The Crown and the Dragon (10 page)

Chapter Fourteen

It took them the better part of the day to get to Butcher’s Creek, and despite her best efforts, Elenn found herself unable to engage Aedin in conversation. She wasn’t sure why he was in such an ill temper, but she thought it was partly due to his frustrations with himself and his pathfinding skills. He certainly did not like being asked when they were going to arrive, or why his earlier estimate had been off by hours.

It probably did not help that he was walking in boots that were not designed for him and did not fit him. And she did not think that he had fully recovered from the ordeals he had endured at the hands of the Sithians. She could see him suffering in little ways, and she tried to talk to him about these things, but found him no more willing to talk about this than about their progress, or lack thereof.

She wished she had not lost Gawaine. At least he would have listened. And Elenn needed someone to talk to. Her aunt was dead. She had been attacked by an escaped prisoner. Merciful gods, she was traveling with another escaped prisoner and hoping she could convince him to accompany her further.

Maybe that was another reason Aedin didn’t want to talk to her. Since gallantly coming to her rescue, he had seemed to want nothing to do with her. The further they walked, the more grim and taciturn he became. Elenn supposed he saw little point in getting to know a person he would abandon on the side of the road like an unwanted kitten.

When they came to the creek, she was glad to see that it was swift and deep, which meant that she could ask for his help crossing. As he assisted her, she took every opportunity to be gracious and friendly, to thank him for his aid. But it was to no avail. He was as distant as before.

As they stood together on the far bank, she tried a more direct approach. “What did you mean, the best way?” she asked. “When you said going around the Lough is the best way. The fastest, you mean?”

“Surest,” he said. “Which is usually fastest.”

“Short cuts make for long delays,” she said to herself. It was something Aunt Ethelind had said.

She picked up her leather sack, and Aedin hoisted her small, battered chest. They walked together along the creek bank toward the road, which he said might be as close as two miles.

“So it’s not the shortest route,” Elenn said, a few moments later. “The road around the Lough, I mean.”

“No. Shortest would take you almost due east,” he said, in his clipped, north-coast manner of speaking. “Dragon country. To say nothing of the bandits. Assuming you survive all that, you have to cross the River Mareys and the Narrows.” He regarded her skeptically. “You swim?”

“Can you?” retorted Elenn. She had grown up practically in the River Mareys. Aunt Ethelind had taught her when she was a girl. Before she knew they were related. Back when Ethelind had called herself Sister Remembrance.

“Worked the docks in Heortigsport,” he said. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re afraid,” she said, trying to provoke him.

“Of a dragon?” he said. “Flaming right I am.” He took the battered chest off his left shoulder and pushed it into her hands. “If you go that way, this is where we part ways. Farewell and good luck.” He nodded his head to her and strode off to the north.

“Please!” Elenn called out. “Please, can’t you help me?”

“Told you one night. Already more than that,” he said without turning around. “Taking you to the road is as much help as I can give.”

He didn’t slow down, so she hurried after him. But her pursuit of him was encumbered by the heavy chest.

“That’s not fair,” she said, struggling to keep pace. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be bound for Tantillion to feed the crows.”

Aedin snatched up a dry stick as he walked, and used it to decapitate a flower. “I’m grateful. Not enough to lay my head back in the noose. My life’s worth more than that.” He shrugged.

“You killed my aunt,” said Elenn desperately.

“What do you want?” he said hotly. “I can’t bring her back. Can’t be your mother hen. I’m sorry. Got my own problems.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He said nothing. He just kept walking. But after a minute, he stopped and took the chest from her, which she greatly appreciated.

After another mile, Elenn decided to try another approach. “Tell me about your problems,” she said. “Maybe we can help each other.”

He made no reply.

“I could pay you,” she said, “if that would help with your troubles.”

He turned to face her. He looked her up and down, and then raised one eyebrow, the disbelief obvious on his face. In the stained and torn remains of what had once been finery, she was sure she looked truly pathetic. Elenn felt herself growing hot with embarrassment.

“I
could
pay you,” she repeated, emphatically.

“I’m not like Leif,” Aedin said. “Don’t think you and your aunt stole everything in that cart from your masters. What can you offer me?” He shrugged.

She grew even redder, and she turned before he could see the tears she knew were welling up.

“I didn’t—” he began. “Wasn’t trying to—” He broke off again. “I’m not like that. Wouldn’t ask that of you.”

Elenn nodded silently, still facing away from him, not trusting herself to speak.

