KATHARINE KERR
THE BLACK RAVEN
Book Two of the Dragon Mage
COPYRIGHT
HarperVoyager
An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Voyager 1999
Copyright © Katharine Kerr 1999
Cover design and illustration by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Katharine Kerr asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780006482604
Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780007378159
Version: 2019-12-10
DEDICATION
For my grandmother, Elsa Petersen Brahtin 18991985
The courage in her life amazed me
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
A Note on the Deverry Sequence
Prologue: Winter, 1117 Bardek
Part One: Winter, 1117 Deverry
Part Two: Deverry
Epilogue: Spring, 1118
Keep Reading
Appendices
Glossary
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by the Author
About the Publisher
A NOTE ON THE DEVERRY SEQUENCE
It occurs to me that readers might find it helpful to know something about the overall structure of the Deverry series. From the beginning of this rather large enterprise, I have had an actual ending in mind, a set of events that should wrap up all the books in dramatic conclusion. Its merely taken me much longer to get there than I ever thought it would.
If you think of Deverry as a stage play, the sets of books make up its acts. Act One consists of the Deverry books proper, that is, Daggerspell, Darkspell, Dawnspell, and Dragonspell. The Westlands books, A Time of Exile, A Time of Omens, A Time of War, and A Time of Justice, make up Act Two, while Act Three will unfold in the current quintet, The Dragon Mage, that is, The Red Wyvern, The Black Raven, the volume you now have in hand, and its sister, The Fire Dragon. The Gold Falcon and The Silver Wyrm will bring the sequence to its end at last.
As for the way that the series alternates between past and present lives, think of the structure of a line of Celtic interlace, some examples of which have decorated the various books in this set. Although each knot appears to be a separate figure, when you look closely you can see that they are actually formed from one continuous line. Similarly, this line weaves over and under itself to form the figures. A small section of line seems to run over or under another line to form a knot.
The past incarnations of the characters in this book and their present tense story really are one continuous line, but this line interweaves to form the individual volumes. Eventually soon, I hope the pattern will complete itself, and you will be able to see that the set of books forms a circle of knots.
Katharine Kerr
PROLOGUE
Winter, 1117 Bardek
Always the sorcerer must prepare for hindrances and set-backs. Before any working of great length and import, he must spend long nights in study of the omens, for if the Macrocosm can find a way to defeat him, it will, preferring in its laziness the natural order over any change wrought by our arts, no matter how greatly that change will be to its benefit.
The Pseudo-Iamblichus Scroll
Marka, dearest? Keeta said. Im sorry. Theres something wrong with him.
Marka tried to answer, but her throat filled with tears. Her youngest son, not yet two years old, sat on a red and blue carpet in a patch of sunlight that spilled through the tent door. He was frowning at the edge of the brightness; over and over again he would reach out a pale brown hand and touch the shadow next to it, then draw his hand back and frown the harder. Tight brown curls hung over his forehead; now and then he would bat at them as if they bothered him, only to forget them again in an instant.
He does know his name, Marka said. He may not have any other words, but he does know his name.
Keeta sighed and sat down next to the boy, who ignored her. They made an odd pair, Keeta so massive and dark, Zandro so slender and pale. Even though she had taken over the business end of managing their travelling show, Keeta still juggled, and her long arms sported muscles many a man had envied over the years. In her curly black hair, which she wore cropped close to her skull, grey sprouted at the temples.
Ive been afraid for months, Marka said at last. He still cant use a spoon.
Is it that he cant use one? Keeta held out her hand to Zandro. Or that he simply wont?
Zandro whipped his head around and bit her on the thumb. Calmly, without speaking, Keeta put her other hand under his chin, spread her fingers and thumb, and pressed on both points of his jaw. With a squeal he opened his mouth and let her go.
Thats better, Keeta said to him. No biting.
His head tilted to one side, he considered her. She pointed to the teeth marks on her thumb.
No! No biting!
All at once he smiled and nodded.
Very good, Keeta said. You understood me.
This he ignored; with a yawn he returned to his study of the edge between light and shadow.
Ah ye gods! Marka said. Just when I think its hopeless, hell do something like that. Understand a word, I mean, or even do something kind. When Kivva fell and cut herself yesterday? He came running and kissed her and tried to help.
I saw that, yes. At times hes really very sweet.
