Redwing

HOLLY BENNETT

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Text copyright © 2012 Holly Bennett

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Bennett, Holly, 1957-
Redwing [electronic resource] / Holly Bennett.

Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0039-7 (
PDF
).--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0040-3 (
EPUB
)

I. Title.
PS
8603.
E
5595
R
43 2012      j
C
813'.6          
C
2012-902218-7

First published in the United States, 2012
Library of Congress Control Number
: 2012937566

Summary
: Rowan, a young musician whose entire family has died from the plague, forms an uneasy alliance with a young man who possesses peculiar powers.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover artwork by Juliana Kolesova
Cover design by Teresa Bubela
Author photo by Mark Burstyn

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.

15  14  13  12  •  4  3  2  1

Five novels, and I still haven't dedicated one to
my husband, John. It's well past time! From my first
tentative pages, he has supported me on this labor of love
that is writing. He chauffeurs me on wild-goose-chase
research jaunts, celebrates every new title and brags
about my books when I'm too shy to mention them.
Plus, his music seems to weave through all my novels—
especially this one. Thanks, my man:
I am lucky to have you.

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ONE

T
he caravan was never intended for winter use. When the wind came up, whatever heat Rowan could coax from the smoky little stove seeped right through the canvas walls. He prayed for calm weather, and on bad nights like this he huddled shivering in a roll of blankets, listening to the canvas rustle and crack like a ship's sail. He never felt more alone than on these black, moaning nights. Sleep seemed impossible—until, at last, it took him by surprise, and he escaped into uneasy dreams.

Rowan!

He raised his head groggily. “What's wrong, Ettie?” His sister's voice had been sharp with alarm. Then he remembered. Not Ettie—just a dream. He slumped back into his mattress, hoping that sleep would reclaim him before the memories did.

Rowan!

Rowan sat up this time. The voice seemed so clear. Then he leaped to his feet.

The caravan floor was on fire. The sensations hit him all at once: the smell of acrid smoke, the jumpy, crazy light of flames, an icy blast of wind, the noisy flap of canvas.

Ripping the blankets off his bunk, Rowan threw them over the blazing floorboards. The caravan went pitch-black. He beat at the flames through the thick covering, cursing as his hand hit the squat shape of the stove. That must be where the fire started, he realized. Usually the little bucket-shaped stove sat in a snug metal housing under the galley cooktop, but Rowan had moved it into the middle of the floor in an attempt to warm up his bed. He peeled the blanket back over the top of the stove and then tried to grab the stove handle to haul it away from the fire. He yelped as the hot handle bit into his palm and again as he smacked his head on the edge of his bunk while groping for some kind of padding for his hands. Finally he stripped off his own nightshirt and used it like a pot holder to drag the stove out the door and into the snowy night.

Back inside, the flames seemed to be out but Rowan still pounded every square inch of the blanket to be sure. Then he felt his way to the lamp by his bed, scraped the spark striker and lit it. He unclipped it from its rack and peered around.

The caravan was basically a long wagon with chest-high sides topped with a frame over which was stretched a canvas ceiling and walls. The canvas flaps could be rolled up and tied in fine weather to allow sunshine and fresh air inside. With a tiny galley at the front, a single drop-down bunk along each side and a larger platform bed at the back, the caravan was a cozy, comfortable travel home for a family of four—in the summer.

It didn't take long to find where the wind was coming from. A canvas fastener had ripped loose right above his sister's bunk, leaving a flapping breach open to the weather. A pile of wet snow lay clumped on the wooden sleeping ledge. Rowan grabbed the loose canvas flap and wrestled it back into position, then tried to think how to fix it. The childish part of him wanted to simply roll back up in his blankets and let the other side of the caravan fill with snow. But his blankets were scorched, and there was no one to deal with this but him, so he made his way through the cold caravan to the store box. He found a length of rope, fished again for the flap and found the broken fastener. There was, as he'd hoped, enough of a stub to tie on the rope as an extension. Then he lashed it around the cleat and tied it off. He'd try to neaten the repair in the morning.

He gathered up the smoldering blankets and threw them out the door. Maybe they were salvageable, but he wouldn't find out till morning. He scooped the snow from his sister's bunk onto the burnt floorboards, where it melted instantly. Still warm. How could he sleep, he wondered, with no way of being sure there wasn't a spark hidden in a crack, waiting to be coaxed into flame? He made one last trip, this time to the galley, where he kept the clean water. Half a bucket left. Rowan dumped a large puddle onto the floor and then padded on damp, freezing feet to a storage bin. He hauled out the two spare blankets and scrambled into his bunk.

I could have died
, he thought, shaken at how easily he might have slept until it was too late. He was too exhausted and overwhelmed to push back the thought that slipped in next:
Better, maybe, if I had
.

THE NIGHT'S SNOW had nearly melted away when Rowan woke. The day was decent for traveling—overcast but mild, with a teasing hint in the air of the spring to come. It was actually pleasant to sit up front and drive the mules, and as he chewed on the end of bread he had saved from the day before, Rowan tried not to worry about how bony Dusty and Daisy looked. “You'll have a good feed soon, girls,” he promised.

Funny how good things came from bad, he mused. His first discovery was that there hadn't been much fire damage to the floor after all. Mostly what had burned were his clothes from the day before, left in a heap when he changed for bed. Stupid to leave them so close to the stove. A stray spark blown by the wind gusting through the open flap was all it had taken to set them alight. His search for tools to repair the broken fastener had led him to a second, even better, discovery: a small lockbox tucked under the needles and yarn and fabric scraps in his mother's sewing kit. He didn't have the key, but he did have an ax, and soon he was fingering a stash of money—a few coins, mostly paper scrip—that must represent whatever his father was able to grab before their hasty flight from their home at Five Oaks. Two months on his own had already taught Rowan enough about costs to realize that it wasn't going to last him long. To keep it safe, he had divided the money up and hidden half in the caravan, half in the lining of his button box case. He intended to keep it for emergencies only—but a mule team on the edge of collapse
was
an emergency, and he had kept out enough for a few bales of hay and enough oats to see them through the last weeks of winter.

TWO

S
amik made his way down the gangplank and stumbled as the ground heaved under his feet. Raucous laughter erupted from the sailors behind him. “Lost your land legs in only a week? Maybe you'd best stay in your cabin where it's safe!” one gravelly voice teased.

Samik turned, fighting the feeling that he needed to sway to stay upright. How very odd, to be rolling over waves on dry land! He offered the burly, tattooed sailor a formal bow (despite the risk of pitching headfirst into the cobblestones) and a wry smile. “You'd like that, wouldn't you, Azir, having me with you forever? I'm touched that you'll miss me so much.” More hoots of laughter, this time at Azir's expense.

“No, I must be off,” Samik continued. “But I thank you for my safe passage. I'd like to compliment the comfort of the accommodations and quality of the food, but sadly…” He gave an eloquent, rippling shrug and set off carefully down the quay, keeping K'waaf close beside him.

The dockside area of Shiphaven was not so different from Guara, the Tarzine port he'd sailed from: noisy, crowded, rough around the edges. The people were different though. Prosperian dress was awfully drab—so much brown and beige and black! Did they not know how to dye cloth? And it was strange to be surrounded by a foreign language. Samik's mother had taught him well, but the rough speech of the dock workers was a far cry from her cultured tongue.

Now what?
he asked himself. “I must be off,” he had announced grandly, but in truth he had no actual destination. “Head inland,” his father had advised him. But where, and how?