The Black Raven

  “Salamander and his son Zandro. Go on.”

  “There is naught more but mist.”

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  “I’m not lying.” Arzosah swung her head his way and hissed. “That’s all I can see.”

  “Well, it’s enough,” Evandar said. “Strange things, indeed, and things of great moment. To Cannobaen in ships in the elven fashion, is it? Strange and twice strange.”

  Abruptly he was gone. She had no perception of his vanishing; he simply ceased to be there.

  “Good riddance!” Arzosah muttered. “The gall of him! Faithless and nasty, are we?”

  She tipped back her head and roared out a dweomer command in the secret language of wyrmkind. Her answer came as a rumble and a hiss and spew of steam. Again she roared out the spell-word, and this time the mountain answered with a leap of fire deep in its heart. All round the peak, the land trembled in fear.

  “I’ve looked everywhere,” Marka said. “I can’t find him.”

  “I saw him just a little while ago,” Keeta said. “He was walking toward Vinto’s tent.”

  “He’s not there now. I’ve already asked Vinto.”

  “Ye gods. He could have gone anywhere.”

  The two women were standing at the edge of the public caravanserai on the outskirts of Myleton and watching the men bustle about, setting up camp. The acrobats were hauling on the ropes to raise the tents; the dancers were leading the animals to water. When she glanced around for her children, Marka saw them beginning to unload bedrolls and cushions from the wagons.

  “Are the children safe, doing that?” Keeta said.

  “Kwinto’s watching them,” Marka said. “He hasn’t seen his father since we pulled in, he told me.”

  “He could have gone into the city to buy a permit.”

  “Maybe. But something’s wrong. I can just feel it. Come with me, will you?”

  “Of course. Let’s take the Myleton road. We’ve got a couple of hours till sunset.”

  Side by side they walked down the archon’s smoothpaved road. The winter rains had turned Bardek green, and on either side of the road, set back behind low stone walls fields of hay bowed and rippled in the warm wind. In the ditches twixt wall and road wildflowers bloomed in scented tangles, red poppies, white alyssum, dark violets. It was in a ditch that they found their first hint of the trouble ahead: one of Ebañy’s sandals, lying among the flowers. Keeta picked it up and inspected it.

  “It’s his, all right. Well, he can’t have gone far, limping along on one shoe.”

  The second sandal, turned up about a hundred paces on, lying right out in the road. Keeta retrieved it, started to speak, then merely shrugged and avoided Marka’s eyes. They walked on in silence. Another hundred paces or so, and they saw something white flapping among the flowers: his linen tunic. Keeta wrapped his sandals in it, and they hurried on, walking faster. Ebañy’s floppy-brimmed riding hat showed up next, lying off to one side of the road, and not too far on, the strip of white linen that he used for a breechclout.

  “Ye gods!” Keeta snapped. “He’s wandering around stark naked.”

  “It certainly looks that way.” Marka felt so suddenly, impossibly weary that sitting down in the middle of the road and weeping seemed like an excellent idea. Instead she took the bundle of clothes from Keeta. “Maybe if you stood on top of that wall there and looked around for him?”

  “Good idea.”

  Keeta scrambled up the nearest stretch of stone wall. She balanced precariously on the top and shaded her eyes with her hand while Marka watched, hoping against hope that Ebañy hadn’t got far. Keeta turned this way and that, peered into the distance on all sides, shook her head in bafflement, then suddenly smiled.

  “Hah!” Keeta pointed off into the hayfield. “Something’s moving out there. Doesn’t look like a dog.”

  When Keeta jumped down into the field on the far side, Marka trotted over and handed her the bundle of Ebañy’s clothing. Scrambling over the wall, even with Keeta’s help, took her a few moments, and she begrudged every one of them, fearing that Ebañy would run off again. The green hay, all sweet-scented and rustling, closed round her like water up to her shoulders and so effectively cut her off from the view that she felt like screaming in frustration. With her height, however, Keeta could easily see over it. She shaded her eyes with her hand and peered.

