Raven's Hand (2 page)

“Honestly, Celia, I’m fine. I just want to
rest for a while before dinner.”

Celia grinned at this. “You’re going to see
him
, aren’t you?”

I closed my eyes. “I’m sure I don’t know what
you’re talking about.”

Celia hopped onto the bed beside me, her gown
ruffling indignantly. “Oh yes, you do,” she said. “You know
exactly.”

I opened my eyes, but said nothing.

Celia placed the back of one hand against her
forehead, pretending to swoon. She fell back onto the bed beside me
with a muffled thump upon the duvet. “Oh, my handsome prince,” she
said. “Take me away from all of this.”

I propped myself upon one elbow in mock
indignation. “I never said he was a prince,” I protested.

Still swooning, she said, “Oh, my handsome
plumber
!”

We laughed together at this.

“It would be easier if you knew his name,”
Celia observed.

“It’s a dream,” I replied. “How can I know
his name?”

Celia laughed. “Well, have you asked
him?”

“Of course not, silly,” I said. “Besides,
what difference would it make? He’s not real.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” Celia protested.
“At least, you have fun in your dreams. Mine are so terribly
boring. I can never remember them, anyway.”

“I cannot forget mine,” I replied
wistfully.

Celia smiled, placing a hand upon my cheek.
“Then go to your prince, or whoever he is, while there is time
before dinner. I shall come to wake you.”

We grinned at each other, and then she
scooted off the edge of the bed. The door opened before her. She
turned before exiting, whispering conspiratorially, “Give him a
kiss for me, and don’t forget to ask his name.”

Celia resumed her composure before leaving
the room, aware that she might happen upon the matron at any
moment. Hannah always seemed to be where you least expected her,
and she was always watching for breaches of decorum in her charges.
We did our best to always be mindful of her stern looks. The door
closed, after Celia crossed the threshold.

I sighed, pulling the duvet from the end of
the bed to cover me. When I woke, it would be that much easier to
put back in place, so that it would not appear I was sleeping.
After all, Mistress Hannah might not like it that I had failed to
properly reflect upon my misdeeds today.

I watched the hearth and the logs stacked
upon the grate. Smoke began to issue from pores in the wood as I
commanded the elements with my thoughts. Heat built for nearly a
minute before the flame finally kindled. Yet, when it did kindle,
all of the wood was suddenly ablaze.

The room was warm enough already. I only
created the fire in the hearth in order to push myself over the
edge into exhaustion and sleep. It made for a fine exercise of my
control over the power, but I had ulterior motives.

When I relinquished control over the heat,
fatigue assaulted me, as I knew it would. My eyes closed, and my
body relaxed until I no longer had any thought of my surroundings.
Sleep had come as my comforter, and the man of my dreams would not
be far behind.

Mistress Evelyn rounded upon me in my room.
Her features were crone-like now—elongated nose, warts, arthritic,
bony fingers with long, misshapen nails. Some of her teeth were
blackened and others broken and jagged. Her skin was wrinkled, and
the woman was wearing far too much makeup to be considered proper
for a lady of her status. I realized this caricature was woefully
inaccurate, but the mind does what it will in dreams and I did not
care. After all, I had come to think of her in this way—at least
subconsciously.

“Disrobe, you wretched girl,” she
demanded.

I stood before the hearth in my room in a
robe of blue. I pulled the garment from my shoulders and dropped my
arms at my side, allowing the robe to slide down and off my body to
the floor. I was naked before the crone. My pale bare skin was
unblemished, but I knew what was coming.

Evelyn whipped her wand from the sleeve of
her dress where it was kept. However, this wand was not the elegant
expertly crafted kind handed down to the great houses by the
Malkind. This wand was made from a twisted tree branch, as gnarled
and bony as the fingers that now wielded it.

I stood before the crone, trembling in
anticipation of the pain she would inflict upon me. She seethed
with anger, standing hunched upon the flagstones, amber firelight
casting monstrous shadows upon the wall behind her. I closed my
eyes and prepared for the worst.

