Raven's Ladder by Jeffrey Overstreet
“Of course you cannot repair all that has been broken. Before you speak to your people tomorrow, come to my father’s assembly room. Partayn and I will show you our plan. You’ll find we have a powerful alliance that gives us confidence of a rescue.”
Cal-raven closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as the burn in his eye suddenly flared.
“rrRescue,” grumbled Jordam. “O-raya’s boy. Ale boy. He helps us.”
“The ale boy? He’s alive?” Cal-raven clapped his hand over his mouth as if to stifle a shout.
“That is not all,” said Cyndere softly. “Jordam has other help in the Core. Some are beastmen. With your stonemastery and the boy’s firebearing, we can close the tunnels, defend the prisoners, and carry them away.”
“I don’t speak Cent Regus. Neither do you. We only have this one.” He gestured to Jordam. “How can we navigate through a labyrinth we’ve never seen?”
“We have someone who knows the Cent Regus Core.” Cyndere took his hands in her own. “She’s been a prisoner there for a long time.”
Fear seized Cal-raven, and he felt a sudden urge to flee. “Auralia? Have you found Auralia?”
Jordam bowed his head. “No,” he sighed.
“No,” said Cyndere, and her voice had that familiar flutter. “It’s your mother, Jaralaine. She’s alive.”
Cal-raven pulled his hands free.
He walked away from them, aimlessly at first. Then he thrust out his hands and struck the wall. It rippled. He pushed into it, immersing himself in disintegrating stone. Then, all at once, he surrendered the power. He stood paralyzed, encased in the wall.
He stood there a long time, emotions overpowering thought.
Then, deep within, he felt a cry beginning.
With a roar, he shattered the wall, stone crashing down in jagged shards all around him. He stood snarling like a cornered animal before Cyndere and the beastman.
“Help us, King of Abascar,” Cyndere whispered while Jordam watched the corridor. “We’ll show you the plan.”
“You mistake me.” Cal-raven felt his lips curl, and he gave a joyless laugh. “House Abascar is ruled by a queen. And she’s hoping for rescue. I must go to her tonight.”
27
HELPLESS IN THE GARDEN
When Cal-raven did not return to his chamber, Tabor Jan left the maps behind and descended to wander, troubled, through the rock.
Brevolo found him, leaned against his shoulder, and steered him down to the crowded corridors known as the Night Market. Amid the frantic energy and din inspired by the parade, they moved like watchful ghosts, murmuring in each other’s ears ideas they’d like to carry with them to New Abascar.
Along an avenue where crafters sat, their legs folded beneath them on circles of elaborate carpet, Brevolo spoke with an old man whose skin was as dark as coal. When she praised the wooden pipes he had whittled into dragon shapes, his smile was shockingly bright. And even though Tabor Jan heard the coins fall in the craftsman’s bowl, he did not know until later that Brevolo had slipped a piece from the collection into his pocket.
Steam burst from the kitchens that stayed busy all night long. Aromas spilled like rumors down the avenues: redfish on a grill; seaweed, braised and seasoned; peppered root-cakes fried in grease, then stacked and drenched in orange-cherry syrup. They wandered, sipping salty liquor served warm in small clay cups. From time to time, they joined crowds where musicians played loudly to be heard over the racket.
Every so often they would nod as they recognized someone else from Abascar. But these encounters troubled the captain. The people seemed dizzy with pleasure, inspired and relieved, as if Barnashum had been a bad dream and its stains could be washed away in this tide of sensual bedazzlement.
“Come along, Captain Scowlface.” Brevolo punched him lightly in the jaw. “Have you become so accustomed to hardship that you’re unable to relax anymore?”
“When our king is content, I’ll rest,” he said. “This is a stop on a journey. I fear we’re forgetting.”
“Then store up memories to keep you warm in the wild,” she said.
“I had hoped,” he mumbled, “that you’d keep me warm out there.”
She smiled, but it seemed forced.
