Ravenmarked (The Taurin Chronicles) (9 page)
Beside the great waters will my people find peace.
By the sea will they find sanctuary.
— Songs of King Aiden, Book 8, Verse 10, Year of Creation 4993
Minerva reined in at the edge of the great forest. Night still blanketed the road, and she was grateful for the faint moonlight shining through the fog.
Their eyes are already on me.
Her palm burned with the proximity to so many warriors. She pulled her hood up further over her head.
Alshada, forgive me. I must warn them. I promised Muriel.
She’d passed a tense and cold three nights since leaving the sayada in Torlach. Shelter was hard to find for a woman with meager coin, and she feared revealing her identity, so she slept in farmers’ fields and sheltered groves between the city and the great forest. She traveled far away from the main roads.
If it weren’t for Braedan, I could go to a village with a kirok. They’d feed and shelter me.
But the days of kirok sanctuary were waning. Braedan had plans for Taura, and Minerva suspected they didn’t include the work of kirons and sayas.
She stared at the trees, her heart racing with fear.
Stay calm. The mark buys you passage.
She opened her hand and stared down at the faint glow under the brand on her palm. Memories returned in a rush—a husband’s smile, a father’s anger, a sister’s tears. She squeezed her hand and her eyes shut.
This isn’t about returning to the tribes. This is about warning them. I’m just warning them.
She clenched her jaw.
And if he kills me, I’ll die in service to Alshada.
She spurred her horse forward.
Warriors dressed in woolen kaltans or leather breeches met her at the boundary. To a man, they displayed multiple hunting tattoos on bare, muscular arms. Two great wolfhounds sat nearby, unconcerned, tongues lolling in long pink curls against shaggy gray coats.
Hound tribe.
She held up her hand, revealing the circled cross to the warriors. “I have business with the hound tribe.”
They looked at her palm, and one clenched and unclenched his fist. He thumped the butt end of a spear into the ground. “You are a guardian?”
The words wanted to catch in her throat, but she forced them free. “I am. I bring news from Torlach.”
The man snorted. His hand twitched on his spear. Another man took a bow from his shoulder. “News from Torlach does not concern the people.”
“This news does. Your chieftain will want to hear.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What tribe are you, guardian?”
A lump formed in her throat. She swallowed and coughed. “Salmon,” she said. “Or I was, many years ago.”
He frowned, surveying her silently for several moments. Finally, he nodded once and stepped aside. “The village is straight ahead.”
She inclined her head once and rode forward.
Autumn gray clung to the tops of pines and firs in the thick southern forest. Minerva smiled.
So much like the day I first came here.
That first winter with the people, eating and sleeping and training with the other guardian initiates, returned in a rush.
They’re all guardians by now, perhaps mothers and wives, doing their rituals and raising babes.
The pain of grief struck again, but this time, it wasn’t just for her husband. That time with the other initiates was the first time Minerva felt like she belonged somewhere—that she had something to offer, that people wanted her to be part of their lives.
She thought of the first time she danced the rites after a hunt and remembered her warrior’s brown eyes on her. She drew him into the circle with her, emboldened by the heat of the fires and the swirling magic of the lifespirit around them. “I’m only an initiate,” she whispered when he spun her close.
His breath warmed her neck, and she shivered. “You are strong in the wisdom. I sense it.”
She closed her eyes and let her body flow in time to the music. “They call me Esma.”
“Esma,” he whispered. He put his mouth on her neck and nipped at her. “Esma. I could whisper that for hours.”
Minerva shook away the memories.
Forgive me, One—Alshada. Being here—I want to fall into the tribal ways. Forgive me. You are Alshada, not the One Hand.
She came to the edge of the village as the sun crested the horizon in the distance. Village sounds drifted to her—women stirring cook fires and soothing babes in the huts, goats bleating for food and milking, warriors returning home after night watches. Most wore leather breeches or dark woolen kaltans over their legs and wool tunics and furs over their arms and torsos.
A hound bayed, and Minerva startled. A burly, graying tribesman wearing only breeches stepped out of the fog to meet Minerva at the edge of the village. He hushed his gray wolfhound, patted the dog’s massive head, and pointed at his foot. The dog wagged his tail and lowered his head, and the rest of the village dogs quieted.
She lifted her chin and took a deep breath.
Hrogarth.
The snaking brand across his face gave him away, but if it hadn’t, she would have remembered the fierce, chiseled features and intense stare.
