The Tower of Ravens (18 page)

Rhiannon woke slowly, feeling deliriously warm and comfortable. She cuddled her cheek against the soft black feathers that lay over her like a counterpane, aware of a strange new feeling inside her. She did not know how to name this feeling, but when she thought of her horse it warmed and deepened within her, and when she thought of the boy, with his quiet, deep voice and steady, watching brown eyes, it caused her to curl her toes, her mouth lifting at the corners.

She stretched and reluctantly slipped out from underneath the sheltering wing. The mare lifted her head and regarded her with a great, black velvety eye. When Rhiannon stared into that eye, she saw within a greater blackness, a slit, an abyss without an end. It fascinated her, this black slit that did not reflect the light like the rest of the eye, but seemed to suck it inside. Everything about her mare fascinated and allured her. Every line and curve of her body, every movement she made, every twitch of ear or flare of nostril was filled with grace and strength and power, and it was hers, all hers. She did not care what the big bearded man said, the winged mare was hers.

The mare gave a soft whinny of agreement and nudged her with her nose.

Rhiannon had not had much time alone since arriving at Kingarth. When she was not sleeping, there was always someone watching her, talking at her, demanding her attention.

Even though Rhiannon was accustomed to having no personal privacy, having grown up in the midst of a large herd, nonetheless she was used to long periods of quiet and solitude. Satyricorns did not talk much. Their language was simple and used only when a grunt or gesture would not suffice. Rhiannon had always been isolated within the herd because she looked so different from the other satyricorn children. Their eyes were yellow with an oblong iris, not a soft grey-blue like the dawn sky. They had hard cloven hooves and a ridge of hair that ran down their spine, ending in a tufted tail. Her torso had been smooth and hairless, and her feet were soft and flexible. She had never been able to run as fast, or leap as far, or fight as roughly as any of the other satyricorn children, and so she had learnt to keep herself apart, spending her days roaming the high meadows alone.

Here there was no quiet and no solitude. Rhiannon had been spinning in a whirlwind of words from the moment she arrived, grabbing here and there at sounds she thought she understood, only to find they had many more meanings than she could ever have imagined. Eyes could be daggers, cats stole tongues, air could be put on like a garment. The only clue she had to meaning was the voice with which the words were uttered, and even that was deceitful. Many of these humans said one thing with their words, and quite another with their faces and bodies and voices. It was exhausting and bewildering trying to decipher it all, and to make it worse, Rhiannon did not believe them when they kept telling her she had nothing to fear. There were so many threatening undercurrents to the things that they said, so many traps in their words.

Lewen was the only one that she did not fear. His voice was deep and slow and thoughtful, and he never made any sudden jerky move to startle or frighten her. He smiled at her, and was kind, and he never said one thing with his words and another with his eyes. When Rhiannon was alone with him, she found herself relaxing the tension of her muscles and the fierceness of her concentration.

But for now she had only the drowsy horses for company. She could think over the happenings of the last few days and begin to prepare herself for the journey ahead. Rhiannon was conscious of trepidation, for she did not know what lay ahead of her, and she was suspicious of these shrill, noisy humans with their complicated ways. She meant to keep her dagger close to hand, and her wits about her, for she could see there were many pitfalls ahead if she was unwary. At least she could always escape any trouble on the back of her beautiful winged horse. As long as the flying horse was with her, Rhiannon would be safe.

She stroked the black velvety nose, then got down her saddlebags from their hooks. She had not had a chance to go through her things and make sure they had not been interfered with. She did not believe these humans when they said they would not touch her treasures. It did not matter that they had many strange and beautiful and useful things of their own. In Rhiannon’s experience, the more you had, the more you wanted.

She spent a happy half-hour turning over her treasures and arranging them to her liking in the saddlebags. She caressed the gleaming brooch of the running horse, and hid it right down the bottom of the bag along with the music-box, the silver goblet, the medal with its device of a hand haloed in light and her other treasures. If anyone saw those they would take them, she knew. Anyone would.

Then she sharpened her two beautiful daggers and put them ready with her bow and quiver of arrows. She wanted them close to hand at all times. The blowpipe and pouches of poisoned barbs she tucked just inside the pocket of the saddlebag that hung on the right, so she could reach them easily. Everything else she stowed away neatly, all except her clothes and the grooming kit in its leather wallet. She was turning over the currying combs and brushes and sponges in puzzlement when she heard a noise and looked up, muscles tensing instinctively.

