Raven's Strike

“Perhaps not yet,” said He

“He killed them,” said Willon. “He destroyed his kingdom. I would never hurt anyone.”

“Tell that to Rufort,” said Ri

Seraph squeezed her hand hard. She did not want the first attack to settle on her daughter.

“Your guardsman and the dog were killed by Ielian. I did not command their death.”

“Colbern,” said Jes, in a voice so soft and low it beat upon Seraph’s ears like far-off thunder. “A whole town died to feed you.”

“They were nothing,” he said. “No one I knew. No one you knew.”

Seraph felt Lehr take a breath, and this time he received her warning squeeze.

“What of Mehalla?” asked Seraph. “My daughter, whom you killed.”

The affability fell off Willon’s face as if wiped by a cloth. For a moment his expression was entirely blank. He started to say something—a lie, because he stopped when he glanced at Tier. “Mehalla was a mistake,” he said.

“I don’t think so.” Seraph kept her voice soft and pleasant. “I think you killed my daughter, watched her die for almost a year, then came to my home and told us how sorry you were for her death.”

“You will be sorry for her death,” said Tier. “For her death and for all the dead you have caused since you became the Shadowed. When you take the Stalker’s power, Willon, you become evil.”

“No,” he said. “You become powerful. You don’t understand the good I can do, Tier. If I have the gems, if I can work all the Orders in the gems, I can heal, I can build, I can raise cities or even empires.”

“You could,” said Seraph. “But would you? Death follows you like maggots follow rot.”

“So, Tier,” said Willon, “do you let your woman do your talking now? Women should be taught to be silent while a man conducts business.”

“I would never say that, never even dare think that,” said Tier. “It might make Seraph angry. If I said it. But you’ll not make her mad because she doesn’t care what you think. Without the Stalker you are nothing.”

Seraph felt the power Tier poured into his words and saw Willon take a step back. She also felt herself regain control of her instinctively hot reaction to Willon’s words.

“You killed my daughter,” Tier said, his voice as hard and cold as Seraph had ever heard it. “I will not bargain with you.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Willon said. “She wasn’t meant to die.”

“No,” agreed He

“She stands here anyway,” said Seraph softly. “To watch you die. Sila-evra-kilin-faurath!” She said the word that had killed the troll, heard it echo in the streets of Colossae.

Willon staggered back, but he was no troll who was used to his natural magic immunity to stand still under the word of power, and Seraph had no vast store of magic to draw upon, as she had drawn upon the wards of her home. She hurt him, but he did not die.

Willon licked the blood off his lip. “Stupid Traveler bitch,” he said, spittle flying from his mouth. “Shut up. Just shut up. If you would be quiet, it would all be arranged. Your family would be safe. Why won’t you just shut up?”

“Because you aren’t worth listening to?” said Phoran laconically, and much too closely. She couldn’t take her eyes off Willon to look, but he’d left his safe place near the buildings—and if he’d left, surely Toarsen and Kissel were not too far behind. She should have gotten his promise rather than let Phoran distract her.

“You couldn’t even keep Ri

If Seraph hadn’t had her shielding ready, Phoran might not have lived to regret those words. The magic Willon threw at the Emperor was strong, and Seraph felt her hastily redirected shields begin to give beneath it. Then He

“Now, Tier,” Seraph heard He

“Lynwythe,” Tier said.

“Lynwythe,” he said, and hoped something would happen.

It wasn’t at all what he expected. As soon as the words left his lips, Ri

He stood in a long, wide room with walls, ceiling, and floor all of dove grey and strangely featureless, as if someone merely thought about a room, rather than a real room.

Instinct made him want to return to his family—but He

His sturdy boots left marks on the featureless floor: not quite footprints, just a marring of the surface where the hard edge of his heels touched down. For a moment he felt ashamed, embarrassed that he, a farmer, should dare tread such hallowed halls at all, let alone mar the floors.

He stopped and took a deep breath. “I do not belong here,” he said in a more pleasant tone than he felt like using. “I know it, as do you. However I doubt a few marks on the floor are going to bother you much. I am a Bard, sir. I know how to influence people—and I know when someone tries to influence me. I’ll thank you to stop.”

No one replied, but the feeling that he ought to be cringing and scuttling forward on hands and knees because of his great inadequacies left. Conscious of the danger his family was in, he walked quickly forward. Though there was nothing in the room that he could see, he felt this was the direction he must walk in.

“Why did you call My name, Bard?” The voice was deep and rich.

Tier stopped walking and turned to face the god who’d appeared next to him without a sound or any warning, just his words in a rich bass that part of Tier could not help but want to hear in song, just once.

There was not much else impressive about him. He appeared to be a man a little shorter than average and slight of build. His hair and eyes were as dark as Tier’s own.

“Why do you hesitate, Bard?” He said with a small smile that sent chills down Tier’s spine. This was not the Weaver. “Do you seek to form lies that might please Me?”

“No,” answered Tier truthfully. “It just occurred to me that I’m not certain what the real truth is. The simple answer is that we only had the one name.”

“So you called upon Me because you could not call upon My brother? Is there another answer?”

Tier decided to trust his instincts. “I think the barrier the Weaver created limits His ability to work in this world. I think He has interfered all that He can already. If we’d had both names, we would have called upon the Weaver.” He took a deep breath. “And we would have failed. The Weaver can do no more to help us.”

The Stalker raised his hands. “And you think that I will? Now when My servant, My slave has loosened the bonds that hold Me? He will not have to take many more Orders before I am able to do whatever pleases Me.”

“He is not Your servant, nor Your slave,” said Tier. “He is a thief who snuck into Your prison and stole Your power without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“Even as you have called My Name, Bard, so I must answer like a dog answers the call of his master.” The words were bitter and angry, but neither emotion was reflected in the Stalker’s face or voice.

“While we speak my family faces the Shadowed on their own,” said Tier, then sucked in a breath. You can do better than this, he thought. “I can only apologize for my discourtesy. Offending You is the last thing I wish to do. We need Your help to defeat the Shadowed.”

“Indeed,” said the god. “What will you give me for this help? Who will you sacrifice? Your wife? One of your children? The Emperor, perhaps?”