Careful. Don’t let him know who you are.
“Traitha Hrogarth. I am Saya Minerva. I bring news from Torlach.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “News from Torlach doesn’t concern the tribes.”
“Grant me a moment, I beg you.”
“A moment.”
“Fergus has died. Braedan has claimed the throne for himself. He has stormed the sayada and taken most of the sayas prisoner, including Sayana Muriel. He will come after the tribes next.”
Hrogarth grunted. “I saw the dark moon. I knew Fergus’ time had come. But the unbeliever will not come after the tribes. He is bound by ancient treaty to stay out of the great forest.”
“Braedan isn’t afraid to break faith, and he will drive his men to seek you.” She paused. “He seeks the Sidh.”
His eyebrows raised a fraction, the only concession to surprise. “He shouldn’t know about them. No regent has ever known unless the Sidh queen allows it. How do you know this?”
“The Sidh queen told Sayana Muriel. She believes he is seeking Cuhail’s reliquary.”
“Can one spoiled brat destroy enchantments two thousand years old?”
“The enchantments are fading—they’ve been fading for decades. Queen Maeve told Sayana Muriel that the protections around the Sidh village have been weakening ever since the tribes and the Sidh rejected each other. Braedan has been asking questions about the Sidh since he returned. He will come to the tribes seeking them.”
“It’s a fool’s quest. The unbeliever is human. He cannot use the reliquary. And since he does not carry Brenna’s blood, he cannot be the rightful deliverer, either.”
Stubborn man!
“It doesn’t matter what is true.” Her voice rose. “Whether he believes he can use it or not, he still seeks it. He still threatens the safety of the Sidh and the tribes. Traitha, please—you must go to Queen Maeve. You must offer your protection once more.”
Hrogarth spat. “I’ll not crawl to offer my protection when they rejected it. Let them have their magic and their gold.”
Despair twisted Minerva’s stomach. “But they have nothing. They have no way to defend themselves should Braedan reveal their village. They need tribal swords and spears. You cannot reject—”
“I reject nothing. The Sidh reject it. They told us their magic could protect the artifacts. Let them depend on the elements.”
“Hrogarth, the time of chaos is coming. Braedan listens to evil counselors. They push him to find the relics. If he unleashes the full power of the earth, this feud will be nothing but a petty spat that will destroy you. Namha will be loosed, and the Forbidden will rule all.”
Hrogarth’s mouth flickered into a frown. His eyes narrowed, and he took three steps toward her. Minerva flinched. “No,” he said. “I swore when I was a child—I will not bend my knee. I will not return what they rejected.”
Her voice wavered. “Please, traitha.”
“You bought passage with the wisdommark. I will be merciful now, but if you ever return, Esma, you will die. I will not abide an oathbreaker in my village.”
She lifted her chin and straightened in the saddle. “The blood of the Brae Sidh will be on your head.”
“That may be. But I will face the gods or the earth for that, not some oathbreaker playing at being prophetess.”
Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back and swallowed.
Salt and vinegar—my sister was right. I’m only salt and vinegar.
She drew up the reins of her horse and started to turn, but her eyes fell on a woman in the distance.
Alfrig.
Alfrig approached wrapped in furs, her thick, dark hair awry, and stopped a dozen paces behind Hrogarth. Her eyes narrowed, then widened in recognition. Her mouth trembled. Her foot started toward Minerva and stopped.
A swell of emotion rose in Minerva’s chest, and she struggled to keep her composure. Alfrig, chief priestess over the nine tribes, wife to Hrogarth, heir apparent to the wisdomkeeper in the far north.
And once my friend, and the only mother I knew, for a time.
Her palm burned. The words formed on her tongue.
Great Mother, hear our laughter. Great Mother, hear our sorrow. Great Mother, hear our pleas.
She opened her mouth, but her eyes fell on Hrogarth’s face again, and she snapped her lips shut.
Alfrig gave a small shake of her head. She turned her hand out just enough for Minerva to see the faint glow of her own wisdommark.
We are still sisters,
the gesture told Minerva.
We are still joined by ritual and blood, and I will not betray you. But he is my husband, and you broke your vows. Go, now, while he is merciful.
Minerva wheeled her horse around before she could change her mind. Alfrig’s eyes stayed on her back, and as she rode away, the traitha and the guardian spoke in low, heated tones.