He sighed heavily. “Gods, you’re tenacious. Like something out of the stories.” She heard something like admiration in his voice. “But this is not some grand adventure.”

Aedin stepped in closer, his eyes hard. “I’m not your knight-errant. I’m an escaped prisoner. Seen a lot of friends hanging from the gallows. Someday, my luck will run out and I will swing. Every morning I pray this won’t be the day.” He cursed.

“And you,” Aedin shouted, spinning her around to face him, “you’re just another woman with no money and no family a long way from home. Met a lot of refugees and I can tell you—sooner you accept the reality of your position, better off you’ll be.”

He jabbed his finger at her ragged clothing for emphasis. “You’re not some princess in distress, Elenn. No one’s going to rescue you. Get that into your skull.”

He glared at her, breathing a little heavily.

She laughed.

“What’s so confounded funny?”

“I am Elenn of Adair,” she said, trying to keep her composure.

“What?”

“Daughter of Mathis and Kaiteryn of Adair,” she said. Though she now knew that they were in fact her maternal grandparents, it still felt true to call them her parents.

He swore. Elenn laughed harder. He stalked off, still following the creek north to the road. She ran to catch up to him.

“Don’t care who you are,” he said. “Hard country between here and Ghel. Too dangerous for you. And the roads are too dangerous for me. Crawling with Vitalion patrols, thick as fleas on rats. They’ll be looking for me, and I don’t want to be found.”

“Come with me then,” she pled. “We’ll stay off the roads.”

“Fool girl,” muttered Aedin. “What have I been saying? Dragon country that way.” He shook his head. “Best thing for you to do is to wait on the road for a train of wagons. Pilgrims, merchants, soldiers—it doesn’t matter—any of them will make a better escort for you than I would.”

“I told you before,” said Elenn. “I want someone I already know I can trust.”

He stopped and glared at her, but she could not read his face.

“My family owns a large tract of land,” she said, “not far from Queen’s Ford. It takes a full day to ride the perimeter. It’s mine now.” She paused to let him think about that. “If you can deliver me to the Leode at Ghel, I’ll give you all the land you can ride around in an hour.”

“How close to Queen’s Ford?” he asked.

“Not far,” she said, evasively.

“Where exactly?” he pressed.

“Well, it starts about six miles southeast of the ford proper,” said Elenn. “And it stretches another thirty miles. As I told you, it’s very large.”

“Very large,” said Aedin. “Very uninhabitable.”

“Not at all,” she protested.

“Must be half in dragon country,” he said. “Or more. Even if not, it’s close enough to Anondea as to put you smack under the thumb of the Vitalion.”

“Aunt Ethelind and I have been living in the manor house,” shot Elenn, “and we were quite happy there. Are you afraid to live where a young girl and her auntie kept house?”

Aedin squinted into the distance absently. “One hour’s not such a long time,” he said, tapping his lips with his fingers.

She smiled. “I’ll make a deal with you,” she said. “For every day you get me there before Lammas Eve, I’ll give you an hour to ride.”

“Told you before,” he said, “the Leode’s a week away. And that’s for a man like me, in battle condition.” He glanced at her. “Think you’re up to it?”

Elenn stood up straight and nodded with all the confidence she could muster. “Yes.”

“Well, then. Just one last detail.” He paused. “What’s on the table?”

“What does that mean?” asked Elenn, clenching her fists.

“Security,” he said. “In case you can’t keep your temper and you claw up someone I can’t scare off with a pen knife?”

“I can … write you a letter of credit,” Elenn stammered. “The Leodrine Sisters will honor it, in Ghel or anywhere else you find them.” How could he want more? She was giving away a very generous portion of her ancestral lands, more than any Barethon or Adair had surrendered in centuries. Already she wondered if her ancestors would ever forgive her.

He laughed. “You’re already paying me in promises. I need something tangible.”

“You’re too late,” said Elenn. “Everything we had has already been taken—the cart, the horse, our supplies, my clothes, even my poor little bird. There’s nothing left!”

“No,” he said, “you’ve got something left: whatever it is your aunt didn’t want to show the Sithians.”

The Falarica. Here at last was the truth. She was a fool to ever have thought him anything but a bandit.

“That’s what Leif was looking for when he tore apart the campsite,” Aedin continued. “Don’t think he found it. Think you’ve got it on you.”

“No,” said Elenn, stepping back.

“You’ll get it back. Soon as I’m properly paid.”

