp glance at me, Gerda says, “The people have changed as well. The desire for freedom has been bubbling below the surface for a long time. Don’t muck it up.”

  Apparently, she heard us.

  When we enter the tavern room, Kiki stands by my side and Trotter whistles loudly, drawing the attention of a ragtag assembly seated at the tables and standing where there’s room. They have sagging shoulders, crooked spines, and sharp, suspicious eyes. As usual, everyone is either broken or the ones who did the breaking.

  The room slowly quiets, leaving nothing but the pattering of the icy rain against the smudged windowpanes and tin roof.

  I look to Gerda, but she doesn’t tear her eyes from me. They’re hard, penetrating, challenging. Her words echo. Don’t muck it up.

  Kiki nods at me.

  I clear my throat. “For too long we’ve allowed our mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, children, families, the young and old, and fae among us to be beaten. No more. We will not obediently accept stains on our skin.” My voice rises. “We will not sit by idly and allow the theft of shadows. We will not watch helplessly as our people are cast into the ashpit.”

  Like a shift in the tide, the people in the room lean ever so slightly closer to me as if the truth in my words is the shore they seek.

  “We will rise against the silver king,” I finish.

  The cheering, clapping, and foot-stomping threatens to blow off the roof.

  A guy with a soft jaw named Krebs, who I remember from around the pier, pushes through the crowd. “Yeah, that sounds great, but how?” His stained teeth reveal the beginnings of a new stijl habit.

  “Some of you will alert our neighbors and allies. Some of you gather supplies. Some of you will fight.”

  “Oh really, it’s that simple? Just defy the silver king. If it’s that easy, then why haven’t we done this before?” Krebs asks, his lips turned down and his bony chest a surly camber.

  “Because you haven’t wanted it enough,” Gerda hisses.

  “We are going to free ourselves and if you don’t want freedom then look forward to death at his hand.”

  “And what if he doesn’t let you?” Krebs asks defiantly.

  I step forward, my nose inches from his. “We don’t leave him with a choice.”

  “Just as he hasn’t left you with choices,” Gerda adds.

  In the relative silence that follows, once more, the rain is audible over whispers and murmurs.

  Trotter whistles shrilly. “Everything spoken in this room today and onward remains within these walls if you ever want back in. If any of you utter a word to a guard on the street, Grunk will see to it you neither eat nor drink again in the tavern, or anywhere else for that matter. And don’t be mistaken. I’m talking teeth and tongues.”

  Grunk, the doorman leers, looming and intimidating by the bar—a bearman by blood. I happened to be in the alley one night when he added a few teeth to his collection. Odd fellow, but he keeps his word true and his fists sure.

  A little boy scampers out from behind his mother and whispers something in Kiki’s ear. She smiles at him with glittering eyes.

  An older woman with gray hair stands up, places her left hand on her right shoulder over her heart, folds her right hand on her left shoulder, bowing slightly forward, and lowers her hands a few degrees. “May the sun and moon lead us and the stars be our guides.”

  A couple of people toward the back echo the old sentiment from the time even before the golden king. Their arms cross in front of their chests and bow to each other. Then a few more and still more until most of the people in attendance perform the old salutation.

  I repeat the gesture, and slowly the crowd disperses.

  Trotter, Kiki, and I return to our work on the wooden raven. When the rising moon signals sleep, I step back. To my surprise, the mismatched pieces of wood, fitted and nailed together, finally resembles a brown bird.

  “We still need paint,” I say.

  “Gerda said she’d try to get ahold of some.” Trotter wipes his brow and brushes off his hands.

  “Not bad for a day’s work.” I pick the prickling straw from my shirt. Chilled, I put my jacket on.

  He claps me on the shoulder. “No, I’d say this has been one of the better days this tavern has seen in a long time. Freedom, Soren. I want my freedom. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. When you were more concerned with winning at the tables or scraping together some kind of convoluted swindle I was ready to lace up and fight. Glad you finally came around. Give me my freedom and I will be a happy man.”

  Gerda’s comment about waiting for me braids together with what Vespertine said about taking the throne. I’m not a king—just a poor bastard kid born in Battersea—, but I will do what I can to free the people who looked after me and even those who caused me to need some looking after. “I promise.”

  “I know.” His bow is so subtle it could be a trick of the dim light. “Yours is the last door down the hall on the left,” he says, before disappearing back to the bar.

  The floor creaks in the hallway leading to the extra bedroom.

  As I enter, Kiki turns with a tiny smile.

  I shrug off my jacket and collapse onto one of the beds. “How will we make the raven black without paint?” I ask.

  She gazes out the window and then comes around to the side of the bed and grazes her hands over my arms. I shiver with delight under her touch. Her eyes linger on some words and skip over others.

  She says, “It seems we have some ink.”