Lilanthe was in the doorway, carrying a basin and jug of warm water, a big portmanteau dangling awkwardly from the crook of her elbow. Outside, birds were beginning to test their voices for their coming hosanna to the sun, and mist was eddying in a rising breeze.

Rhiannon frowned and closed the flap of the saddlebag.

Lilanthe came in and laid down her burdens. “What is it ye wish to hide, lassie?”

Rhiannon did not answer.

Lilanthe sat next to her, arms wrapped around her knees. “I am troubled about ye, Rhiannon,” she said. “I canna read your mind. Are ye so secretive and suspicious because ye have reason to fear honesty? Or is it just your nature? I wish I kent what it is ye are frightened o‘.”

Her voice was so gentle and her eyes so filled with compassion, Rhiannon felt an urge to make her understand somehow.

“In herd, must fight for what yours,” she said.

“Aye, I understand that. But we are no‘ o’ the herd, we have no desire to take what’s yours away from ye.”

“Aye, ye do,” Rhiannon said fiercely. “Ye say clothes no‘ mine, ye say horse no’ mine.”

Lilanthe was quiet for a moment. “I think ye can say the horse is yours,” she said at last. “Certainly Lewen calls Argent ‘his’ horse, and I call the garden ’mine‘, and Niall certainly calls Ursa ’his’ bear. I think it is natural in us to want to own things, to forge strong bonds with them. Niall’s problem with ye calling the mare yours is a philosophical one, because a winged horse is no‘ like other horses. But he is no’ acknowledging the fact that ye and the horse have clearly forged some kind o‘ bond, happen even the bond that is felt between thigearn and flying horse. Certainly none o’ us would dream o‘ trying to separate ye.”

Rhiannon grasped at the words she understood. “Ye say horse mine?”

“Aye, lassie. That is if ye think ye belong to her as much as she belongs to ye.”

Rhiannon shrugged. “O‘ course. She mine, me hers.”

Lilanthe smoothed her rough brown gown down over her knees. “The clothes are a different matter, though, Rhiannon.” As the girl immediately stiffened, Lilanthe glanced up, smiling a little ruefully. “Nay, hear me out, lassie. I understand that the clothes are important to ye, but ye canna keep them. They are no‘ yours, they belonged to the Yeoman, and after his death they belong to his family.”

“Me won them,” Rhiannon said, scarlet with suppressed fury. “Blood-right!”

Lilanthe leant forward. “What was that? Blood-right? What does that mean?”

“They mine,” she said flatly.

“Nay, Rhiannon, tell me, what does that mean? Did ye kill the soldier? Is that why ye claim the clothes as yours? Ye must tell me. Canna ye see how important it is that we ken? We saw the hole the arrow made in the cloth. He was shot through the back. Did ye shoot him? For that’s a hanging offence, Rhiannon. That would be treason. Ye must tell me, ye must explain to me how it happened. For I do no‘ want… I would no’ like to send ye to Lucescere without at least… canna ye tell me how it happened, Rhiannon?”

“Clothes mine,” she said sullenly.

Lilanthe sat back, her face setting hard. “Nay, they are no‘, Rhiannon. Now, I have a compromise to offer ye, for I do no’ wish to be taking anything away from ye against your will. Look what I have done here.” She turned and picked up the portmanteau she had brought from the house. “See, these are auld clothes o‘ Lewen’s. There are breeches and shirts, and quite a good coat, and an auld shawl o’ mine, and some underclothes, and a few other things I think ye’ll find useful.”

Lilanthe then turned and, before Rhiannon could stop her, picked up the blue cloak from where Rhiannon had laid it ready in the straw. She turned it in her hands. “Now, look. Here is the cloak o‘ the Yeoman. It is no ordinary cloak. See how it is grey on one side and blue on the other? The cloaks o’ the Blue Guards are woven with spells o‘ concealment and camouflage by the witches. In need, ye can turn it inside out and it will help ye blend into mist and darkness, or against grey stone and bracken.”

With an inarticulate growl, Rhiannon snatched back the cloak and huddled it against her. “Mine!”

“No need to fret,” Lilanthe said with a smile. “I have no other cloak for ye to wear and so my idea is ye should wear it till ye reach Lucescere and then give it to the Yeoman’s family with everything else.”

