Raven's Ladder (16 page)

The Seer, seething, scoured the room with her gaze. “That story,” she quietly laughed. Then she lurched across the room as if one leg were longer than the other. Her elaborate headdress, a mane of red seaweed tendrils, whispered and rushed as she moved to the storytellers’ table. Her large, pale hand shot forward like the muzzle of a slayhound to clasp Krawg’s throat. “Who taught you?”

“Taught?” he rasped, flailing. “Me?”

Warney stood up. He could not help it. Something within drew him forward to his friend’s defense. But when the Seer cast him a wild glance, those strange, bold eyes swiveled loosely in their sockets to pin him to his place.

“Never again,” she instructed him. “Never again.”

Krawg’s feet dangled just above the ground, his face purpling. Spittle foamed at the edges of his mouth.

The Seer dropped him and lurched toward the hostess. “Arrived?” she demanded.

“Tonight, Good Seer.”

“How many?”

“Four. Deserters from the hiding Abascars. Trying to be merchants.”

“Four.” She turned and looked at Jes-hawk in the far corner. “Steeds?” she barked.

“Five,” came a voice from somewhere in the crowd. “Five.” She stamped her foot, and a sound like a swarm of bees filled the room.

Warney shrank against the wall as the revelhouse air filled with dust. It rose from the tabletops, the floor, and the bar. The Mawrn wafted from nostrils and mouths. It skittered out from under tables. Revelers twitched and itched as it crawled from their sleeves. The Seer turned to the window, seeming to direct the dust in streams and ribbons into the night like a legion of ghosts on a hunt.

And Warney knew their prey.

“Red moon,” mused the Seer. “Red moon.” She moved to the window and stared out at the crater as if she could read every grain of dust in this darkness. Again the hiss: “Tresssspasser.” She sniffed the air deeply, and then she left the revelhouse, noisy and crooked as a wagon with a broken wheel.

A harsh grip clasped Warney’s arm, and he shouted.

It was Jes-hawk, leaning in close to his ear. “Take Krawg to the bunk-house.”

They moved to the table where Krawg lay shriveled as if years had flowed from his veins. Jes-hawk knelt, muttering, “Blast of a story, old man. I’ll never forget it.” Then he slipped an arrow from a sheath inside his boot and gave it to Warney. “Plant this in the window of your room, as the king instructed. I’m going out there to look for him.”

A
s Ruffleskreigh the cleverjay watched the man-fool climb, she thought about redfish.

Silver-scaled. Juicy-eyed. With tails that trail like ribbons in the current. Feasts of pink meat that taste best when wriggling. But a redfish swims deeply, far from a cleverjay’s claws. Haughty hunters like flashdivers snatch them as easily as jays pluck berries from briars. Cleverjays hate them for that.

But if Ruffleskreigh could fulfill the task assigned her, her master would reward her with a redfish feast.

Wait for the ravens to bring you a man called Cal-raven. Lead him up to the roots of the tree. Help him solve the puzzle just the way I have shown you
.

The mage had bargained with the ravens as well, but they were simple minded and settled for a promise of wrigglers. For that, the greedy flock had flown in all directions, shouting “Cal-raven” to every traveler they saw, hoping to win some tasty prizes for themselves. She had laughed at the sight. She had known to push for a richer prize. And the mage always made good on his promises.

She coasted across the crater, feathers sifting the breeze, and alighted on a bough just ahead of the man-fool. He was surprised to see her, with her tall, glowing crestfeathers—so much more impressive than the ravens who were now almost invisible around him.

Light glistened on the climber’s neck and shoulders, and his breath was labored. Weaklings, these wingless creatures. Ground-bound and easily discouraged. And this one was more foolish than most, ascending to a worthless perch that offered nothing tasty, nothing shiny. He still had far to climb.

She laughed. The man shouted harshly at her.

Beneath the starcrown’s layers of moss, something scuttled noisily, and the man turned in a fright.
Only a dustrat
, she thought.
But he fears the beastmen. And should
.

