Dark Haven (38 page)

The journal was filled with neat, feminine handwriting. The name “Raen Brentig” was centered on the page, and a date.

“That’s about a year before the last great plague struck.”

Carina gently touched the page. “It’s almost as if she wants us to know her,” she said. Lisette removed the pillows from behind her so she could lie flat. “I seem to have made a friend.”

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Carina pulled the covers up around herself, handling the book carefully. “Has it always been the custom for the noble daughters in Principality to read and write?”

“It was fairly common when I was mortal,” Lisette said. “I didn’t know Raen, but she would have been alive close to the time I was brought across. A large manor is as complicated to run as any trade. A smart man wanted an educated wife to help keep the accounts.”

Carina found herself drawn into the entries in the journal. Most were notes about the ups and downs of a young woman’s life, with comments about parties and invitations and young men who caught Raen’s eye. The lavender is blooming in the garden now. I’ll have to take some for a fresh sachet. The ball is only a fortnight away. Carina turned the page. Another entry, dated just a few days after the first. Not feeling well. Hope, this passes by the ball. The rest of the pages were blank. Carina set the journal aside, lost in thought.

“Lord Jonmarc was right, m’lady. You must rest. Fear nothing. I’ll watch until dawn.”

Carina let herself sink into the mattress, warmed by the down comforter, her mind still on the journal and its sudden end. In the distance as she dreamed, she could hear Raen singing to her.

When Carina awoke, the first light of dawn was streaming through her windows. She lingered for a moment beneath the warm covers. Jonmarc had already left for the day’s tasks, and Lisette had gone to rest. Few of the mortal servants were stirring. Dark Haven was quiet.

As Carina belted her healer’s robe over her dress, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Raen stood in the shadows.

“Hello,” Carina greeted the ghost girl. “Thank you for your song last night.”

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Raen moved toward the windows. The fire had warmed the room enough to fog the glass. As Carina watched, letters traced themselves in the fog. “Come.”

Carina looked at Raen, perplexed. “Come where? Why?”

Another word formed as an invisible finger traced the letters. “Heal.”

“You want me to heal someone? One of the ghosts?” Carina shook her head. “I don’t know if it will work—I’m still not sure how I did what I did for you.”

More letters appeared. “Hurt.”

“All right. Let me gather my things— although if it’s a ghost who needs my help, they won’t be of much use.”

Carina collected her pouches and opened the door. The corridor was empty. Raen glided out of the room and into the darkened hallway, visible as a green glow. Torches lit their way. Carina followed Raen down the back staircase to the second landing. The ghost halted at a door. “Those rooms haven’t been restored,” Carina said. “No one lives there now.”

Raen glided through the closed wooden door. Carina reached for the nearest torch and took it down from the sconce on the wall. No footprints except for the scrabbling of mice marked the dust‐covered floor. It was cold, and Carina shivered. “How far?”

Raen beckoned for her to follow. They passed a row of long‐abandoned bedrooms. The corridor smelled musty, as if water had gotten in. At the end of the hallway a stairway descended into darkness.

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“This is the East wing, isn’t it?” Carina said, looking from the ghost to the dark stairs. “It’s dangerous down there—Jonmarc said that’s where the walls collapsed when the orb was stolen.”

Raen reached out an insubstantial hand to lead the way. Carina pulled back. “We should wait. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Raen moved back into the hallway, where a thin shaft of light struggled through a dirty window.

The dust on the floor began to move. This time, the ghost drew a bare‐limbed tree, and beneath it, one word. “Understand.”

Carina looked at Raen. “The power that touched me last night, the presence that’s making it hard for me to heal—that’s what you want me to understand?”

Raen nodded.

Carina weighed her fear against the frustration of her gradually waning power. “Can I reach the bottom safely? You can go through solid rock, but I can’t.”

Raen moved toward the door. As they started down the stairs, Raen’s form began to glow, adding to the torchlight in the lightless stairway. From the cramped turns and narrow tread, Carina guessed that it was a servant’s passageway. She grimaced as cobwebs brushed her face.

No one but the spirits had passed this way in many years. Carina counted the steps as they descended, making note of the landings. They kept going, as the stairway grew colder and the air damp. Carina was quite sure they were beneath the ground. Finally, they stopped in an antechamber. By the torchlight, Carina could see that deep cracks ran through the stone walls.