Marka nodded. In the twenty years since her marriage, shed borne nine pregnancies, not counting the miscarriages. Six of the children had lived past infancy Kwinto, their first-born son; Tillya, the eldest daughter; Terrenz, born so soon after Tillya that they loved each other like twins; their sisters Kivva and Delya, named after Keetas long-time companion, who had died in the same fever that had killed another infant son. Zandro would, she hoped, be the last. She wondered how she was going to find the love and strength to deal with him, who would demand more of both than all the rest of them put together. Keeta must have been thinking along the same lines.
Its not like you dont have enough troubles on your mind already. What with Ebañys a long pause illness.
Oh, come right out and say it! Marka snapped. Hes gone mad. We all know it. And now his youngest son is obviously mad, too. Why are we all being so coy? How would Ebañy put it? Hes demented, lunatic, deranged, insane Tears overwhelmed her.
Marka was aware of Keeta getting up, then kneeling again next to her. She turned into her friends embrace and sobbed. Keeta stroked her hair with a huge hand.
There, there, little one. Well find a way to heal your husband yet. Well be playing in Myleton next. They have physicians and priests and the gods only know who else, and one of them will know what to do.
Do you think so? Marka raised a tear-stained face. Do you really think so?
I have to. And so do you.
The tears stopped. Marka sat back on her heels and wiped her face on the sleeve of her tunic. A sudden thought turned her cold.
Wait where is Ebañy? Marka scrambled to her feet. Here we are, on the coast, with the cliffs
Ill stay here with the child.
Marka ducked out of the tent, then stood blinking for a moment in the bright sunlight. Around her the camp spread out, a grand thing of white tents and painted wagons, the biggest travelling show that Bardek had ever seen. At the moment, however, the camp seemed curiously empty. Most of the performers had retired to their tents to sleep away the noon heat. Since she could see none of their animals, some of the men must have led them to the water trough by the public fountain, hidden from her sight by trees. Nowhere did Marka find Ebañy, but in the far view, at the edge of the caravanserai, between the palms and the plane trees, she could see the cliffs and distantly hear the sea, pounding on rocks below.
Marka trotted off, panting a little for breath in the hot sun. All those pregnancies had buried the slender girl acrobat somewhere deep inside a thick-waisted matron who had to bind up her heavy breasts for comforts sake. At those moments when she had the leisure to remember her younger self, Marka hated what she had become. Especially when she looked at her husband as she hurried along the cliffs, she saw him at last, strolling along and singing to himself a good safe distance back from the edge. Her relief mingled with anger, that he could still look so young and so handsome, with his pale blond hair and his pale grey eyes, his pinkish-white skin just glazed with tan and as smooth as a young lads. When he saw her, he smiled and waved.
There you are, my love, he called out. Do you have need of me for something?
Oh, I was just wondering where you were.
Enjoying this glorious day under the dome of the sky. The seas full of spirits, and so is the wind, and theyre all enjoying it with me.
Ah. I see.
Not of course that she did see the spirits teeming. He often spoke of spirits, as well as demons, portents, and visions, all of them invisible to everyone else. Still, she had to agree about the glory of this particular day, with the sea a winter-dark blue, scoured into white caps by the fresh wind.
Ive been thinking about the show, Ebañy said. I want to add something new to my displays, in the parts with the coloured lights. Im just not sure what yet.
Itll come to you. I have faith.
Well, so do I.
They shared a smile. Hand in hand they walked back to the camp while he sang in the language of far-off Deverry.
A love song, he said abruptly. For you, my beautiful darling.
And he did love her, of that she was sure. Never in their years together had he spurned her, never had he amused himself with the young women who performed in the troupe, not even once, no matter how old and thick and worn shed become. For that alone she would always love him, even though at times, such as now, when he studied her face with a strange intensity, she wondered what he was seeing when he looked at her.
With a squeal of delight Zandro came trotting to meet them. Keeta strolled after, shaking her head, as if to say that he was beyond her control. It was one of the strangest things about the boy, that he could walk as well as a much older child, yet not be able to form a single word.
Well! Marka pointed them out. Look whos coming.
I see him, and a fine sight he is.
When Marka said nothing, Ebañy paused to look at her.
Youre frowning, he said. Why?
Im just so worried about our Zan. Hes just not right. We cant go on hiding it from ourselves. I mean, he should be talking more, and then
What? No, hes fine for what he is. Hes a very young soul, just born for the first time. And hes not human, truly. You can see it in his aura.
He bent down and scooped the boy up. Laughing, Zandro buried his face in his fathers shoulder.
What do you mean, aura? Marka said.
Look for yourself. Ebañy waved his free hand around the boys head. All the colours are wrong. What are you, my son? One of the Wildfolk, seeing what flesh feels like? Did you choose this, or did we trap you, my wife and I, when we were making a body for someone to wear?