“It’s not mine to give.” Ethelind had died rather than give it up. How could she give it away now?

“Then here we part,” said Aedin.

“So let it be,” said Elenn quietly.

He shrugged, arms stretched out helplessly, and walked away.

“Wait,” she said. There was, unfortunately, one other thing she had to give. She reached into her kirtle and pulled out the chain from which was suspended her mother’s gold ring. “Here.”

Aedin came back and took the ring. He rubbed it between his fingers, held it up to the light, and bit it. Elenn wanted to wrench it from his greedy hands.

“It’s real,” she said. “And it’s valuable.”

“I can see that,” he said, slipping the chain over his head.

“So do we have a deal?”

He smiled and stepped closer. Reaching up behind his right shoulder, he pulled out the eagle-headed Sithian saber.

Elenn’s heart raced. What was he doing? Panicking, she tried to summon a defensive spell, but her aunt’s teachings fled from her mind.

For a long moment, he looked in her eyes, his gaze weighing her as surely as a merchant’s scales. “As much land as I can ride around?”

“Yes,” she said quickly.

“I choose the horse,” he said, raising one eyebrow.

She nodded.

He knelt, and with sword in hand, said, “On the haft and hilt, I am thy man and soldier.”

To Elenn, it had the sound of a pledge of fealty. Aunt Ethelind would have known what kind, and how it should be returned. Not knowing what else to do, Elenn reached down and put her hands on his. “I accept your oath,” she breathed.

Standing, he sheathed his weapon. “Name’s Aedin Jeoris.”

“Elenn,” she replied. “Elenn of Adair.”

Shaking his head, he picked up her chest and walked off swiftly and silently into the thick undergrowth. “All right, lass, follow me. East to the Leode. We’ll be keeping to the trees.”

Elenn hoisted her leather sack, and rushed after him, dry sticks breaking beneath her feet.

***

Chapter Fifteen

Stepping through the sturdy door to the culverhouse, Magister Corvus had to fight the impulse to slam the door closed. Reminding himself that anger was his servant, not his master, he shut the door with a careful, quiet click.

Of course, it was not for the other denizens of the culverhouse that Corvus had chosen to be quiet. The hundreds of ravens inside took no notice of his entry, croaking and cawing to each other.

Most other Deirans found their cries to be disconcerting, but even as a child, Corvus had found them soothing. It was to the rookery that young Bartram Pugh had gone to think, to dream, to escape his tutors and his lordly duties. This unusual habit had led his Vitalion nursemaid to give him the nickname Corvus—“crow”.

In the center of the room was an overturned wooden stool, next to which sprawled the traitor, Ranulf. Dozens of ravens perched atop his corpse, their leathery feet clawing at the fabric of his clothing, their black beaks pecking into broken skin.

Magister Corvus picked up the wooden stool and pulled it aside. He perched atop it, gazing absently at the body. The rebel had been dead no more than a day, but much of the flesh had already been removed from his bones. The ravens had feasted.

Being well acquainted with the habits of ravens, Corvus understood better than most why they might be reviled. Deirans associated them with death, the underworld, deception, and war—and rightly so. But in his travels, Corvus had learned that not all peoples saw them the same way.

In Yall, they said that the raven created the world, albeit by accident. The first raven flew away from the world of spirits, they said, and found the sea. Seeing what it thought was a fish in the water, the raven plucked it out. But it was only a pebble, and the raven dropped it again. Instead of sinking, the little pebble grew and grew until it became the earth.

Most people dismissed myths like these as the idle tales of ignorant savages, but Corvus listened. More than that, he scavenged for stories like these wherever he traveled, and he wrote them down. Then he tore the stories into pieces and puzzled over them, looking for patterns, just as he did now with the information that came to him by rumor and by confession. He picked them apart and devoured the delectable morsels of hidden knowledge, the secret learnings lost for centuries.

Corvus fished out the scroll upon which he had written his request for more soldiers. He stared at it, and then crumpled it in his hand. The very idea of having to request troops was galling—but to be denied! And by an officious simpleton like Strabus. Corvus had traveled half the length of the Empire!

Corvus threw the crumpled scroll violently at the body of Ranulf, briefly scattering some few of the ravens perched atop it. They looked up at him with their shiny black eyes, regarding him with that curious sideways stare of theirs. It reminded him eerily of the way Strabus had looked at him when he had asked about the culverhouse.

“Curse Strabus, and curse his imperium,” Corvus muttered angrily. “Curse the man for a blind old fool.”

