Eyes of Crow (2 page)

“Not necessarily.”

His nonchalance made her fists clench. “The Spirits do everything for a reason,” she said. “If no one were ever sick, we wouldn’t need healers, the Otters and Turtles. If no one ever had dreams, we wouldn’t need Swans like Papa to interpret them. And if we didn’t have wars, we wouldn’t need you. Or my stupid brothers.”

Arcas picked up both pails and turned toward the dog pen. “You worry about things you can’t even see. It makes no sense.”

“Sense has nothing to do with it.” She followed him. “You know I’m right.”

He chuckled at her over his shoulder. “You’re always right.”

Feigning surrender was his signal to change the subject. She searched her mind for a casual topic, but she was curious about his upcoming Bear-ness.

“Are there any bear paws for you to wear as a fetish?” She had never seen one up close.

“Not until the next bear kill, which could be years.” He lowered the pails over the edge of the pen. “I’ll wear a carved claw for now.”

“Will your cousin Jano make it for you? His fetishes are lovely.”

“They should be. He’s the artist of the family. The Spider, of course.” Arcas looked around, as if to make sure they were alone. “Can I show you something?”

She nodded and waited. He reached into the pocket of his trousers, then withdrew his hand.

“Come closer.” His warm voice held a slight tremor, and his eyes looked strangely vulnerable.

Rhia drew near him. The top of her head barely reached his chin, and she swore she felt his breath in her hair, but it was probably just the breeze. She bent over his palm, held close to his stomach. It opened to reveal a small carving no longer than her thumb.

“It’s for your mother,” Arcas said. “Go on, hold it.”

Rhia picked up the piece of wood and lifted it near her face. An otter stood on its hind feet, paws curled to its chest and an expression of intelligent wonder on its tiny face.

“How beautiful. It looks like it’s begging me to romp in the river.” She turned it over in her palm. “But it doesn’t look like one of Jano’s.”

“That’s because it’s not.” His gaze flitted to hers before returning to the ground in front of him. “It’s mine.”

Rhia gasped. “You made this?”

Arcas scratched the back of his neck and stared at his feet, which shifted on the damp brown grass. “I thought if your mother needed a new one—or a spare one, just in case. She did so much to ease Grandmother’s pain when she was dying.”

It was a lovely gesture. Otter people usually had to content themselves with a carving to represent their Guardian Spirit, for it was unjust to kill such a rare animal solely for the sake of a fetish. From any other boy, Rhia thought, such a token would be an attempt to curry favor with his intended’s parents. But Arcas’s heart was generous, as expansive as the rest of him, and she wondered if it would ever be hers alone.

She replaced the otter in his palm, looked at his hands, so huge compared to hers, and marveled at how they had created something so delicate. “Have you shown anyone else?”

He shook his head. “Why would I? It’s just a silly thing I do to pass the time while watching the sheep.”

“Maybe you’re a Spider, too.”

“No. Bear. Father’s never wrong about these things.” His jaw set, and she almost decided not to press the matter. But if he were a Spider, he could
make
weapons, not wield them, and then he would be safe and someday grow gray and wrinkled long before she ever had to hear those wings descend upon his—
stop it!
Rhia gave herself a mental smack across the face. It was no use pondering such things, and she wanted more than anything to be of use.

“You should tell your father about your talents,” she said. “He may change his prediction.”

“Have you finished your chores?” Arcas cast a sly glance at the house, then at Rhia. “Because I think I left something behind the stables the last time I was here.”

He took her hand before she could reply. Two chestnut ponies raised their heads to watch them hurry down the hill, then resumed their placid grazing.

With her back against the stable and her ankles covered in sweet-smelling straw, Rhia pulled Arcas to stand a few inches away. His lips brushed her forehead and the corners of her eyes, and she breathed in the warm, musky scent of his neck.

“Isn’t this better than talking about a war that doesn’t exist?” he asked her.

“It exists in here.” She touched her temple. “So many troubles do, all begging me to listen.”

Arcas lifted her chin with one finger. “Then let me quiet them.”

He kissed her softly, and she trembled even more than she had the first time—not only from the kiss itself, but from what lay beyond it, what it made her want. Her hands tangled in his hair as she brought his mouth harder against hers. If only they weren’t so young….

Girls and boys their age had few chances to be alone together. Becoming a parent would evolve their powers to the second phase, and for that event to occur before understanding the first phase powers—or worse, before these had even been Bestowed—would be like learning to fly before learning to crawl. Rhia thought it unfair that the ways of the Spirits lagged so far behind the needs of young bodies, a particularly brawny one of which was pressed against her now.

A distant voice called her name. With a sigh, she broke away from Arcas’s lips. “It’s my father,” she said.

