The Reawakened Page 9

  “What is it?” She rode forward and turned the corner. “What did you—” The stench hit her nose, an odor she knew all too well.

  Rhia urged the horse to the edge of the ridge and looked out upon the sort of slaughter that could only be the work of her brother.

  And now her son, she realized with a thudding heart.

  A platoon of Descendants lay in the wide ravine. The late-morning sun revealed not even a twitch of life. A sea of vultures, ravens and crows shared a macabre feast.

  She dismounted slowly, her body weighted with dread.

  “No,” Marek said. “Let’s move on. There’s nothing you can do here.”

  “I have a duty to the dead.”

  “It’s not safe.” His eyes narrowed at the bodies. “Besides, they’re just Descendants.”

  “They’re all the same to Crow.”

  Marek scoffed. “I wish I could be so broad-minded.” He pointed back into the ravine. “I hear a stream that way. I’ll water the horse while you’re taking care of the enemy.” He jerked the reins out of her hand.

  She sighed as she watched him lead the horse away. His treatment in Ilion captivity had hardened his heart against them. She couldn’t blame him. It was all she could do herself not to walk away and leave the soldiers to the scavengers.

  As she neared the scene of battle, the birds took flight in a rush of thumping wings. The ravens and crows alighted on the rocky outcrops and trees of the hill, while the vultures glided in the sky above, biding their time until their meal resumed. Rhia stepped carefully among the bodies, checking for signs of life. Though she had no healing magic, her mother had taught her first aid, and she’d unfortunately had many occasions to whet that skill.

  All twenty corpses wore the scarlet-and-yellow uniform of the Descendants. Though many had round red arrow wounds in their arms and legs, and a few appeared to have sword slashes in their sides, every throat was slit from ear to ear. Each had died in his enemy’s embrace.

  In the center of the carnage lay a Descendant flag. Its red-and-yellow tatters fluttered in the wind. As she knelt to examine it, she caught the distinct scent of human urine.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Lycas, was that necessary?”

  Perhaps it was. She’d never understand a warrior’s mind, never grasp the need to turn the enemy into something less than human. When she released their souls to Crow, He gladly accepted each one.

  As the vultures’ shadows swept the ground, Rhia walked the area’s perimeter in search of more clues.

  A mass of footprints led south toward Velekos, including sets of hoofprints with boot prints beside them, as if someone were leading the horses at a leisurely pace. Probably Lycas’s troupe on their way to Velekos. More footprints led west, deeper into the hills—Sirin’s fighters returning to the guerrilla headquarters.

  She quickened her pace, reaching the eastern end of the perimeter. What she saw stopped her breath.

  A set of horse tracks pointed east, toward Asermos. They were deep and widely spaced as if the animal were running.

  Rhia quickly knelt beside the first body and murmured the prayer of passage. When Marek appeared with the pony, she called out to him.

  “Keep a listen to the east. A horse ran away.”

  “We should leave now.”

  Fear tugged at her. If a Descendant had escaped on that horse, he could return with reinforcements. But it wouldn’t be the first time she’d risked her life for her Crow duties.

  “Just a few more minutes,” she told Marek.

  When she had said a prayer over each body, she found a clean spot in the center of the bloodbath—away from the flag—and knelt to call the crows. Before closing her eyes, she glanced at Marek. His own eyes were blank as he tuned his mind to his better senses of hearing and scent.

  The crows came at once, circling the sky, one for each dead. Their rasping, croaking voices filled her mind, creating a whirlwind of sound. She sank into it, feeling the presence of Crow flow through her.

  Marek’s voice reached through the cacophony. He was the best part of her real life, but these moments between worlds were precious to her.

  “Rhia!” He shook her shoulder hard, jolting her out of the reverie.

  “What? What?” She wiped her face with her sleeve and looked up into his wide gray eyes.

  “Call them off.” Marek took her elbow and hauled her to her feet. “I hear something.”

  She waved her arms at the birds. “Go!” They dispersed with a few stray grok!s, returning to the hillside.