  Chapter 24

  Ineke

  Scriv, who I don’t trust as far as I could throw him, which probably isn’t far at all without using my power, did give me an idea about sourcing the ink we need.

  I lift Soren’s arm and breathe on his skin. He shivers again.

  “You’re cold,” he says, reaching out to hold me.

  I exhale, gazing into the inner place where I can access my fae power. I gather the energy and then as I breathe onto Soren’s skin, I visualize drawing the ribbons of ink into the clay pot in my hands. I lift the letters of the word never one at a time, sending each of them dripping into the bowl like the rain running down the window.

  I look up at Soren’s astonished grin. He brushes his finger over the bare patch of skin. “How did you—?”

  “You told me fae can be h
ealers. Vespertine said to trust my intuition. This doesn’t make any sense at all and yet it does. I had the idea after Scriv commented about you having plenty of ink.”

  “But I don’t think it’ll be enough,” Soren says.

  “There’s no shortage of ink-stained people in Raven’s Landing,” I answer. “I don’t trust Scriv though.”

  “He delivered the wood. We’re good,” Soren says around a yawn.

  Uneasiness washes over me. “What was all of that with you and your aunt?” I ask haltingly. “She didn’t seem to think it was wise to go in with him.”

  He drops his voice. “Long ago, Scriv was an ally who conned her.”

  “Revenge and rebellion are in your blood then,” I say.

  “Or stupidity. She wouldn’t let you take her ink though. She wears it with pride. Says that it marks her disobedience. I was actually surprised to see she hadn’t been thrown in the ashpit by now.”

  I playfully whack Soren. “She’s your aunt. Family.” I can’t let myself miss my mother yet. I can’t be vulnerable while there’s so much at stake.

  Soren’s gaze dances to mine and he gently grips my arms, drawing me close. He inhales my hair. His nose brushes the spot behind my ear and then my neck.

  “I think we get to choose our family,” he says.

  His lips land on mine in a soft whisper, then trail along my jawline and to my collarbones until I can feel the thunder rolling in his chest.

  “I believe both,” I whisper as my breath catches.

  Our lips crash together in one momentous surge of desire.

  I’m not flying, but it’s as though I’m airborne, falling through space, time, realms, reality, and into Soren’s arms, his lips, all of him.

  Never have I felt so close to someone—at once so connected and right and thrilled.

  His stubble scratches my cheeks in a way that lights me up. High voltage sizzles along my skin as I curl into the kiss, wanting more.

  A husky sound escapes his throat and I am certain he’s enjoying this as much as I am. Maybe more.

  The kiss deepens.

  His hands tangle in my hair.

  My heart races.

  It’s as though we’re running to keep up with each other, to keep up with time, and with the looming deadline as life and the future weighs in the balance.

  I could do this forever, but there’s work that needs to be done by dawn. I sigh softly as I pull back. “I have to stay focused and you need your rest.”

  “So do you,” he counters.

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to risk dreaming of ravens. Go to sleep,” I whisper.

  But he already is.

  I breathe onto the word cruel printed on Soren’s forearm. As before, I do the work of drawing the ink from his skin, drop by drop. It’s like reverse typing, deleting words from a page as I gather up the stories his skin tells. I move through more words: heartache, trickery, loss, dreams, bleeding each one into the clay bowl.

  As the night draws on, where I expect to be drained of energy, I feel as though I could go on for days. I may have to, considering the ink barely covers the bottom of the bowl even though the skin on Soren’s lower arm is now smooth and unblemished.

  A jolt of excitement shoots through me as I uncover my fae abilities, tapping into my interior senses in new ways.

  As I continue, my mind drifts to my mother. She’d heal me when I was sick with a sniffle or an upset stomach, rubbing my feet with oil that reminded me of the pine trees at Inverness. When I was upset, she’d trace a finger over my forehead, humming, and I’d quickly feel at ease. If I was struggling with school, she’d place her palm against mine, mutter under her breath, and soon I’d have clarity.

  My mother was fae. Memories form chaotic knots, but I pull them apart one at a time and realize how amazing she was but I can’t cry again. Not yet.

  Soren stirs as the first light of day appears through the window beside the bed. He sits up, ready, alert. “You did it?” He turns his arms over, staring at them, his chest, and his legs. “How much is there?” He peers over the edge of the bed and into the bowl on the floor. “Do you think it’ll be enough?”

  “If not, I’ll find some volunteers,” I offer.

  Soren kisses my cheek, my lips, and my forehead. His lips land anywhere and everywhere. “You’re amazing.” He says between a kiss behind my ear and then shoulder.

  “My mother would be proud of me.”

  Soren and I make our way through the maze-like passages of the tavern and to the shed.