  “Someone or some thing is rolling on the ground,” Keeta said. “I hope he’s not having a fit.”

  “I hope this farmer doesn’t see us trampling his hay.”

  “We’ll buy him off if he does. Don’t worry about that now.”

  With the hay murmuring around them they strode across the field. Marka could hear someone singing under his breath, harmonizing with the wind, it seemed at first. The song grew louder, burst into full voice—Ebañy, singing in the language of his far-off homeland. Marka wept in a brief scatter of tears. Keeta turned to her in concern.

  “It’s just relief,” Marka said, smiling. “I was so afraid that he’d wandered into Myleton like this.”

  The song stopped. Ebañy suddenly appeared, rising some twenty paces away from them in the hay, which came halfway up his chest. When Keeta hailed him, he turned their way and waved.

  “Well, there you are, my love,” he called out in Bardekian. “I was just searching for prophecies.”

  Marka nearly wept again, but she managed to force out a smile. Keeta sighed and shook her head.

  “I see you’ve found my clothes,” Ebañy went on. “I thought I’d become a wild man and go live in the forest. They live among the trees like beasts, you see, and the lesser gods come to them and give them prophecies.”

  “There isn’t any forest near here.”

  “I know.” Ebañy smiled brightly. “That’s what made me give up the idea.”

  They got him dressed and led him back to the road, but getting him back to the camp took a long struggle. He would walk a few steps, then fancy himself a wild man again and try to disrobe. Each time Marka would have to talk him out of it while Keeta held him pinned in her strong grip. By the time they returned to the caravanserai, the sun was setting, gilding the tents. Cooking fires bloomed among them, and the rich smell of grilling meat and griddle breads baking beckoned them home.

  “I’m hungry,” Ebañy said. “Do wild men eat roast meats?”

  “Of course they do,” Keeta said firmly. “Look, there are your children.”

  At the sight of them, running to meet him, Ebañy burst out sobbing.

  “I’d forgotten,” he said between sobs. “I can’t leave for the forest.”

  “No, you can’t,” Marka said, and she hoped she sounded cheerful and strong. “We love you, and we’d miss you.”

  After he’d eaten, Ebañy seemed to return to himself. He discussed the coming show with Vinto, told the children several stories, and laughed and joked with other members of the troupe. But that night Marka was afraid to sleep. She would doze off only to wake and make sure that he hadn’t run off into the night. Will we have to chain him? she would think. You hear of that happening to madmen.

  Toward dawn she lay awake for a long time, thinking about Evandar and the help he’d promised, months ago now. Would he return soon, now that it was spring? Perhaps his ship had never reached Deverry, what with the autumn storms and the pirates. Perhaps the healer he’d told them about wouldn’t return with him.

  All her doubts killed her small hope. As she lay exhausted on their blankets, watching the canvas walls of the tent brighten with the dawn, she found herself thinking a traitor’s thought, that perhaps if Ebañy should run off somewhere it would be better for them all.

  Up by the plaza on Citadel stood a public well, which drew water from a spring sweeter than the lake. Every morning Niffa would carry two wooden buckets on a shoulder yoke to fetch the day’s drinking water. With the coming spring in the air, the task gave her a certain domestic pleasure. The sky itself seemed lighter, as if the gods had spread a prettier
blue upon it. From the plaza she could look down to the town and beyond the walls to the surrounding meadows, dark brown with mud, streaked here and there with dirty snow. At the well itself stood other townsfolk, gossiping while they waited their turn to draw.

  On a day that was undeniably warm, Niffa trudged up the hill to the well. Councilman Verrarc’s blond young servant, Harl, had just filled his buckets. He saw Niffa, smiled, and hurried over.

  “Good morrow,” Harl said. “And how do you and yours fare?”

  “Well enough, my thanks,” Niffa said. “And your household?”

  “Fine, fine, though the master’s woman still be sickly, like.”

  One of the women at the well screamed. Niffa spun around just as two others began to shriek and point at the sky. Niffa looked up and saw a dragon flying toward Citadel.