  In the crows’ silence came the sound of many hooves.

  She turned to dash for their horse, but Marek grabbed her.

  “They’ll catch us if we run,” he said. “We have to hide.”

  “We can’t hide our horse.”

  “We’ll send him home.”

  He stuffed Alanka’s letter into their saddlebag as Rhia tied the reins in a knot so the horse wouldn’t trip on them.

  “Yahh!” Together they smacked the horse’s rump, and he took off in the direction of Tiros.

  Marek grabbed her hand, and they dashed deeper into the ravine. The rock walls echoed with approaching hooves, making it sound as if they were being chased by hundreds.

  They came to a dead end, with nowhere to go but up. As they climbed the ridge’s steep trail, the hooves silenced. The Descendants had found the massacre.

  Rhia and Marek reached a flat part of the ridge. They dropped to their bellies and peered over the edge at the new Ilion platoon.

  Most of the soldiers were caring for their dead—wrapping them and placing them on skids, which were being attached to the horses. From a distance, their sad, heavy postures made them look like any other men in mourning. One knelt next to his fallen comrade, face turned down but palms to the sky.

  “He’s praying,” she whispered.

  Marek followed her gaze. “To Xenia, the death goddess.”

  “Look.” She pointed to a pair of soldiers who were studying the tracks of their horse. “Maybe they’ll think we went back to Tiros.”

  One of the soldiers called over several more, and they all headed into the ravine, fully armed, following what must be fresh footprints. Marek cursed and pulled Rhia to her feet. They ran.

  The trail twisted and narrowed as it climbed the hill, which provided no caves or crevices for shelter.

  They rounded the corner of a large red rock wall, and the trail suddenly shrank to a narrow ledge. Rhia skidded, nearly slipping over the edge of the cliff. Marek grabbed her around the waist. Panting, she peered into an enclosed ravine at least twenty feet deep.

  “Careful.” He stepped sideways along the ledge, his back to the cliff. “Don’t look down.”

  Rhia heard voices on the trail behind them. She took a deep breath and followed Marek, keeping her eyes on him and the other edge of the ravine, where the trail widened.

  She reached the other side and gave a heavy exhale. Marek took her hand.

  They rushed around the next bend, and her heart sank.

  A dead end.

  Marek swept aside the branches of a thick bush. “Get down.”

  “There’s no room for you.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He pushed her, gently but firmly, inside the shrub. “Whatever happens, don’t make a sound.”

  She shook her head. “You can use your Fox camouflage.”

  “If I hide, they’ll find you. They’ve seen our footprints. They know there are two of us.”

  “Then what good does it do me to hide?”

  “So you’ll be out of the way while I kill them.” He put his fingers to her lips. “They won’t take me alive.”

  She clutched his hand and held back a sob. “Don’t do this.”

  Marek kissed her softly. “I love you.”

  He stood, unstrapped the bow from his back and moved the hunting knife in his boot to the back of his waistband.

  Rhia shrank back into the brush and waited.

  With a rush of feet a
nd clanging swords, the Descendants appeared. She heard the wooden squeak of a bow stretched taut.

  “Get out,” Marek snarled to them. “This is your one warning.”

  “Throw down your weapon!” one of the soldiers yelled.

  A snap, then a whistle, and someone gave a strangled yelp.

  “That was your one warning,” Marek said.

  Someone shouted the order to charge. Marek’s bow snapped again and again, but Rhia heard only the thump of arrows hitting shields as the soldiers advanced.

  He backed up until his feet were next to the bush where Rhia hid. The soldiers were almost upon him. She wouldn’t let them take him from her again.

  Just as she was preparing to leap out and shove his attackers into thin air, one of Marek’s heels slipped. He backpedaled, kicking up dust and small stones, then tumbled over the edge of the ravine. His scream lengthened and faded, cut off by a sickening thud.

  Her heart slammed to a halt. No sound came from below.

  No. He couldn’t be dead. Not Marek.