  Trotter worries his whiskers and gazes at the wooden construction when I catch up to Soren and we pour into the shed, both exclaiming, “We have some ink.”

  “And,” Soren says proudly, pulling his arm from his sleeve, “I do not.”

  Trotter beams. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “Let’s see how far we get with this,” I say.

  Trotter produces a brush, but before he dips it into the pot I say, “Wait. I have another idea.” I uncover the pot and hold my hand over the contents, concentrating on drawing the ink to my flattened palm and then raining it down on the wood. I imagine my arm is a wing covered in dark feathers and wave my hand and the ink saturates and covers the wood.

  From across the room, Trotter makes a sound of awe and approval.

  I don’t open my eyes while I visualize my other arm as the other wing, then the head, the tail, and at last, with the remaining ink in the pot, the main part of the body.

  Soren cheers, breaking my trance. “You did it,” he says.

  “We did it.” And I mean him, who had the ink on his skin, the owner of the traitorous thoughts, Trotter who helped build the raven, and these strange new abilities I have.

  “Excellent,” Trotter says, clapping his hands together.

  “We have the raven. We should go soon,” Soren says.

  Trotter eyes the window, “Yes, it’s best we move things along quickly lest word reaches the wrong ears.”

  When we get to the main room in the tavern, voices rise and fall. Shoulders droop. Fists shake. Those gathered despise the king and his cruelty, but take aim with their words against each other as they argue. They’re speculating and afraid. I won’t bring them fear. I will bring them my courage, my power, my best. I ask Trotter to whistle and all at once, the room goes quiet.

  I stand up on one of the tables. “You sound like a flock of pigeons, chattering in the puddles, arguing over the nest or dinner. You are the ravens. The Raven’s Rising. The silver king cast you out. He can hear your dissent; thrives off it, I bet. He can feel your fear; it’s his fuel. Yet you don’t want to live like this any longer. You don’t want your families torn apart. You don’t want to suffer under his rule. You are either with him and divided or you are with us, united.”

  Cheering comes from the corners of the room and moves inward.

  Soren thunders, “Take your fists out of your pockets. It’s time to rise up and fight.”

  Chapter 25

  Soren

  Murmurs skim through the crowd.

  Trotter whistles again.

  “We want you to start the rumor that the two people who escaped the city walls,” I gesture between Kiki and myself, “have returned with the ravens that the silver king seeks. But we’ll only give them to him if he agrees to an audience with us.”

  “Why? He won’t listen to a couple of wastrels,” someone calls from the crowd.

  Gerda glares. “Do you have a better idea for how to get through the gate on the outer wall of Fjallhold and across the drawbridge?”

  There’s no response.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “But we’re not just walking in with a couple of birds in a bag. For those of you who remember the strawmen from the old Hallowtide celebrations, we borrowed the idea and constructed a giant wooden and straw bird to hold the ravens. That’s why we needed the ink. Instead of actual birds inside, we’ll stuff the wooden raven with you: our best and strongest fighters. Just before d
awn, we’ll pass through the gates. Along the way, we’ll create a diversion, the bird will empty, and some of you will secretly ambush the patrol while others will open doors and gates, allowing the rest of us into the stronghold.”

  Gasps of surprise and excitement ripple through the crowd.

  “What happens when he throws you into the ashpit?” Scriv asks with a laugh.

  “We fall together or we rise together,” Kiki says, glaring at him.

  I continue, “We’ll request to speak to the king. We’ll offer the ravens in exchange for freedom.”

  There’s instant dissent.

  “The silver king won’t believe you.”

  “He won’t go for it.”

  Trotter whistles again.

  “If the silver king wants the ravens he’ll do whatever we want him to.” I smirk.

  “What will he do after he realizes you tricked him?” someone else asks.

  “The silver king won’t do anything,” I answer with a sly smile.

  “And why’s that?” Scriv asks, speaking for the doubters in the group.

  “The wooden raven is a cage.” I smile. “We’ll capture him.”

  The walls and windowpanes shake with a roar of approval. Despite the naysayers, I feel confident we can do this.

  When the clamor dies down I add, “In the meantime, those who’re capable of fighting, come see me. Those with weapons to spare, see Gerda, and any fae, see Kiki.” I gesture to her.

  Chairs scrape against the floor. Over the ensuing chatter, I boom, “Everyone else let the rumors begin and meet outside the castle at dawn. We call ourselves the Raven’s Rising, and we will not fall.”

  They respond with booming cheers.

  The next hours flurry by as we prepare to mobilize. Dusk comes early as the dying sun drifts behind storm clouds.

  “It doesn’t look like the weather will be on our side,” Trotter says, closing a heavy curtain and locking up the tavern for the night.

  Ten men and women, including Gerda and Grunk, remain and we discuss their positions and roles in the inner court once they leave the raven’s belly.