The wand whipped the air and a line of fire
raked my bare skin. I shuddered and very nearly cried out. Still, I
managed to hold in my agony. Again and again, the wand cut the air
and a corresponding energy lashed my skin. Evelyn laughed as she
marked my body with welts and lacerations, over and over again.

By the time she had finished and the cackling
stopped, I was on my knees lying prostrate upon the floor. I had
been reduced to a quivering mound of flesh. Blood poured from my
wounds onto the carpet around me. Where I was once beautiful; now I
was marred and horrid. My body ached and burned, but Evelyn the
crone had no sympathy for me.

Her cackling died away and I believed myself
to be alone. Then silk slid over my back and up over my shoulders.
Strong hands wrapped me up in a sheet, gripping my shoulders
tightly in order to help me back to my feet. A warm baritone
voice—his voice—resounded in my ears, speaking comfort. I did not
know the exact words—for some reason they escaped me—but I was glad
to hear the voice.

Normally, I would have been ashamed of my
condition. I would have been horrified to be found unclothed before
any man. Yet, I didn’t feel this way with him. He did not look upon
me with lust, but with compassion. I rose to my feet beneath the
silken sheet, while he supported me.

When I raised my eyes to behold him, the
sheet came away and the scene changed with the suddenness only a
dream can produce. Of course, I was not surprised. Everything that
happens in dreams appears completely normal at the time.

I was now standing in the middle of a grand
ballroom. My skin was whole again and covered in rich satin fabric
dyed in deep reds and purples with gold filigree. The gown was
strapless and hugged my body, flaring at the waist down to the
floor in a cascade of frills covered by dark lace. Black lace
gloves covered my hands and a matching masquerade mask covered my
eyes. My dark hair fell in loose curls around my shoulders, and
flecks of gold on my skin caught the light from chandeliers.

The ballroom was constructed of dark woods
and parquet floors. Chandeliers hung suspended in the air because
there was no ceiling at all—only the stars shining down from above.
Fireflies flitted among the dancers, blinking in time with elegant
music playing without any musicians that could be seen.

Around me, dancers whirled and spun. Each
young man had his lady in his arms. All of the pairs moved in
concert—stately couples whose apparel complimented one another
flawlessly. These moved around me in a ceaseless dance, leaving me
standing alone in the middle of the ballroom.

Then I saw him.

He appeared at the entrance to the room, but
there was no herald present to announce his arrival. He did not
need any introduction. He had come for me and me alone. Each and
every finely dressed lady was accompanied already—everyone but
me.

His outfit complimented mine perfectly. His
jacket was dyed in deep red and his vest in dark purple. His black
pants were knee length with hose below and leather shoes with shiny
gold buckles to match the gold buttons on his jacket. He wore a
mask also, but I knew it was him. I could feel the heat from his
body. I could sense his presence in the room. Even blind, I would
have still known he was there.

The music continued unabated, as he walked
toward me. I blushed behind my mask, suddenly self conscious. His
stare penetrated my very being. The room seemed to be getting
hotter, but I didn’t mind. It was as though lightning passed
between us across the room. Every step closer caused my heart to
race faster.

Suddenly, he was upon me, taking my hands in
his to kiss each one delicately. A tingling raced along my skin. He
pulled me to him as a new dance began. The nearness of him, the
smell, the warmth of his touch—I felt faint one moment and more
alert than ever the next. Being with him felt like coming
alive.

We had not said a single word. Yet, it was as
though words might spoil our moment. What could we say that would
make this more than what it already was? How could this feeling
have grown any stronger?

The music played on, but the other dancers
paused to watch us together. They whispered and nodded to
themselves, approving of our match. They longed to know the desire
for one another that we experienced. But how could they ever attain
to it?

Our bodies glided in perfect harmony,
accentuating each other’s every movement. We were complete
together, but nothing apart. The most heinous act would have been
to sever the ties that bound us at that moment.

We lifted above the others now, as though
gravity no longer had dominion. Our dance continued, even though
the floor had fallen away beneath us. The stars illuminated us. The
wind carried us like feathers on a breeze.