He sighed.

“But not blind enough.”

Corvus stood and walked to the door. He barred it, and secured the panel that allowed people outside to peer in. Then he returned to the center of the room, near Ranulf’s body. Since he could no longer rely on having the culverhouse to himself, it was time to remove its deepest secret and most precious treasure.

Gently pushing aside a few ravens with his boot, Corvus crouched and used his dagger to pry up a stone in the floor. Underneath the stone was dirt. With his hands, Corvus dug down, carefully setting aside the soil on a nearby scrap of cloth that had once been part of Ranulf’s coat.

It took a few minutes, during which time the rest of the ravens in the culverhouse fluttered out of their nests to gathered around and watch. Finally, his fingers encountered something hard and unyielding. Corvus smiled. He scrabbled around in the dirt until he encountered a leather strap. Taking hold of the strap, he pulled a small stone box out of the ground.

The box was about a foot long, and three inches wide and deep. It had been buried standing up. Brushing off the mud, Corvus slid the lid off. Inside was an even narrower wooden case, adorned with brass filigree. And a lock.

Reaching inside his doublet, Corvus pulled out a brass key, which hung around his neck on a leather thong. He put the key in the lock and turned it. With a slight click, it unlocked. Fingers trembling, Corvus opened the wooden case and sighed with relief.

Still here.

With bated breath, Corvus removed his fragment of the Falarica from its case. It was slender and delicate, a seven-inch section of straight horn that tapered to a point. It was decorated with tiny figures and symbols carved in between two strands of filigree silver that had been laid into the horn in a helical twist.

Holding it in his hands, Corvus reverently traced the carved patterns with his fingertip. Then he laughed.

“Who needs soldiers?” he said aloud.

The ravens noisily chattered their reply.

Tucking the wooden case into his jacket, Corvus rose to his feet. He glanced at the door again. Still barred. He held the Falarica out in front of him and slowly used it to outline a winged shape in the air in front of him, as if he were painting a picture.

“In the name of Uran, the first raven,” Corvus said, speaking in the tongue of Yall, “whose bright eyes first saw this world.”

The ravens fell silent. All of them watched at him.

“In the name of Uran,” said Corvus, “whose generous spirit released this world from his grasp.”

The Falarica felt hot in his hands. Corvus began to tremble.

“In the name of Uran, whose clever tongue first named this world.”

The shadows of the ravens played across the stone floor as they took flight and wheeled

around the room.

“I, a child of this world,” said Corvus, “open a door to the world of spirits and allow the passage of the Naihmant—children of Uran, servants of the Baydh Rignu, queen of phantoms.”

The shadows of the flying ravens became a distinct swirling mass. Flying closer and closer together, the shadows overlapped and merged until they coalesced into two solid silhouettes.

“I, a child of this world,” said Corvus, “greet you and welcome you here.”

Two man-sized figures stood before Corvus—black-feathered shoulders, heads bent and hooded.

“I, a child of this world,” said Corvus, “name you, Suspicion and Vengeance.” He touched each one in turn with the fragment of the Falarica. “And I command you to obey me.” He lowered his arms slowly to his sides. “Do you know me?”

“Yes, master,” they answered him in the Yaltese tongue, croaking in guttural, inhuman voices.

“Do you know this thing?” said Corvus, holding up the Falarica.

“Yes, master,” they said. “It sings to us.”

“It is incomplete,” said Corvus. “Another piece of it is carried by a woman many miles from here. Do you know this missing piece?”

“Yes, master,” they said. “The song is faint, but we hear it.”

“Your brother heard it,” said Corvus, “but he failed me.” This was not entirely true. The Naihman had located the other half of the Falarica, and had seen the woman who carried it—an agent of the Orders, he was sure.

“You know his fate,” said Corvus. “Do you wish to share it?” Corvus himself did not know precisely what happened to a Naihman when the flock that served as its temporary body was irrevocably dispersed, but he had previously deduced that it was not pleasant.

“No, master,” said the Naihmant.

“Then find the missing piece,” said Corvus. “Bring it to me. Kill those who carry it.”

The chamber was suddenly filled with a sickening tearing sound, then a tumult of flapping wings and screeching cries. Corvus’s vision was obscured by dozens of jet-black birds, filling his view. In an instant, they were gone, flown out of the culverhouse.

Corvus smiled. Then he knelt down and began replacing the dirt from the hole in the middle of the stone floor.

***