  She clutched her hair and held in her shriek, longing to hurl herself over the edge, to join Marek forever on the Other Side. Her heart demanded it, but her legs remained frozen in place, the weight of the silence crushing her into the hard, cold earth.

  Rhia opened her eyes. The silence.

  She listened with the depths of her soul, but heard no wings. Crow wasn’t coming.

  Marek was alive.

  “Is he dead?” one of the soldiers said.

  “You two, go find out,” said another with a commanding voice. “If he’s alive, he’ll have information.”

  “Sergeant, there’s no way down except jumping off the edge ourselves.”

  A pair of feet came close to the bush, boot toes brushing the bottom leaves. “The tracks stop here.”

  The branches swept back, and Rhia stared up at the face of a blue-eyed soldier.

  “Look what I found.” He gave her a satisfied smile, then grasped her under the armpits and yanked her from the bush. He dragged her to the edge of the ridge and dumped her on her knees.

  “No!” she shrieked when she saw Marek lying sprawled on the rocks below. He looked so lifeless, she didn’t have to fake her fear.

  She spit on the boots of the closest Descendants. “Murderers!”

  Another man seized her braid and yanked her head back. “How do you know he’s dead?” His voice belonged to the one they’d called “Sergeant.”

  She tugged the crow feather out of the front of her shirt. “I hear Him fly.”

  The sergeant let go of her and twisted his well-lined face. “Filthy beast. We’ll take her instead.”

  Someone yanked Rhia’s hands behind her and bound them with a rope.

  A younger soldier with a boyish face said, “Sergeant, you still want us to get the body?”

  The sergeant peered over the edge. “Might as well let the crows take care of him.” He nudged Rhia with the tip of his boot. “It’s not worth the risk now that we’ve got this one.”

  She started to weep, repeating Marek’s name through her tears to reinforce the lie of his death.

  They led her down the rocky path toward the rest of the troupe, two of them carrying their wounded comrade, the one Marek had shot in the knee. Rhia struggled against her bindings enough to be convincing, but not enough to slow them down. The sooner they could leave, the sooner Marek could return to Tiros and get help.

  Assuming he could walk. Assuming he ever woke up. Her eyes overflowed again, and genuine tears dripped in streams off her chin.

  They led Rhia to a tall, thin Ilion who was supervising the transport of the dead. The sergeant gave the officer a brief salute.

  “Sir.” He pushed Rhia forward. “We found this one. And a man with a hunting bow, but he fell and died. Extracting him would have been too treacherous, in my judgment.”

  The officer raked a skeptical glare over the sergeant. “Indeed. We wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt now, would we?” He gestured to the mass of corpses behind them.

  “As you say, sir,” the sergeant replied with a clenched jaw.

  The officer glanced at Rhia, then stopped to examine her. He stepped up and yanked her feather fetish so hard the leather chain bit into her skin.

  “Those crows we saw,” he whispered. “Circling, not landing to feast.” His gaze on her softened. “You were guiding home the souls of our men?”

  She nodded.

  He struck her hard across the face. A sharp pain stabbed her neck as it snapped back, and red sparks danced across her vision.

  The officer loomed over her, eyes tight with fury. “It’s not enough you people have to slaughter us, piss on our flag? You have to desecrate our dead, too? Curse them to an eternity of emptiness with your Spirits?”

  “It’s not empty.” She spit a line of blood and drool. Her tongue felt for loose teeth and found none. “The Spirits are for everyone.”

  He smacked her again, but this time she anticipated it, and ducked so that his blow glanced off the side of her cheek, his nails raking her skin.

  “This one’s more valuable than we thought.” He smiled at her. “I know who you are, Rhia of Asermos. There aren’t many Crows among your people.”

  Her blood froze, but she kept her face indignant. “I’m from Tiros, a free village, and my name is—”

  “Don’t bother. Your brother is what we call a ‘man of interest.’ Perhaps he’d be interested in your arrest.”

  She kept the panic from her face. Did they know she’d been coordinating the smuggling of weapons from Tiros to Asermos for years? “Arrest for what?”