When I looked into his eyes, I knew I was
complete. I was his and he was mine. It could never be any other
way.

Then a bell tolled.

The heavens began to evaporate like steam in
the air. We came back to the world. The music became a dissonant
minor version of itself. As the bell tolled again, the ballroom
walls cracked. The structure crumbled around us.

He was pulled away from me by the crowd of
people trying to escape the end of our dream world. He fought to
hang on to me, but we were powerless to stop the tide. I called to
him, knowing he would be taken from me as he had been so many times
before. I remembered Celia’s admonition.

I had never done so before, but I cried out
to him. “What is your name?”

I heard his voice. It was like honey in my
ears. He was not fearful of our separation, but confident because
he knew we would be together again in due time.

The name hung between us, connecting us like
a chain even when the fantasy became dust on the wind. I woke in my
bedchamber still covered with the crimson duvet on my bed. I woke
on my own. Celia had not come yet.

In a moment of muddled uncertainty, I checked
my surroundings, wanting to be sure Mistress Evelyn had not
returned to find me sleeping after her punishment. There was no one
else in the room. Only the fire burning in the grate made any sound
at all.

I remembered my dream and smiled. I had done
what Celia bid me to do. For the first time, I had spoken to him. I
asked him his name and he gave it to me. I had no idea what to make
of the experience, but I would hold to that name like a treasure in
my heart.

I closed my eyes and spoke it in a whisper.
“Killian.”

Using a burin with precision and care, the
bladesmith etched a final rune into the blade. He lifted the tool
from the steel, blowing away filaments of metal. He smiled. His
work on this weapon was now complete, although a final step
remained before it could be presented to His Highness, Lord
Rainier.

The bladesmith was tall and broad-shouldered;
a strong man and middle-aged with a full head of dark hair showing
only a little gray. His fingers worked nimbly with the tools of his
trade. He laid the graver on his work table, feeling very satisfied
with the finished product.

The king had commissioned this pattern-welded
blade six months ago, desiring that it be ready one week from now;
in time for his eldest son’s coronation. The high prince would
succeed his father, due to the king’s failing health. A strong
ruler was required to sit upon the throne; especially during times
like these when a war among the great houses was all but
inevitable.

The other houses saw the king’s failing
health as an opportunity. If they were careful and seized the
appropriate time to act, they might be able to take the throne from
House Rainier. As of that day, House Rainier had held onto the
throne for eighty three years. They had fought to keep it so on
three separate occasions: once when House Auturn sought to
destabilize House Rainier fifty years before, and twice when Houses
Japheh and Rollace battled Rainier in consecutive conflicts
twenty-two years before.

The bladesmith wiped the debris from the
sword and then began to apply polish to the blade with a rag. He
had left the work on the scabbard to his only son and apprentice in
the trade. He buffed the polish away with a dry cloth and held it
up in the firelight of his forge. Red-orange flames reflected in
the forged steel.

He smiled and then called to his son, working
in another part of his shop. “Killian!”

A moment later, a handsome young man of
nineteen years, with dark hair and broad shoulders, peeked around
the corner where his father was working. “Yes, Father?” he said.
Then, seeing his father holding the blade in the light, he
exclaimed, “Oh, you’ve finished the last of the runes already?”

“Aye, and a better weapon I’ve never forged,”
he replied proudly. He handed the weapon to Killian. “What do you
think, lad?”

Killian took the sword in hand, hefting it
for weight and then balancing the weapon midway on the back of his
thumb. “It’s perfect, Father.”

Turning, Killian stepped away from his
father’s work table, giving himself room. He swung the blade in
fluid motions, his maneuvers becoming more and more complicated.
The hilt was slightly curved so that the pommel came down around
the fourth finger and was fashioned of polished ebony. The steel
was made with a single razor sharp edge, curving slightly up to a
point. Black leather cord, tightly wrapped, gave the hilt a supple
feel that gripped the hand as he moved and would keep it from
slipping when the new king’s hand became sweaty or stained with
blood.