Light pealed from lanterns like music from bells, and the mirrors all around them gave wanderers a sense that the Night Market stretched on forever. Brevolo paused to admire an array of syrup-glazed, horn-shaped vegetables that seemed too brightly colored to be real. “You’ll go back to the meager meals in the Cragavar after this?”
“We will,” he insisted.
She did not respond to that.
They pushed their way at last to a viewpoint for some silent seagazing. Waves of incense wafted from shops on lower levels where craftsmen sold bowls and oils for moon-spirit lamps. Tabor Jan felt as if they had stepped out of an elaborate dance. And Brevolo seemed free of her grief for a while.
When he returned to his bunkroom, he almost slept.
Midmorning he found himself engulfed in sunlight, salt-stung and sleepy. Bel Amica’s rock had cast its foggy blanket to the sea, and the marketplaces below were alive with activity.
“Three more days.” The words tasted bittersweet, for he had let down his guard. He had enjoyed his adventure last night.
He pulled the pipe from his pocket. It was handsome, carved from mar-rowwood. Brevolo would have skipped an afternoon meal to save the coins for such a purchase.
He tucked some aromatic oceantree gum into the bowl and lit it with the flame of the moon-spirit lamp that sat glimmering on the wall. As he did, he saw Luci and Margi running along the avenue below. They saw him and waved. They shouted, but he could not hear them. He waved back, then stepped away from the low wall and leaned against the dark, porous stone, blinking woozily.
Pipe smoke shocked his lungs. When he exhaled, tension faded from his neck and shoulders.
The waves rolled. Rest. Breathe. Rest. Breathe. And then it seemed that their sighs said more: Stay…Safety…
Even as he clutched the pipe, he felt the distance between Brevolo and himself widen. She had made clear her affection for him. And here was this gift in his hand, smoke sweetly scenting the air. But they had spoken little of their future; she dreaded to imagine life beyond Bel Amica, but he could think of little else. Their past was washing away.
He thought of Brevolo riding on her first patrol with Captain Ryllion. She had told him so many stories from her days in the training yards, and most of them were accounts of Ryllion’s strength and strategy—his hunts, his battles, the beastmen he had bullied into cooperation, the others he had slaughtered.
“Three days,” he said, closing his eyes. “Three days, and I’m taking you back to a world that’s true.”
He heard a woman clear her throat.
He opened his eyes to a blue-robed figure standing in the morning’s golden blur. At first he thought it was a child holding a lantern. Then he saw it was Emeriene. It was not a lantern she held but a cage housing five birds, each one no bigger than his thumb.
“I shouldn’t be surprised to find you sleeping on the watch. The officers in your bunkhouse say you pace all night.”
“I’ve a lot on my mind.” He winced, hearing in his voice the boast of an obstinate child. He knocked the smoldering oceantree gum from the pipe. “You have a birdcage.”
“Come with me.”
She walked away, a blue cloud carrying a silver basket. A stone corridor breathed her in, swallowed her up. “You haven’t been sleeping,” she said as he followed, “and that’s not good for a watchman. So it’s time you met the Kneader.”
They emerged from a mirror-lined tunnel onto a platform with tall, feathery trees and walls of woven vines. Emeriene led him through an ivy-bound archway into a maze of whispering leaves. The air was richly spiced, and men and women—most of them soldiers—wandered the paths as if sleepwalking.
“Our defenders enjoy this privilege after patrols.”
Wary, he
“Take off your shields.”
He grimaced.
“Your king has approved this.”
As if stripping for a fistfight, he brusquely removed his shoulder guards, bracers, the cuirass, the chain-mail vest. Then he stood bowlegged in his trousers and loose-fitting shirt, arms out in the pose of a wrestler.
She showed him how to lean forward, not back, into the chair so that his face stared through a cushioned frame at the water. He studied their surroundings again as if something might pounce from behind. But then, with some coaxing, he found himself slumped against the leaning chair, arms hanging forward, knees bent and braced, his back and shoulders exposed as an enormous shadow appeared on the stone beside him. A formidable woman in a sisterly’s gown leaned down to smile in welcome. She waved a hand mittened in a glove intricately beaded with small gems—some soft, some sharp.