His arms tightened around her waist. “His voice does carry, doesn’t it?”

Rhia laughed and escaped his embrace to dash up the hill. Her legs tired within several steps. She turned to walk backward so she could watch Arcas follow with his slow, deliberate lumber, a Bear in a man’s body for certain.

Her heel caught the hem of her long skirt, and she slipped in the mud. The ground was eager to break her fall. Arcas bent double with laughter, which seemed to weaken his legs so they could no longer climb the hill. Rhia scraped herself off the ground and tried to brush the dirt off her backside with all the dignity she could summon. Her muddy hands smeared the spot on her light green skirt into a broad splash of brown. Whatever creature embodied clumsiness would surely be her Guardian Spirit.

“There you are.”

Mayra stood behind her, flanked by Galen and Tereus. The three watched Rhia with an unusual intensity.

“Galen would like to speak with you.” Tereus extended his hand to his daughter. “Come inside.”

“Stay here,” the Council leader told his son.

The four of them entered the house and sat around the wooden table. No one spoke for several moments, and Rhia’s feet began to fidget. The toes of her right foot pulled the heel of her left shoe on and off several times, then her left foot repeated the action.

Finally her mother cleared her throat. “Galen has some good news.” The men shot her quizzical looks. “That is, he has news,” Mayra said. “It might be good.”

Galen sighed and turned to Rhia. “I need your help.”

Rhia’s mouth popped open, and she shut it quickly. She’d never seen Galen look for assistance from an adult, much less a girl her age.

“What should I—er, what could I do? For you. What can I do for you?” she managed to stammer.

Galen’s dark blue eyes crinkled with anguish. “As you know, my brother Dorius is very ill. Your mother says she can do no more for him.”

Rhia nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“You could—” His jaw quivered. “At least I would know. Know what’s to come, and when.”

Rhia looked at her parents, then at Galen. “I don’t understand.”

“You have the power,” he blurted. “You know when death comes.”

Her stomach tightened as an icy grip took hold of it.

“The animals,” Galen said. “It started with your dog. I’ve heard stories. Besides—” His back straightened, and he looked like his usual powerful self again. “Discerning others’ gifts is one of mine. One of my gifts. Tell me, when you see a sick animal, how do you know if it will live or die?”

She looked away. “It’s just a feeling.”

“Describe it.”

Rhia took a deep breath and focused on the words instead of the urge to run. “I look at them, into their eyes, and I hear a bird. It sounds crazy, but if the bird is flying away, the creature will live, and if it’s landing, the poor thing will die. And if it flies, I know how it’ll come back.”

“How what will come back?” Galen asked.

She didn’t answer, just stared at the knot in the table’s wooden surface. She wanted to stick her finger in it and follow the swirls to its dark center, but thought it would look childish under the circumstances.

“Answer him, Rhia,” her mother said gently.

“Crow,” she whispered. “Crow comes and takes them to the Other Side. And I watch them go.” She added in an even softer whisper, “I hate it.”

No one heard her last sentence, or if they did, it went unacknowledged. Galen scraped his chair on the floor and stood.

“Will you help me, Rhia?” he asked. “Will you come see my brother?”

She gazed up at him and shivered. “You want me to do this with a person?”

“It’s your gift,” he said. “You have the Aspect of Crow.”

The village of Asermos was settling into quiet, though a few dozen people still hurried down the wide main thoroughfare that ran next to the sleepy river. Ponies and donkeys dragged rattling carts filled with bags of wool, grain or early spring vegetables. The animals lumbered down the sandy street to where boats lazed in the harbor. Small bands of revelers made their way from one tavern to the next, a few of them joking in dialects Rhia rarely heard. Now that the river had thawed enough to assure passage, a winter’s pent-up demand for goods and conviviality was bringing the village to life.

Near the doorway of the Hound’s Tooth Tavern, a tall, broad-shouldered man leaned against the stone and stucco building, smoking a pipe. A sharp, woodsy odor made Rhia’s nose wrinkle as they passed. She spared him an extra backward glance. His smooth blond hair was pulled into a short knot at the back of his neck, and his eyes glittered in the lantern light as they studied the town with disdain. A tailored waistcoat of brocaded red velvet and the long, graceful sword at his hip put him out of place not only in Asermos, but in the entire region. Her people’s sturdy, simple clothes suited their pastoral ways, and no one would think to tote a weapon as casually as a handkerchief. Furthermore, the stranger wore no fetish that Rhia could see; she frowned at this lack of courtesy.

The elders often spoke of men from the distant south—Descendants, they were called—who lacked magical powers and worshiped human gods. The memory of the man’s imposing presence remained with her until they reached the narrow street where Dorius lived.

