She came to his rooms after dinner, knocking softly on the whitewashed door. He opened it cautiously and looked her up and down. On the middle finger of her left hand she wore the small gold raven ring of the Guild. While he privately considered it the height of arrogant stupidity to announce one's profession so openly, particularly for an assassin, that he recognised the ring and admitted her without question went a long way to establishing his credentials. He'd had a discussion once, with a previous Raven, about the foolishness of wearing something so obvious, but humans liked their symbols and apparently the custom was as strong as ever. Foolish humans.
“What do you want with the Raven?” the woman asked, without preamble, looking around the room.
“I wish to speak to him.”
“The Raven doesn't speak to anyone.”
“He'll speak to me.”
She finished her inspection of the room and turned to look at him. “So Gernard said.”
“Gernard?”
“The innkeeper.”
“Ah... can I offer you some wine?”
“No.”
She walked across the room and threw open the doors that led to the gardens, taking a deep breath of the fragrant air from the riot of flowering greenery. Brak was sure she was more interested in making certain they were not overheard, than she was in botany.
“So, tell me,” she demanded, turning back to him as she stepped away from the open doorway, “what is so special about you that the Raven would grant you an audience?”
“I am Brakandaran.”
She studied him for a moment in the twilight then laughed. “Brakandaran the Half-Breed? I doubt that.”
“You require proof?”
“Oh, I'm certain you have proof,” she chuckled. “Some mirrors and wires rigged to convince me of your magical powers. You have, however, neglected one minor point.”
“And what is that?”
“Brakandaran, if he was still alive, would be in his dotage now. It's been what... fifty years since he was here last? You can't be more than thirty-five. Forty at the most.”
“I'm half-Harshini,” he pointed out. “I don't age like a human.”
She smiled. “Very good! You even have an answer for that one. I still don't believe you, but I do appreciate attention to detail.”
Brak found himself warming to the woman. She was sharp and not at all unattractive. But he was going to have to convince her, and probably the hard way.
“Very well, then,” he shrugged. “You name the proof. Something I cannot possibly have anticipated. We can even go somewhere else, so that you can be assured I'm not using - what did you call them - mirrors and wires?”
“I really don't see why I should bother.”
“Can you afford to be wrong?”
She thought on that for a moment, then shook her head. She turned away from him, as if in thought, reaching into her robe. “Proof, you say? Something unexpected?” She spun around, raising her arm. “Try this!”
The quarrel from the small crossbow took Brak by surprise. He had guessed she was up to something, but had no time to react. Elanymire saved him. She popped into existence in front of him and snatched the missile from the air, chittering angrily at the woman.
The assassin dropped the weapon in surprise at the appearance of the little demon. “How... ?”
“The demons live to protect the Harshini,” he pointed out with a shrug. He bent down and picked the demon up, stroking her leathery skin, trying to calm her. She took a very dim view of anyone trying to hurt a member of her clan and was all for vaporising the woman where she stood.
The assassin stared at him for a moment, as he stood there soothing the angry demon and then dropped to one knee. “Divine One.”
Brak rolled his eyes. “Oh, get up! I am not divine. But I do want to see the Raven. Now that we've established who I am, do you think we could arrange it?”
She stood up and met his eyes.
“See her,” she corrected. “The Raven is a woman. Her name is Teriahna.”
“Fine,” Brak agreed impatiently. “Let's go see her, then.”
“You have seen her already, my Lord. I am Teriahna. I am the Raven.”
CHAPTER 8
The first thing Tarja remembered on waking was that R'shiel was in danger. The thought hit him like a body blow and he jerked upright, only to discover he was tied to the wagon bed on which he lay. He could not understand how he came to be there. Nor did it make any sense that he was obviously moving. The wagon jolted beneath him, hitting a bump in the road and he cried out as his head slammed into the wagon bed.
“I think he's awake.”
Tarja was confronted by the odd spectre of a strange bearded face he did not recognise, which stared at him from the wagon seat. He struggled to sit up, but the ropes hampered his movement. The wagon halted and the man swung his legs around and squatted down beside Tarja, staring at him with concern.
“Captain? Sir? Do you know where you are?”
“Of course I don't know where I am,” Tarja croaked. All he could see was a leaden sky, the sides of the wagon and the face of the Defender bending over him. His voice was hoarse and he was thirsty enough to drink a well dry. “Water. Get me water.”
The trooper hurried to fetch a water skin. Tarja coughed as cold water spilled down his parched throat.
“Am I a prisoner?” he asked.
“Not that they've told me, sir.”
“Then why the ropes?”
“Oh! Them? That was to stop you hurting yourself, sir. Soon as Cap'n Denjon gets here, we can untie you.”
“Denjon? Denjon is here?”
“Yes, he's here.” Tarja turned to the new voice and peered at the familiar face studying him over the side of the wagon. Denjon grinned at him. “Welcome back.”
“What's happened? Where are we? Where's —”
“Slow down, Tarja,” Denjon cut in. “Untie him, Corporal.”
The trooper did as he was ordered and quickly released the ropes that bound him. Tarja tried to sit up, appalled at the effort it took. He glanced around and was astonished to discover himself in the midst of a Defender column that snaked in front and behind the wagon as far as he could see. He did not recognise the countryside around him. They were no longer on the undulating grasslands of the north, but advancing through the lightly wooded plateau of central Medalon. The Sanctuary Mountains loomed too close to the west. Tarja shook his head in confusion.
“How are you feeling?”
“Weak as a kitten,” Tarja confessed. “And completely lost. What's happened?”
“I'll explain what I can, but one thing at a time. We're about to make camp for the night. I'll fill you in over dinner.”
“Where's R'shiel?”
Denjon shrugged. “On her way to Hythria, as are we, my friend. Which reminds me. She gave me this before she left.” He reached into his red jacket and withdrew a sealed letter. “She said I should give it to you when you woke up. It might explain a few things.”
He handed the letter to Tarja and remounted his horse, shouting an order to make camp as he cantered off. Tarja broke the seal on the letter anxiously, hoping the contents would throw some light on the confusion that was threatening to overwhelm him. He vaguely remembered a battle. He must have dreamt he had taken a sword in the belly, but nothing explained what he was doing tied to a wagon under an open sky, surrounded by Defenders.
The letter was written in R'shiel's impatient scrawl.
Tarja, it began without preamble. If you are reading this, it means you survived. You were wounded trying to help me, and I tried to save your life. The Harshini part of me helped heal your wound, and the demons should do the rest. Brak says they'll leave you when you're well.