  “We found you at the scene of massive human casualties.”

  “A scene that clearly took place over a day ago. A scene requiring more manpower and weapons than my husband and I had.”

  “Evidence of anything can be provided.”

  “But not believed in court. Last I heard, Ilios still held to the rule of law, such as it is.”

  “All we need is enough evidence to hold you until your brother comes to set you free.” He reached forward to grasp her crow feather, which he used to pull her closer to him. “Besides, you were doing magic.” With his other hand, he drew a knife. She jerked back, expecting to feel the blade at her throat.

  He slashed the leather band that held her fetish. Though her hands were bound, instinct drove them to reach for the feather. The sergeant yanked her back by the wrists, sending shooting pains into her shoulders.

  “Magic,” the officer said, “is illegal in Ilion territories.”

  “I’m not standing on Ilion territory.”

  “Again, a detail that can be established when you have your day in court. Until then, you can sit in detention.”

  “As bait for someone you think is my brother. I don’t even have a brother.”

  “Hmm.” He tossed her feather on the ground and crushed it under his boot. “You won’t for long.”

  09

  Kalindos

  Sura stared through the fire into eternity.

  The fire was Dravek’s, burning at the far edge of the boulder field below, where she had left him. From her perch outside a small cave on Mount Beros she could see a wide swath of valley. A few hours before, the sun had set, glistening yellow and orange over the distant Velekon River. Thus began the first night of her Bestowing.

  The Descendant authorities in Asermos had banned this coming-of-age ritual, as they had all other forms of magic. A few Asermons dared to sneak away for their Bestowing, but those caught were made examples of. Mali had wanted Sura to keep a low profile to avoid scrutiny of her own activities, like raiding armories and planning assassinations.

  But Sura had always known that her destiny could only be delayed, not denied. She was meant to be here right now, waiting for her Guardian Spirit.

  She wondered how long Dravek’s fire would burn. Surely he would put it out before going to sleep. The night wasn’t cold enough to need the warmth of a flame, so perhaps he
was only using the light to perform some task.

  She should probably pray or something, Sura realized. Her mother had taught her chants to honor and call upon dozens of Spirits—always quietly, in the privacy of their home, of course. But at the moment nothing seemed right except silence.

  Silence, and fire. Her eyes unfocused further, her gaze adhered to the flame. The sensation of cold, hard stone beneath her legs began to fade, and she floated. It seemed as if she could hear the torch’s sparks, that she could rise with them all the way to the sky.

  She’d lived the last half of her life afraid. Yet now, on the verge of confronting something more powerful than the entire Ilion army, she felt no fear, only peace.

  So much so that when she felt a strange, dark presence at her back, she merely acknowledged its existence. It loomed closer, yet she did not look away from the flame. It rasped a cold breath on the back of her neck, then inhaled hard, as if to pull something out of her. Her strength? Her courage? Her soul?

  “Get out,” she whispered, and away it slunk.

  Sura watched the fire as it burned all night.

  “Stop that,” the eagle said.

  “I’ve got to keep up my strength.” Sura flexed her biceps, lifting a round rock the size of her fist. “Never know when I’ll need to defend myself.” She nodded to the eagle. “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “And I’m speaking.” Its sharp male voice cut the crisp morning air. “I said to put that down. You’re safe here, so stop trying to be your mother.”

  As if I could ever be that strong. Sura dropped the rock and folded her arms. “Can I ask you a question first?” When the bird tilted his cloud-white head, she said, “The Eagles I know call their Spirit She, but you speak to me with a man’s voice. Why?”

  “The Spirits are neither male nor female.”

  “Even Raven?”

  “Especially Raven.” The eagle preened his gleaming brown wing feathers. “We manifest as male or female according to whichever we think you’ll respond to best.”

  Sura cocked her head, wondering why the Spirits assumed she would listen better to a man. She’d had so few of them in her life.

  The eagle continued. “But we stay consistent with those who serve us, which is why all Eagles refer to me as She. Humans confuse so easily.”