She hadn’t seen Dorius in several months. He had suffered from muscle tremors and weakness for over a year before taking to his bed last fall. When she was a child and came with Arcas to play with his cousins, Dorius and his wife, Perra, always made sure the boys included Rhia in their games.

Her steps slowed as they neared the door of the pale green stucco house. What if she saw Dorius’s death? How could she look into the eyes of this kind man, old before his time, and tell him there was no hope? She said a wordless prayer to Crow to spare his life and her own sanity.

Galen knocked on the dark wooden door, which opened in an instant. Perra nodded to each of them without speaking, wide gray eyes full of sorrow. Her face seemed to struggle to remain impassive as she looked at Rhia.

The bed lay against the far wall on a carved wooden frame. A thin figure lumped the blankets. Galen led Rhia to the bed and laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

Dorius woke with a snort and peered around him. His glazed brown eyes focused on Rhia, and she released the breath she’d been holding since they’d entered. The sound of wings was unmistakable but faint; the man’s death was far from imminent or certain.

“We’ll wait outside,” Galen whispered.

After they had left, Rhia dragged a chair next to the bed and sat down. Dorius watched her movements without a word. His sallow skin and shadowed eyes made him look as fragile as his Butterfly Guardian Spirit. Now that his son Jano had married and had a child of his own, Dorius’s powers of transformation should have entered the third and final stage, to the point where he could renew his own damaged body. Yet the illness had made him too weak to work his magic, for himself or anyone else.

“I asked Galen to bring you.” Dorius’s voice was barely a whisper, as if it had already preceded him to the Other Side and left behind a mere ghost of itself. “I’m sorry if it frightens you.”

Rhia shook her head but realized the transparency of her lie.

He put a limp hand over hers. It held a trace of warmth, like hour-old bathwater. “My brother said you would know.”

Did she? A cloud enveloped her awareness. “What do you think will happen to you?” she asked him.

He laid his head back. Gray and brown hair spread over the pillow, grazing his shoulders. “I’ll never be what I was,” he said to the ceiling.

Rhia’s heartbeat quickened. The beasts she visited never voiced dismay over growing old or sick. They feared only pain, not death. During her own illness, she had fought for life with ferocity. Every successful breath would fill her with an uneasy gratitude. Here was a man losing the will to live, not because of his suffering, but because of his pride.

“Of course not!” She softened the sharp edges of her voice, but the words flowed like ice water. “We are never what we once were. We’re born. We live, and if we’re lucky, we grow old. Then we die.” Someone else seemed to speak through her.

He stared at her in shock, but she continued:

“Don’t you see? Every time we change, it’s like dying, even if our bodies remain strong. Sometimes we have to leave behind the person we used to be.” She squeezed his cool fingers. “Dorius, you of all people should understand that. We can’t be caterpillars forever.”

He frowned. “I know I’m not a young man anymore. I’m not asking to be young. I just don’t want to be…”

“Useless?”

His eyes flashed at her with recognition. “I’m a burden to Perra. I can’t tend the sheep, I can’t even lift my own grandson. And my magic is gone.”

“But you’re not.”

“What do you mean?”

“All those things—a husband, grandfather, shepherd, worker of magic—they’re like—like the curves of a riverbank.”

“I don’t understand,” Dorius said.

“They shape the river and guide its course. But the water itself is the same no matter which way the river flows, no matter what it passes and leaves behind. Underneath everything you put on and take off, one thing will never change—your soul.” She touched his arm. “A Butterfly’s soul.”

Rhia sat back in the chair and wondered at the source of these words. She had pondered the ideas for years, especially during her illness, but she had never uttered them until now.

Finally Dorius spoke, “It’s up to me, then, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Rhia stood on trembling legs. “Now get up.”

He looked at her, aghast. “I can’t.”

“Do it.” Her voice quavered. She wasn’t used to giving orders to adults, but it was the only way he could live.

He gestured to his legs. “I haven’t walked in months.”

“Then crawl.”

Dorius started to pull back the covers, then hesitated. “How long do I have?”

Rhia improvised to hide her uncertainty. “If you stay in bed, a few days at the most. If you get up now, I don’t know. I can’t see that path yet, because you haven’t done as I asked.” She winced inside at her own audacity but kept her chin high. “I’ll help you if you need it.”

He waved her off, then with a grunt shoved his legs, gaunt from months of disuse, over the edge of the bed. Rhia pushed the chair within his reach. He laid his arm, already glistening with sweat, along the length of the chair’s seat. She wrapped his other arm over her shoulder and ignored his pleas of pride.