She rode out of the hound tribe’s territory, away from most tribal eyes except the few sentries who lined the road. When she was as alone as she could be, she dismounted, knelt at the foot of a massive fir tree, and started to shake and sob in relief, despair, and sorrow all at once.
Great Mother, hear our sorrow.
She wiped her nose on her sleeve and shook her head. “No,” she said. “No. I don’t pray to the earthspirit anymore. I don’t speak to the wisdomkeeper. I am a servant of the One—of Alshada.”
She opened her hand. The crossed circle still glowed, even some distance away from the warriors. Minerva scrambled to her horse and rummaged through her pack in desperation until she found her gloves. She pulled them on and let out a long breath.
I can’t keep it from flaring, but I can keep anyone from seeing it.
A snap behind her startled her, and she whirled. The hound warrior who had first greeted her stepped out of the trees. “I meant for you to hear me,” he said. He tipped his spear at her. “I gave you time to draw.”
Minerva backed up against the horse. “Hrogarth let me go.”
“He did not give you permission to remain in the forest.”
“Please,” Minerva whispered. “I need to stay. I need to find the Sidh.”
“The Sidh?” Amber eyes narrowed. He worked his mouth as if chewing words. The lines of his face softened. “Find the wolf tribe. North—near Kiern. Their traitha is sympathetic to the Sidh. You may get help from them.”
She inclined her head. “I thank you.”
He grunted. “Not all of us believe as Hrogarth does,” he said, and he disappeared into the trees.
Minerva let out a long breath and leaned against her horse. The mare whickered and twisted her head to nudge Minerva. When Minerva could trust her legs again, she mounted. “We ride north,” she said.
The earth itself marked Brenna as its own.
It gave her the ravenmark and called her to its service.
— Second Book of the Wisdomkeepers, Year of Creation 5037 (approximate)
There was a comforting continuity to the farm life Donal and Aileen had carved for themselves, Connor thought.
Slavers may threaten, but goats still need milking, pigs need slopping, and fences need mending.
Connor watched the quiet bustle around him in the predawn light as he packed the horses and waited for Mairead. It soothed him to think that the Mac Raes still woke before dawn to repeat their routines.
Aileen joined him. She held out a warm, wrapped package. “Some pasties for your journey. The lady is up and dressing.”
Connor took the pasties. “I don’t know how I can thank you for your many kindnesses.” He opened his purse and pulled out several coins. “These are for the owner of the horses if he comes for them. What can I give you and Donal?”
Aileen smiled. “Well, it wouldn’t be hospitality if we expected payment, would it?” She put the coins in her apron pocket and pushed his hand away when he offered more. “Put it away, lad. We’re blessed to help ye. We still owe ye for what ye did for us.”
“It was my fault she ran away. It was my responsibility to bring her back.”
“Well, we’re grateful.”
He thought he should send some message to Aine. “Tell Aine I’m glad she’s happy. I wish her the best. She deserves it.”
Aileen put a hand on his arm. “I will.”
Memories tugged at his composure. “We were so young. She deserved—deserves—better than I could have given her.”
“Still singing that song, are ye? We’d have had ye for a son and been glad of it.” Aileen lowered her voice. “Ye might want to reconsider your views of marriage, Connor. ’Tis a good journey. ’Tis good to have a friend to journey with. My Donal, I wouldn’t trade the great ogre for anything.”
“You know I’m too wild for marriage.”
“Ye just haven’t found the right woman.”
Mairead came out of the house dressed in breeches, tunic, and cloak, her hair braided and drawn over one shoulder. She gave Aileen a warm embrace. “Dear lady, thank you so much for your great hospitality. I hope we meet again one day.”
Aileen laughed and returned the embrace. “Ach, o’ course we will—in the great golden city if nowhere else.”
Donal joined them just as Mairead met her horse for the first time. He chuckled. “You’re a bit pale, lass.”
Mairead stared at the palomino with wide eyes. “She’s so big.”
“Have ye never ridden a horse afore?”
Mairead shook her head. “I lived in the city. We walked everywhere. I’ve ridden in a wagon a few times, but I’ve never ridden a horse.”
He patted the horse’s withers. “’Tis easy. This is a gentle lass. She’ll be easy to ride.”
The mare whickered and nosed Mairead’s hand. Mairead patted her nose, and the horse begged for more.
Connor grabbed a handful of grass and handed it to Mairead. “Here. Hold it out to her.”