  In the pale sun the beast glittered like obsidian. Huge-Niffa could not judge how large, but at least the size of two wagons, and the wings spread out in vast sweeps of greenish-black. She could hear each wing stroke beat the air like the pound of an enormous heart as the dragon dropped down, swooping in a soundless glide, then banking one wing to circle lazily over the plaza. Niffa could see the enormous copper-tinged head bend down as if it were looking them over. She nearly screamed herself, thinking it would land.

  The dragon spoke in a huge rumble, but although Niffa could tell the sounds meant words, it spoke a language she didn’t know. All she could think to do was raise a hand in the sign of peace. With one beat of its wings, it sheared off and flew, gaining height as it headed south and east.

  Everyone at the well started gabbling at once. Niffa walked a few steps away and watched the dragon until it turned into a tiny speck against the morning.

  “Niffa, Niffa!” Harl came running. “What did the beast say?”

  “I know not. Here! Think you I ken Dragonish or suchlike?”

  “Well, truly, not.” Harl had the grace to look embarrassed. “It be only that you—well, you do see things most folk can’t see, and so mayhap, I thought, you heard hidden things as well.”

  She realized that the other women had walked over to stand behind him. They were nodding their agreement.

  “The only one round here who do ken secrets be Werda,” Niffa said. “And I’d best be telling her about this wyrm.”

  Werda, however, had heard and seen the beast herself. Wrapped in her white cloak, she came striding across the plaza. When everyone started talking at once, she hushed them and beckoned to Niffa.

  “Come walk with me a bit,” Werda said. “I saw the beast speak to you.”

  Niffa left her buckets at the well. As she and the Spirit Talker walked away, she looked back to see the townsfolk gathering to discuss the omen among themselves. At the edge of the plaza, where worked stone met the huge boulders of the hill, Werda stopped and turned to look out across the broad view. Citadel fell away before them down to the ring of Cerr Cawnen. Beyond the city walls the earth stretched out dark to the horizon.

  “So,” Werda said. “The dragon did mark you out, did she?”

  “I know not. She spoke, but in some strange tongue, although I did think I heard our Jahdo’s name.”

  “Ah.” Werda turned and leaned against a boulder before she continued. “The lore of the gods do I ken, where each lives and what does please them. The witchlore I ken not. It be your road, not mine, young Niffa. I wonder if the spirits did take your Demet because you did love him so, more than you do love them and their lore.”

  “Then I hate them all! They be fools, if they do think I’d follow those that did slay my love.”

  “Nah nah nah!” Werda raised a hand in warding. “Never curse the spirits! They’ll be taking yet another fee, if you should spurn them. Wish you to lose your mother, say, or have some other death come upon you?” She lowered her hand. “This be a harsh saying, I do know that. But the witchroad is a long one and harsh as well.”

  “And why should I walk it then?”

  Werda smiled.

  “Because the spirits will never let you rest till you do take up your Wyrd. When I was a lass, I wanted naught more than a farm and a good man to work it with me. I dreamt of that farm and what I would plant in its fields. But the gods called me to their lore. I did whine and beg and plead, but not for me the life of a farmwife with her butter and eggs. Not for me the daughters and strong sons I did covet. One winter I took ill with fever, and in the fever visions came to me. I could serve the gods or I could die. Those two were the only roads they would let me walk. And so I chose life and the lore. And here be a secret: once I did set my feet upon the road, then did I feel a joy beyond any the farm would have brought me.”

  Niffa felt her eyes fill with tears.

  “Why do you weep?” Werda said.

  “Because in my soul I know the truth of what you say.” Niffa rubbed an angry hand across her eyes. “But if you ken not the lore, where shall I learn it? It aches my heart to think of leaving my home and kin.”

  “Where indeed? I know not. I think me though that if you do vigil, the gods will show you where you may go to set your feet upon the road.”