Through the next archway, the darkness was broken by a silver glow. Carefully picking her way through bits of fallen rock, Carina realized that the archway was the opening to a natural cave.

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Raen walked beside her as Carina crossed through the archway. Inside the cave, large pieces of rock littered the pathway. The walls glistened with crystals, and in the distance, Carina could hear falling water. A doorway on the opposite side of the chamber had collapsed. Coruscating light filled the cave, surrounding them with an evanescent glow.

Once before, during an Eastmark winter, Carina had glimpsed the Spirit Lights in the cold night sky. The ribbon of colored light glistened yellow and green, painted in bold strokes across the darkness. Like the Spirit Lights, the glow that filled the cave changed colors, as if the air were filled with diamond dust. The walls shone as the light hit crystals, reflecting in millions of tiny facets.

Carina could sense the power around her like a thunderstorm overhead. This is the Flow.

The glow became brighter, its colors began to shift. Gone were the tranquil shades of yellow and green. Deep pink and fiery red came over the glow as if reflecting a vivid sunset. At the reined in his horse, and Jonmarc looked out over the hillside.

Scattered across the hillside were the remains of sheep, torn limb from limb. The snow was dark with blood. Among the carcasses were the bodies of half’ a dozen herders. “By the Whore!”

Rann exclaimed as they neared the bodies. Other soldiers cursed in fear.

The men’s throats showed two clear punctures; their bodies were pale as the snow. The corpses had been gutted, and then stuffed with hay and pebbles. Their entrails lay in a frozen mass beside them. Jonmarc fought the urge to retch. The tracks in the snow showed the herders’

panic, running in vain as their attackers chased them. No tracks led to of from the site into the nearby woods. There were no tracks at all leading away, except by the trail they had followed.

“The herders that came out to relieve them found the bodies,” the elder said. “They said that there were no tracks except their own. Only one boy survived, and he won’t speak of what he saw. Whatever did this wasn’t mortal, m’lord. They flew here and flew away. It didn’t snow last night, and the wind hasn’t been strong enough to cover the tracks completely. Crone take my 328

soul! There are tales of the Wild Host doing such things, but that was long ago. What does it mean?”

“Someone’s trying to start a war.” Jonmarc paused. “Can you take me to the survivor?”

“He’s with the hedge witch. Half‐frozen and terrified near out of his wits.”

The group rode in silence back to the village. As they neared the small grouping of houses and shops, the sound of bells and mourners grew louder.

The elder led them to a small house at the edge of town. The smell of herbs and poultices permeated the thatched‐roof cottage. The hedge witch was a plump, stooped woman with short‐cropped gray hair. Jonmarc could feel the accusation in her glare as he passed, and the unspoken charge that the Lord of the manor had failed in his vows.

Near the fireplace sat a boy about fifteen seasons old, huddled in a threadbare blanket. He did not look up when they entered.

“I’ve warmed him up, but he won’t eat,” the hedge witch said. “Not a mark on him. Don’t know whether the Host did him a kindness or not, leaving him alive to tell the tale.” She looked at Jonmarc. “His name is Kendry. His father and older brother were also with the herds.”

Jonmarc remembered when he shared a similar fate. How long was it before I would tell Shanna’s mother what happened to my family, my village, when the raiders came? Weeks? It was years before I stopped dreaming about it.

“Kendry,” the elder said gently. “Lord Vahanian has come to talk with you. He wants to know what you saw.”

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Jonmarc took a step toward Kendry, and when the boy did not start in fear, he hunkered down to be on eye level. “I’m sorry about your family.”

Kendry nodded, never taking his eyes off the fire.

Jonmarc drew a deep breath. “When I was fifteen summers old, raiders came to my village. They killed my family. Everyone but me. No one ever went after them, ever caught the men who burned my village. I want to find the people who killed your family, Kendry. Find them and make them pay. But I need to know what you saw.”

Kendry was silent for so long Jonmarc did not think the boy would speak.

“It was the middle of the night,” Kendry said. “The moon was high and full. We were sleeping.

Gastell saw them first. A score of dark figures, flying through the sky. They circled us, wailing and moaning. And then—” The boy’s voice broke and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly as tears started down his cheeks.