Mairead took the grass. “How do I—”
“Just hold it under her nose.”
Mairead’s hand moved slowly toward the mare’s nose. The palomino sniffed and nibbled up the grass with her lips. Mairead startled, but she didn’t step back. The horse chewed the grass while Mairead patted her nose, neck, and withers.
Donal put an arm around Mairead and squeezed her shoulders. “Lass, ye remind me of my own daughters. Take care o’ the mare, and she’ll take care o’ you.”
Mairead turned and stretched up to kiss Donal’s cheek. “Thank you for everything.”
Donal patted her back and then turned to Connor. He clasped Connor’s arm. “And ye—take care o’ the lady.” His voice dropped. “I’ve put a special skin in your pack. Use it wisely, lad—’tis some of my best.”
Connor grinned. “I will.”
Mairead stared at the saddle, her forehead drawn into lines.
“Left foot in the stirrup, lift up, swing over,” Connor said.
She didn’t move. He stepped toward her to help, but she pushed him away. “I can do it.” She put her hands on the saddle and left foot in the stirrup, but only managed to hop halfway up to the saddle. She tried again, managing to straighten her leg before she stumbled back to the ground.
Connor steadied her with one hand on her back. He laughed. “Careful.”
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not—I swear. I’ve been doing this so long I forgot how hard it was at first.”
“You’re lying.”
“A little.” Behind him, Donal chuckled. “Let me help—just this once,” Connor said.
She sighed. “All right.” She put her hands on the saddle again and her foot in the stirrup, and he held her waist as she lifted up and swung her leg over.
“There. Not so bad, is it?”
“Not so bad,” she said, but her eyes were wide, and her voice quivered.
Aileen stepped closer to Donal and let him put one arm around her. “Safe journey. Alshada’s blessings on ye both,” she said.
Connor mounted the sorrel and turned toward the hills in the northeast. Mairead fell in next to him. He glanced at her. “You were able to braid your hair today.”
“My hand is much better.” Her hands gripped the reins and her legs were tense around the horse’s back, but the palomino walked with demure patience next to Connor’s sorrel. She sighed. “That felt like going home.”
“Don’t get used to it. I don’t know many people as hospitable or safe as Donal and Aileen between here and Sveklant.”
Fog dampened the colors of the burgeoning dawn, and Connor was grateful for Mairead’s silence as they rode. The between times of dawn and twilight were sacred to the Brae Sidh. Though he avoided the village and his magic, there was a draw in those moments that he couldn’t deny.
When the sun began to peek over the distant horizon, Connor turned back. He frowned. “Saya, do you see the farm?”
She turned, blinked, and frowned. “Where is it?”
He wheeled his horse around. The fog had lifted from ground level, and Connor saw the ragged line of village rooftops, but nothing more. “I see the village, but the farm—” He stopped. “What the—”
From the location of Aileen and Donal’s house, two enormous white birds lifted into the air.
Syrafi.
They were Syrafi. Gods. If the Syrafi are protecting this woman, she must be who they said she is.
A chill ran down his spine.
Unless they were here to send me a message. But what message would they have needed to give me? And what happened to Donal and Aileen? The Syrafi don’t murder people—do they?
He shook his head and blinked, but the birds were still there.
Mairead gasped. “Oh, they’re beautiful.”
The two beasts hovered in mid-air. As the sun banished the purple of the night sky, they flapped their massive wings and raced into the darkness in the distance. In the span of a breath, they were out of sight.
“What are they?” Mairead’s voice was reverent in the misty dawn. “Are they Syr—”
“I don’t know.”
I can’t be involved in this. The last thing I need in my life is more magic.
Connor whirled his sorrel around before she could say more.
Connor kept an easy pace as Mairead learned how to control her horse. The palomino had a gentle spirit and fell in next to the stallion on her own most of the time. Mairead grew more comfortable as the day wore on, and by evening, she had even spurred her horse into an easy canter a few times at Connor’s urging.
As sunset approached, he directed her to an open field and dismounted near a patch of scrubby grass. “It’s clear tonight. It’ll be cold, but we won’t be rained on. I’ll build a fire.”
She dismounted. “Can I help?”
“No. It’ll just take a few minutes.” He knelt to start making the fire pit.
“Is there something else I can do? I don’t like just standing around.”
“Can you cook?”
“Not really.”