“Cal-raven’s supposed to assemble our people this morning. I don’t understand how this is going to help—” His body felt a jolt like a blast of lightning, and then… “Oh.”
A shock of heat rippled from the base of his neck through his shoulders and down his back, then spread through his whole body. The Kneader’s hands suddenly felt like waves of an incoming tide, crashing and rolling, stripping away what burdened and pained him. He felt lighter. His hard, anxious thoughts softened and lost their shape. His view of the water blurred into a gauzy gold.
As he sank beneath the tide, Emeriene sat on a bench at the edge of his vision, set the birdcage on the ground by her feet, and spoke with sweet, flirtatious music.
“I’ve brought someone who wishes to speak with you.”
He tried to lift his head but couldn’t. A shapely figure in a green gown had joined Emeriene on the bench.
“I need you to be still, Captain.” It was Cyndere’s voice. “I’ve cleared the garden. The Kneader, you should know, lost her hearing in childhood. She listens through her fingers, and all she can hear right now is your body crying for rest. So we’re alone. You can relax.”
I am far too relaxed, he wanted to say. I am disastrously relaxed.
Cyndere explained that she had met Cal-raven at the infirmary and then revealed all that she had told him. Of Deuneroi. Of Jordam. Of the well at Tilianpurth and the hope for the Cent Regus.
Tabor Jan felt a knot tightening in his chest.
She spoke of learning from Jordam that beastmen were moving to besiege the survivors at Barnashum. She narrated Jordam’s mission to find Cal-raven and described how Abascar’s king had fought him and driven him away.
The Kneader shoved tiny pins into Tabor Jan’s neck. Then she placed black seabugs on his arms, and they bit into his flesh with shiny fangs. Sweat poured down his brow.
“Jordam saved House Abascar,” Cyndere continued. “He also went back to the Core and freed my brother, Partayn, from prison. He’ll return to rescue others from the Cent Regus chieftain, many of whom are from—”
“No!” Tabor Jan shouted as if he had been kicked.
“Jordam was going to leave tomorrow,” she continued softly. “But Cal-raven would not wait. He insisted they leave last night. He’s determined to bring back as many as he can.”
“Why?” Tabor Jan roared. He felt like a bull in a tantrum, but his hands hung useless before him. “Why not take me? What would compel—”
“Jaralaine,” said Cyndere.
What Tabor Jan felt then was the queerest of sensations—a sense of losing all balance, of falling through space. “Why, for the glory of Har-baron’s hindquarters, didn’t he tell me?”
“You would have tried to stop him,” said Cyndere. “I tried, believe me. I asked him to wait and study maps of the labyrinth that his mother and the firebearer have provided for us.”
He gasped. “The firebearer? Rescue’s alive?”
Emeriene said, “As your tasker, I’m appointing you to protect Abascar’s people and prepare them for departure upon Cal-raven’s return. And your king approves.”
“He’s a fool.” His voice was like a sob.
“He may be,” Emeriene laughed. “But a better fool than most.”
“I’m sworn to protect him. How can I keep my word when he leaves me behind? Charging off as if he has to do everything himself…when just a pinch of patience could…just asking for some help would…” His words diminished into a humiliating whimper, then a sigh of surrender.
Cyndere stood up. “And I thought my brother and Cal-raven were the last good men.” Then she waved her hand to fan her reddening face. “I am feeling warm. I’m going to find water.” The queen’s daughter was gone.
Emeriene came up close to him. “Well, you’ve made an impression on one who is difficult to impress.”
“You’re not taking me seriously.” He could not move a finger or a toe. “I’m not a man who stands and waits. What am I to do?”
“I’m taking you very seriously. Cal-raven’s never needed you as much as he does now. Nobody knows him better, so no one can lead Abascar better than you.”
“It’s not enough.”
“I know how you feel. I understand better than you might guess. You feel helpless. You feel disrespected. But you have to let him go, Tabor Jan. Even though you may be right. Cal-raven, with all the best intentions, may be taking the wrong path. Or he may surprise you, as Cyndere surprises me. Whatever the case, don’t make things worse by missing the difference you can make right here. Cal-raven’s off to face his own challenge. This, here, is yours.”