He sat still for a moment; then with one great effort, Dorius heaved to his feet. As they wavered in an unsteady balance, Rhia drew in her breath.

The Crow had flown.

She let out a cry of joy. The door flew open, and the others rushed in. Perra took Rhia’s place while Galen caught his brother’s other arm.

“Get him outside,” Rhia said.

They edged toward the door. Rhia moved ahead of them to open it wider. She turned to see Dorius gazing at her with gratitude, and her heart swelled. He would live, he would heal, he would—

Spirits, no.
He would die.

She covered her mouth, unable to hide her horror at the vision in her mind.

Dorius writhed on the ground in a pile of golden leaves that were stained red with blood, blood that soaked his shirt and pulsed between his fingers as they tried to staunch it. He cried out his wife’s name with his last rattling breath.

He died alone.

Rhia barely heard her own scream above the din of battle. Someone wrenched her through the doorway, out of Dorius’s sight.

The vision vanished as the world went dark.

Rhia woke with a shudder, the floor hard beneath her back. Her mother pulled something bitter-smelling away from her nose.

“She’s awake,” Mayra said.

Arcas’s face appeared above Rhia, forehead furrowed in concern. Firelight shone against his hair and skin.

A coarse blanket lay over her, itching her chin. Rhia pushed it away and felt the evening’s chill. “Where am I?”

“At my aunt and uncle’s house,” Arcas said.

She sat up at once, and her head seemed to pound against the air itself. “Dorius?”

“He’s fine.” Her mother leaned against Rhia’s shoulder to support her. “He’s outside with Perra, enjoying the night air.”

“When is it? How long was I—”

“Not long, maybe an hour.” Mayra put her hand to Rhia’s sweaty forehead. “How do you feel?”

“It doesn’t matter. Dorius—I saw—”

“No!”

Galen loomed behind her mother, a silhouette against the firelight. “Never speak what you know of someone’s death, unless it’s imminent. Do you understand?”

“But there was—”

“Never!”

She clamped her mouth shut.

Arcas knelt beside her and looked up at his father. “You should have told her that before we came in.”

Galen’s eyes flared at his son’s impertinence. Then he blinked hard and sighed. “It was a mistake. I thought Dorius had no hope, and that’s all she would see.”

“It’s a good thing she’s the Crow, then, and not you.” Rhia saw Arcas blanch as he realized he’d gone too far.

Galen gave him a cold look. “Wait outside for me.”

After a last glance at Rhia, Arcas obeyed. The door banged shut.

Galen sat cross-legged on the floor next to them. “I’m sorry,” he said to Rhia. “I’m sorry you have to endure this, that you had to witness my brother’s eventual death. Yours is one of the more difficult powers to live with.”

Rhia bit back a reply to this understatement.

“The time has come,” Galen continued, “for you to take possession of your gift before it overwhelms you.”

Rhia swallowed hard. “I have to go into the forest?”

“Not only that.” He lifted his head to speak to Mayra. “Rhia needs to study with someone who has Crow magic. I sent a message to a woman named Coranna, who lives in Kalindos, a few days’ walk past the place of Bestowing.” He spoke to Rhia again. “She will train you in the ways of Crow.”

Rhia tightened the rough brown blanket around her to stop the shivering. “How long will I stay?”

“It’s a complicated magic, and no one here in Asermos has experience with it.”

“How long?” Rhia repeated.

“Perhaps a year or more, for your first phase. Later in life, as your powers develop, Coranna will teach you more.”

Mayra clutched the edge of Rhia’s blanket with shaky hands. “Isn’t she too young?” she asked Galen. “You only said you wanted to test her. You didn’t say she had to leave now.”

“Others have been younger.” Galen touched Mayra’s shoulder. “Asermos needs her. Think how her powers could aid your healing work.”

Rhia’s mother looked away, then turned a few inches to move out of his reach. “You speak the truth, as usual.” Her mouth twitched as if it wanted to say more.

The thought of witnessing a person’s death again, imminent or not, made Rhia’s heart feel like it was coiling into a knot inside her chest.

“Two generations have passed,” Galen said to her, “since anyone here has presided over the dying process. It’s difficult for one so near the beginning of life to devote herself to its end, but won’t you consider making the journey to learn more?”

Through the front door Rhia heard Perra sobbing, either from the joy at having her husband back or the sadness at the reminder that his life, like all others, would end one day. “When must I leave?” she asked Galen.

He uncrossed his legs and stood. “We can begin our preparations as soon as you’re ready.”

Rhia imagined the heart of the dark forest, remembered the eyes of the dying animals and the vision of Dorius’s bleeding body twisting in the leaves. She steeled her jaw and looked up at Galen.

“I’m not ready.”