“They were dressed all in black, with masks over their faces. They dived at us. They started to chase us and scatter the sheep. There was nowhere to run. They picked up Gastell and I saw them, saw them—” Kendry buried his face in his hands. Jonmarc laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder as the hedge witch pushed forward to talk softly with Kendry and lead him into a back room.

Jonmarc stood and looked to the village elder. “I’m sorry about your men, and your herd. When he’s ready to travel, bring the boy to the manor. Perhaps Carina can help him.” He looked back to where the hedge witch tended the boy in the back room, and wondered how he could expect the villagers to heed his next request. “I need your word that you’ll let us handle this,” Jonmarc said to the elder. “I’ll go to the Blood Council. There are a small number of rogue vayash moru trying to end the truce. You know that if that happens, we all suffer.”

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“Aye. We’ll do our best to keep the peace. But those were our lads out there. The families are going to want justice. And if it happens again—”

“I’ll do everything in my power to make sure it doesn’t. I need you to buy me some time to handle this. Let me bring it to the Blood Council. I promise you, your dead will be avenged.”

“I’ll do as you ask, Lord Vahanian, to the best of my power. But they will be avenged— one way or another.”

“Tm sorry, m’lady, but they keep coming.” Neirin, Jonmarc’s day manager, apologized. After news spread far and wide about Carina’s healing, Neirin had appointed himself gatekeeper to assure that the crowds that sought her attention remained orderly.

“It’s not your fault. Any more word about what happened in Haven?”

“Lord Jonmarc went from there out to the south holdings. The story from the guards is all I know.”

“Send after the boy tomorrow, please. I don’t dare leave tonight with so many waiting. If he’ll come to the manor, I’ll see what I can do for him.” Carina listened as the bells tolled the fourth hour. “I just wish Jonmarc would get back before dark.”

“Understandable, m’lady,” Neirin said. “And I’ll do as you ask.” He looked out over the long line of people waiting to be healed. How far news had traveled of the attack was uncertain, but waiting patients were edgier than usual. “I’ve brought a couple of the serving girls, and a 331

midwife from the village. If you give them direction, they can help with simple things like binding up wounds. Lisette will come at nightfall. Eiria volunteered as well.”

“I’ll be glad for their help,” Carina confessed. “Goddess! At least when I treated battle wounded I wasn’t the only healer!”

Carina put the two mortal servants to work separating out the sickest patients from those with minor injuries. She set to work, not noticing that the sun had set until Lisette came to take over as her assistant.

“Your fame is spreading,” Lisette observed, helping Carina calm a small girl with a bad burn on her arm.

“Jonmarc warned me that it had been a long time since Dark Haven had a full healer, but I didn’t realize just what that meant,” Carina tried to distract the girl long enough to heal the burn.

“When Arontala stole the orb from under the manor, Dark Haven seemed to go to sleep,” Lisette observed. “Now, with the new lord, things are awakening, both good and bad.”

“What do you mean?” Carina slipped into a light trance as she sped the healing of the girl’s arm, willing the pain to decrease as the new skin covered the angry burn. The girl’s mother bowed low, repeating her thanks and trying to offer Carina the sparse contents of her satchel in gratitude.

“Last night, the Wild Host seemed closer than I’ve ever felt them. Today, I heard the servants talking about the killings in Haven. None of the mortals can remember when that happened before. Even those of us who have lived centuries have only heard of such a thing on occasion.

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The Flow beneath the manor seems to be stirring. I can’t explain it, but I’ve been here long enough to know that its energy is different, darker. I’ll be glad as anyone when the Dark Aspects’

nights are over.”

Carina sat back on her haunches. She still had about a dozen patients waiting for her attention.

She wiped her hands on her robe and sipped at a cup of kerif, now gone cold.

“Tonight is for the Crone?” she asked, beckoning her next patient, a young man with a badly-broken leg. “I thought Principality “They do. But what the Nargi call the Crone has no likeness to the ancient tales. I’ve heard the elder vayash moru tell stories. In the old days, Sinha was a weaver, not a hag with a cauldron. She spun the threads of life and wove out destiny, determining how long each thread should be. That’s why woven gifts are given tonight, shawls and blankets. Like Nameless, Sinha comes for unrepentant souls because their threads must be ripped out and woven again. She can be harsh, like the winter wind. She was also a tanner,, taking the hides of evil men and rekindling the spark to send “their souls back until their lessons were learned.