“What can I do? I’m useless as a watchman. If I walk these walls any longer, I’ll lose my mind.” He stared down at the birdcage. “My challenge. The old man said my challenge was coming.”
“Old man? What do you mean?”
“I had a visitor. The old man. Officer Droolface.”
“Bauris? He came to visit you?”
“In the middle of the night.”
“Bauris never visits anyone. He just wanders and talks to himself.” Emeriene sat on the grass where she could look up into Tabor Jan’s face, which only made him feel even more ridiculous. “What did he say?”
Tabor Jan pressed his lips together. Then he said, “It was nonsense. Something about the birds and what they would tell me.”
“How remarkable. And he didn’t even know.”
“Know what?”
“Partayn has sent these tetherwings for you. My father trains tetherwings to chirp at any sign of danger. But these…these are special. He’s trained them so they will respond only to beastmen. Otherwise, they are as silent as knuckle-nuts.”
“That…would be useful. Are they for Ryllion?”
“In a manner of speaking. Partayn wants you to patrol the harbor caves with these birds. Tell no one about their…particular purpose.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. But when Jordam the beastman came in last night, he told Officer Henryk that he smelled something. Something that doesn’t belong.”
“He smelled House Abascar,” he snapped.
“No, no,” she laughed. “Rest, Tabor Jan. You might as well since you won’t be able to move for a while. Your body’s sleeping. Let your mind follow. Just for a while.” Emeriene motioned to the Kneader.
The Kneader seized him, lifted him from the chair, and set him in a wheelchair, where his arms hung limp at his sides. Emeriene planted the birdcage in his lap, then drew a circlet of feathers from a pocket in her robe and placed it on his head with great ceremony. “I crown you, Tabor Jan, king of tetherwings.”
“Sleep? Bird-watching? I’m Abascar’s captain of the guard.”
“I wonder, did Cal-raven learn his insolence from you, or was it the other way around?” She smiled to the Kneader. “We’ll let you find your own way out. When you’re ready.”
Tabor Jan tried to lift his head. He tried to lift an arm. But he could only sit and stare at the silent birds while the breeze teased the garden leaves.
28
NIGHT ON THE BEASTMAN RIVER
Are you certain you won’t rest?” Officer Henryk looked through the trees into the pond of fog that submerged the valley. “When this clears, you’ll see it—the tower of Tilianpurth. We could get good rest there. Better meals. Would do you good, boyo.”
Cal-raven tightened the clamp on the bow Cyndere had given him from her own collection, pulling the string taut again. “You keep calling me boyo, Officer.”
“Do I?” Henryk gazed into the crumblewood campfire, turning the brascle over the flames. “Ey, now, forgive me. You just remind me so much of him.”
“Who do I remind you of?”
“My son.”
Cal-raven rose and walked a slow circle around the soldiers who were sharpening jags of heavy wood. They would sink a barrage of these bulky spears in the river near the Cent Regus Core to gut any boats that tried to follow them out.
“At what point do we come in after you?” Henryk asked. “And tell me twice.”
“You don’t. You don’t come in after me.”
Henryk puffed up his cheeks, then whistled long and low. “The courage of youth.”
Cal-raven half turned, suspecting he was being insulted.
“Let us consider,” Henryk continued, “the possibility that things could go wrong in the Core.” He lifted the spit and shoved the dripping bird at Cal-raven. “You end up slow-roasted over a fire, and with every turn you’re thinking, ‘Ey, now. I told them to stay. I told them I couldn’t fail.’”
“Three days,” said Cal-raven. “If I have not sent you some kind of sign in three days, then something is awry.”
Henryk shook his head. “I wish my son had lived to see this. The king of Abascar taking a beastman as his guide.”
A troubling rumble began beneath the fog, drawing their attention. Cal-raven stood up and put his hand on his hilt. “Maybe he does see it,” he said. “If he does, he must be similarly surprised to see his father protecting an Abascar man.”