  Niffa went back to the well to find that Harl had drawn water for her. She murmured a thanks, picked up her buckets, and started for home. The silver lady in my dreams, she was thinking. She must ken the witchlore, or she’d not be speaking to me there. At that moment she saw her life open out as if like the dragon she’d taken wing to see the future spread out below, a vast landscape wreathed in mist.

  Appendices

  A NOTE ON DEVERRY DATING

  Deverry dating begins at the founding of the Holy City, approximately year 76 C.E. The reader should remember that the old Celtic New Year falls on the day we call November 1, so that winter is the first season of a new year.

  A NOTE ON THE PRONUNCIATION OF DEVERRY WORDS

  The language spoken in Deverry is a member of the P-Celtic family. Although closely related to Welsh, Cornish, and Breton, it is by no means identical to any of these actual languages and should never be taken as such.

  Vowels are divided by Deverry scribes into two classes: noble and common. Nobles have two pronunciations; commons, one.

  A as in father when long; a shorter version of the same sound, as in far, when short.

  O as in bone when long; as in pot when short.

  W as the oo in spook when long; as in roof when short.

  Y as the i in machine when long; as the e in butter when short.

  E as in pen.

  I as in pin.

  U as in pun.

  Vowels are generally long in stressed syllables; short in unstressed. Y is the primary exception to this rule. When it appears as the last letter of a word, it is always long whether that syllable is stressed or not.

  Diphthongs generally have one consistent pronunciation.

  AE as the a in mane.

  AI as in aisle.

  AU as the ow in how.

  EO as a combination of eh and oh.

  EW as in Welsh, a combination of eh and oo.

  IE as in pier.

  OE as the oy in boy.

  UI as the North Welsh wy, a combination of oo and ee. Note that OI is never a diphthong, but is two distinct sounds, as in carnoic, (KAR-noh-ik).

  Consonants are mostly the same as in English, with these exceptions:

  C is always hard as in cat.

  G is always hard as in get.

  DD is the voiced th as in thin or breathe, but the voicing is more pronounced than in English. It is opposed to TH, the unvoiced sound as in th or breath. (This is the sound that the Greeks called the Celtic tau.)

  R is heavily rolled.

  RH is a voiceless R, approximately pronounced as if it were spelled hr in Deverry proper. In Eldidd, the sound is fast becoming indistinguishable from R.

  DW, GW, and TW are single sounds, as in Gwendolen or twit.

  Y is never a consonant.

  I before a vowel at the beginning of a word is consonantal, as it is in
the plural ending-ion, pronounced yawn.

  Doubled consonants are both sounded clearly, unlike in English. Note, however, that DD is a single letter, not a doubled consonant.

  Accent is generally on the penultimate syllable, but compound words and place names are often an exception to this rule.

  I have used this system of transcription for the Bardekian and Elvish alphabets as well as the Deverrian, which is, of course, based on the Greek rather than the Roman model. On the whole, it works quite well for the Bardekian, at least. As for Elvish, in a work of this sort it would be ridiculous to resort to the elaborate apparatus by which scholars attempt to transcribe that most subtle and nuanced of tongues. Since the human ear cannot even distinguish between such sound-pairings as B> and B
  GLOSSARY

  ABER (Deverrian)A river mouth, an estuary.

  ASTRAL The plane of existence directly “above” or “within” the etheric (q.v.). In other systems of magic, often referred to as the Akashic Record or the Treasure House of Images.

  AURA The field of electromagnetic energy that permeates and emanates from every living being.

  AVER (Dev.) A river.

  BEL (Dev.) The chief god of the Deverry pantheon.

  BLUE LIGHT Another name for the etheric plane (q.v.).

  BODY OF LIGHT An artificial thought-form (q.v.) constructed by a dweomermaster to allow him or her to travel through the inner planes of existence.

  BRIGGA (Dev.) Loose wool trousers worn by men and boys.

  BROCH (Dev.) A squat tower in which people live. Originally, in the homeland, these towers had one big fireplace in the center of the ground floor and a number of booths or tiny roomlets up the sides, but by the time of our narrative, this ancient style has given way to regular floors with hearths and chimneys on either side of the structure.