The Black Raven. Katharine Kerr
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Ebañy turned to her. ‘What do you see, when you look at him?’
‘Just a man like any other, as pale as you are, and so I guess he must be from your homeland. But I don’t understand what you’re saying. His ears are – well, forgive me, sir – but they’re awfully strange, but otherwise, he looks ordinary enough.’
For a long moment Ebañy stood unspeaking, glancing back and forth between the two of them. Behind him Kivva, their second daughter, flung open the tent flap and stared out, a tall girl, dark like her mother, with tight black curls cut close to her head. Zandro wiggled out between his sister’s legs, saw Evandar, and squealed one high-pitched note. He laughed, stuck out his tongue, then threw his head back and pranced around in a tight circle whilst waggling his fingers in Evandar’s general direction. Everyone stared, speechless, until Marka found her voice.
‘Zan! What are you doing? Stop that!’ Marka stepped forward and grabbed. ‘This man is our guest, and taunting him is very rude.’
Giggling, Zandro raced back into the tent. When Marka pointed, Kivva obligingly went in after him. Marka turned back to find Evandar considering her with a smile as sly as any merchant closing a deal.
‘Please, let me apologize for my son,’ Marka said.
‘Oh, no apologies needed,’ Evandar said. ‘He must be an unusual child, yes? Difficult to handle, perhaps?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘I’m not surprised. He’s not really human, you see.’
‘That’s what my husband says!’ Marka turned to Ebañy. ‘I don’t understand any of this!’
‘No doubt.’ Evandar bowed to her. ‘But I see this interests you. Perhaps we can discuss it?’
Ebañy merely glared at him, trembling on the edge of rage.
‘The Guardians,’ Evandar hissed. ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’
All at once Ebañy laughed, relaxed, and began speaking to him in an incomprehensible language. For a moment Marka felt like screaming herself, but the stranger seemed to understand the words; he answered in the same tongue. When she started to ask them what it was, Ebañy silenced her with a wave.
‘I’m sorry, my love, and truly, I’m forgetting all my manners.’ Ebañy laid a soft hand on her arm. ‘We have a guest, a stranger in our camp!’
‘So we do.’ She saw her chance for escape and took it. ‘We’ll all have a lovely breakfast. I’ll go attend to it.’
‘None for me!’ Evandar broke in. ‘I don’t exactly eat, you see.’
There seemed to be nothing to say to this announcement. Marka hurried away, calling to her daughters to come help with the meal.
Inside the tent Salamander offered his guest cushions, and they sat across from each other on a flat-woven carpet of green and blue. Kwinto, dark and graceful with his father’s long fingers and slight build, sat cross-legged on the floor cloth nearby. When Salamander glanced his way he found the boy’s face a tightly-controlled mask.
‘Did I ever tell you about the Guardians?’ Salamander said.
Kwinto shook his head.
‘They’re a race of spirits, like the Elementals, but far far more advanced and more powerful than that. This fellow, sitting here? The man you see is just an illusion.’
‘A bit more than that, please,’ Evandar said. ‘I don’t know what I make myself out of, exactly, but it suffices.’ He picked up a silk scarf, flicked it, then tossed it to Kwinto. ‘Illusions don’t have hands that hold and touch.’
Kwinto smiled briefly, then ducked his head to study the scarf as if perhaps he could read the secrets of the universe from the pale gold silk. Marka and the girls came in, set down plates of bread and fruit, cups, and a pitcher of water laced with wine. When they started out, Salamander called Marka back but let the girls run off.
‘Come sit with me, my love,’ he said. ‘I think this news concerns you, too.’
‘Where’s Zandro?’ Marka said. ‘I should go see –’
‘Terrenz has him.’ Kwinto spoke up, his boy’s voice cracking. ‘They went out the back when we came in.’
‘Leave him be, my love,’ Salamander said. ‘Sit down.’
When he shoved a cushion her way she sank onto it. For a long moment an awkward silence held, as Evandar studied her and Kwinto both, but neither would look his way. Salamander poured himself a cup of water.
‘I should tell you why I’m here,’ Evandar said at last. ‘Your father is worried about you. He wants you to come home.’
‘My life lies here.’
‘And it seems to be a busy one, I must say.’ Evandar glanced around the tent. ‘And prosperous. Your tents are much richer than your father’s.’
‘Bardek’s a richer country than the Westlands.’
‘Just so, but your father’s getting on in years. He desperately wants to see you. He worries about you, too, off in this far country. And now I see that he has grandchildren, and here he doesn’t even know it.’
At that Marka made a little whimpering sound, quickly stifled. Salamander glanced her way.
‘If he dies without seeing you,’ Marka started, then let her voice fade away.
‘And then there’s your brother.’ Evandar leaned forward, smiling at Kwinto, to press his advantage. ‘Did you know you have an uncle, boy? In far-off Deverry? His name is Rhodry Maelwaedd, and he’s a great warrior, one that poets make songs about.’
Kwinto’s eyes widened. Salamander held up a hand to keep him silent.
‘My father’s concern,’ Salamander said, and he could hear the bitterness in his own voice, ‘my father’s concern comes a bit late. When I rode with him at home all he ever felt for me was contempt.’
His voice drained all the colour from the tent and the people in it. He saw them all turn grey and as stiff as those little drawings a scribe makes in the margins of a scroll. The wind lifted the tent flap, and Devaberiel walked in to stand with his thumbs hooked in his belt. Salamander got to his feet.
‘What are you doing here?’ he snapped. ‘Evandar just said you were back in Deverry.’
His father ignored the question and stood looking around the tent with a little twisted smile. He was a handsome man, Devaberiel, in the elvish manner, with moon-beam pale hair, and tall, walking round with a warrior’s swagger as he looked over the tent and its contents.
‘You could at least talk to me!’ Salamander took one step toward him.
Devaberiel yawned in complete indifference.
‘Curse you!’
‘Oh please!’ Marka rose to her knees and grabbed the edge of his tunic. ‘Ebañy, stop it! There’s no one there!’
She was right. His father had disappeared. No – he’d never really been there, had he? Salamander turned toward Marka and found her weeping. He could think of nothing to say, nothing at all, but he sat down next to her and reached out a hand. She clasped it in both of hers while the tears ran down her face. In a rustle of wind the Wildfolk crept into the tent and stood round the edge like a circle of mourners. Am I dead then? he thought.
At the thought he felt his consciousness rise and drift free of his body. Although the light turned bluish and dim, he could see his body slump and fall forward, spilling plates and cups alike. He could also see that he now occupied a strange silver flame-like shape, joined to that body by a mist of silver cord. Marka clasped her hands to her mouth to stifle a scream; Kwinto leapt to his feet. Evandar got up more slowly.
‘Follow