Rhiannon looked stubborn, and Lilanthe went on quickly, persuasively, “And the tam-o‘-shanter too. If ye will give it to me for just a wee while, I’ll unpick the cockade from it, and so then it will be a cap just like anybody else’s. When ye get to Lucescere ye shall no’ need them, for if ye are admitted to the Theurgia to study along with Lewen and the other apprentices, ye shall wear an apprentices’ gown like everyone else. And if ye are no‘… well, I have asked my friend Isabeau to give ye all ye will need. I will no’ insist ye give these things up to me, Rhiannon, if ye will promise to submit them to Dillon, the captain o‘ the Yeomen, when ye arrive in Lucescere. Believe me, it is the best thing to do.”

The set look on Rhiannon’s face did not relax.

“Please? Ye do no‘ need the soldier’s uniform. I’ve given ye everything ye might need.”

“Very well then,” Rhiannon said ungraciously. “Me no‘ wear them then, though no’ fair, they mine…”

Lilanthe sighed. “Happen ye will come to understand in time, lassie. It would be wise o‘ ye to try to understand our customs, if ye are to live among us. I ken what we do and what we believe must seem as strange to ye as ye seem to us. Ye have a long journey ahead o’ ye, I would use it to learn what ye can if I were ye. Nina will teach ye, and Lewen too. He’ll have a care for ye, no need to fear.”

“Me no‘ afeared,” Rhiannon said haughtily.

“Nay, I see ye are no‘,” Lilanthe said slowly. She paused, looking down at her hands, biting her lip. After a long moment she looked up at Rhiannon, saying hesitantly, “I said that ye need no’ fear, that Lewen will look out for ye and care for ye. I want ye to promise me, Rhiannon, that ye will have a care for him too.”

Rhiannon tilted an eyebrow in surprise. “Lewen quick and strong,” she said approvingly. “Stronger than me. He stop me killing bear.”

“I think ye understand me, Rhiannon.” Lilanthe’s voice was a little uneven. “Just promise me ye will no‘ hurt him…”

“He big and strong,” Rhiannon said dismissively. “He no‘ let me hurt him.”

“I hope no‘,” Lilanthe said under her breath. “But there are more ways than one to hurt a man.”

Rhiannon eyed her speculatively, then nodded slowly in agreement.

After Lilanthe left, Rhiannon dragged the voluminous nightgown over her head and gave herself a cursory wash with the warm soapy water Lilanthe had poured into the basin for her.

She had to admit it left her feeling refreshed, though she did find the older woman’s insistence on constantly washing herself rather peculiar. Lilanthe had left her a comb as well, and Rhiannon made some attempt to drag it through her hair. It hurt, though, and so she gave up after only a moment, tossing the comb onto the floor.

This left Rhiannon with the puzzle of the clothes. She had never seen underclothes before and, after a long struggle trying to figure out which limb went through which hole, she managed to drag on the drawers. The chemise completely baffled her, however, and so she threw that at one of the horses who was laughing at her, and laughed herself when it landed over the horse’s head, caught on one of its ears. The horse snorted and tossed its head, then rubbed its cheek against its leg, trying to dislodge the fragile scrap of cotton, without success.

Rhiannon managed to draw the breeches over her legs, having done that before, but found that these fastened with three small buttons, unlike the metal clasp of the dead soldier’s pair. She had never seen buttons before and had no idea how to do them up. She stared at them and fiddled with them for quite a while, but then gave up, leaving the flap unfastened. The shirt she pulled over her head without too much trouble, managing to work out front from back eventually, but she could not tie the laces at the front and so left them loose, untroubled by the way the neckline hung loose, exposing the curve of her breasts.

All in all, Rhiannon was pleased with her new clothes. The white shirt was soft and warm against her skin, and the loose woollen breeches were more comfortable than the white leather pants the soldier had worn. The brown coat was a little too large, but had all sorts of useful pockets in which to store things, and she could move easily in it, unlike the tight green dress she had been forced to wear the day before. Most of all, she liked the cream-coloured shawl Lilanthe had given her, which was embroidered with a beautiful tracery of green tendrils and pink and red roses, now rather faded. She was so pleased with the shawl that she felt little regret over the loss of the dead soldier’s clothes.

Lilanthe had left her the soldier’s long black boots, not having any other shoes that would fit Rhiannon better, and so Rhiannon drew them on with pleasure, tucking the little black knife into its hidden sheath, and strapping the long silver dagger to her belt as before. She felt strong and brave again with her knives in place, and ready to face the mocking looks of those other boys and girls.