“Hunt or fish? Gather roots or plants for eating?”
“No.”
“Then just sit and be quiet and let me work.”
She sighed. “I suppose I can say my evening prayers.”
“Fine. Go over there, will you? I’d prefer silence.”
“Of course.” She walked some distance away and knelt.
This is going to be a long trip if she insists on that every morning and evening,
Connor thought.
She rejoined him just as the fire started to crackle. “You prayed for some time,” he said.
“You didn’t seem to want my help.”
He unpacked some of the salted meat and bread Aileen had given them.
“This might be the last fresh bread you see for a while, saya.”
She took the bread he offered. “You know, you don’t have to call me ‘saya.’ I never took the oaths. You can call me Mairead.”
“If you wish.”
“Have I done something to offend you?”
He shook his head. “No. Why?”
“You seem upset. Bothered by me.”
“I’m just doing my job. I’m here to escort you, not entertain you.” She opened her mouth to say something, but he gestured toward the food. “Eat. We should get to sleep early. We need to keep riding while the weather is good.” They ate in silence.
When night fell, Connor spread out his blanket, took off his boots and jerkin, and lay down. “You can spread your blanket on the other side of the fire. If you get cold, I’ll build it back up.”
She pulled her blanket out of her pack and lay down on her side facing him. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask.”
“What were those creatures we saw this morning?”
He closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“The legends of the Syrafi say—”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Good night.”
She sighed. “Good night.” She rolled away from him.
The morning and the next day and night passed with few words between them. It wasn’t for lack of trying on her part. She initiated multiple conversations that he cut off with terse replies and contrived distractions.
If I start talking to her, she’ll start asking about the Mac Raes and what we saw at the farm. She doesn’t need to know my past, and I don’t have any answers for her about the Syrafi.
But as she continued to offer her help with camp chores, his resolve weakened. There was an easy grace and kindness about her manner that chipped at the demeanor he’d affected since Donal and Aileen’s house.
In typical fashion, autumn gave them two cold, misty mornings followed by dry, warm afternoons that made Connor think of the harvest festivals within the tribes. The equinox was only two weeks away. He’d miss the hunt.
This girl had better be the real Taurin heir.
He caught the scent of deer nearby and motioned Mairead to a stop. The herd emerged from the trees, and Connor picked up his bow and nocked an arrow. He aimed at the smallest deer and fired. The youngling staggered a few steps and fell as the others scattered.
Connor dismounted, and Mairead followed him. “Why did you shoot it?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“For your supper.”
“We have food.”
“The salt pork will keep. We eat fresh when we can. Deer are plentiful.” He pulled the deer aside and started to butcher it.
“Where did you learn this?”
“All boys learn this in the real world. You’re not in the kirok anymore.” He started to skin the animal.
“You said you’re a tribesman.”
“I am.”
“I met a tribesman once when I was a little girl.”
He grunted. “Did you? Where?”
“In a village where my father and I lived. A few tribesmen came through one day. I ran away from my teacher and went to ask one of them about the marks on his face.”
“If he had marks on his face, he was a chieftain.”
“I know. He told me. He said his name was Hrogarth.”
Connor chuckled.
“What’s funny?”
“Just that you met our king, if tribesmen have a king, and you didn’t even know it. Hrogarth is the chief of the nine tribes and the hound tribe.”
“Well, he was just a nice man to me.” She knelt next to him. “Why don’t you wear the braids?”
“I did until this job. The Sidh queen said they might offend you.”
“Do you have tattoos?”
“Several.”
“Where?”
He stopped cutting and pointed to his right arm. “I have thirteen circles on my arm for the thirteen hunts I’ve been on. Each one combines the animal symbol of the tribe I hunted with and a knotwork design that goes all the way around the arm.”
“What do they do when you run out of room on your arm?”
“Go to the other side. Some of the old men have the tattoos of the hunt even down their legs.” He pointed to his left shoulder blade. “I have a wolf’s head on my shoulder. I was initiated into the wolf tribe when I was fourteen. I have knotwork on my chest—one endless knot that’s a symbol for the web of life.” He pointed at his right shoulder with the bloody knife. “I have one here that says I’m old enough to marry but haven’t taken a wife. If I ever were to marry, I would have the knotwork finished.” He grasped the deer’s windpipe and pulled organs and viscera free of the carcass. He left them at one side for wolves and ravens, drained the body, and hung it from a limb.