Hopping easily from branch to branch, Ruffleskreigh coughed the man’s name again. “Hurry,” she hissed, proud of her eloquence. “I want my prize.”

She liked her master, liked the way he spoke to her. The old mage knew more words than any of her cleverjay kin—words written in the cage of her ribs since she first cracked the wall of her eggshell, words written between the rapid beats of her
fum-fum-fumming
heart.

When the climber was halfway to the top, the bird stretched her wings and moved ahead. She could not leave. Not until he reached the enormous nest among the tree’s splayed roots. Not until he found the pieces of the puzzle and assembled them just as the mage had.

She strained to curl her tongue just so and croaked his name: “Cal-raven.” Then, “Higher. Higher.”

He scowled at her, and she laughed in disdain, for he was already failing, already rejecting her counsel and heading off in the wrong direction. She would have to fly at him and drive him back to the path the mage had marked.

At that moment she noticed that Cal-raven was not the only man climbing this fallen tree. Startled, she shot straight up into the starlight and hovered there, clucking curses at whoever dared to delay her redfish feast.

Crafting the cleverjay’s likeness from the potato-sized stone in his hand, Cal-raven narrowed his eyes, trying to sustain his faith in this garrulous guide.

At intervals in the bird’s incessant chatter, it brought its tail feathers forward, making a horn around its body, and called Cal-raven’s name in the voice of Scharr ben Fray—an uncanny impression. Then it snapped those feathers back, bobbed its yellow-capped head, and tapped its prickly feet. It seemed to think it knew other words as well. He caught something that
sounded like “fish,” “tasty,” and “prize.” The ravens were quiet, probably intimidated by the brash newcomer.

Shaping the bird’s trumpet, his fingers remembered the contours all too well. A cleverjay had been one of the first figures he’d crafted as a child. Maybe he’d take it back to Barnashum and give it to Wynn—a peace offering to keep the boy from growing a grudge.

The bird lifted and flew back over his head, calling him to retrace his steps.

Uncertain, he followed, and he winced when he found that he had left the tree’s trunk and wandered off along a broad bough. As the effect of Soro’s well water diminished and the vivid details of night faded back into darkness, hunger and exhaustion took hold. “I hope you’ve left me something to eat there, teacher. Otherwise, I’m going to roast your bird.”

The bird drew him along, climbing the tree’s rugged backbone, past its outspread arms, moving back through time from its youngest heights to its ancient roots, which were spread like the tendrils of some threatening sea creature on the crater’s rim. With each step he felt more likely to fall back down to the dustbowl floor, to the fallen starcrown’s ash-buried head, into the clutches of Panner Xa.

He slumped against a near-vertical column, a bough as big as a Cragavar marrowwood tree, branching up from the starcrown’s center. He clung to its mossy skirt and glanced back over his shoulder.
I won’t make it to the top by moon-rise. I’ll have to camp in the tree. And wait for tomorrow
.

A rustle from a branch above cast a faint skiff of dust across his head. He looked up to curse the bird.

Lantern light revealed two large, leathery feet on the lowest branch of that treelike bough. The man holding the lantern seemed a part of the tree.

Old Soro’s glittering eyes regarded Cal-raven. “Trust me.” The instruction came in a cavernous whisper through that thick weave of beard. “Your own understanding will not get you to the top in time. Give me your sword. I’ll show you a straight, clear path.”

Cal-raven laughed. “My sword? I need my sword. Especially if the Seer’s coming after me.”

“You’re afraid. I heard you call for the Keeper.”

His hand was on the sword hilt, but he could not decide whether to draw it in defense or cooperation. “The Keeper’s kept me safe this far. It won’t fail me now. So I don’t need your help.”

“A claim like that requires a lot of faith.”

“I don’t need faith. I’ve seen the answer.”

How did he get ahead of me? He’s not even out of breath
.

“You seem to have everything figured out.” Soro seemed burdened beyond the weight of that hunch on his back. Cal-raven tightened his grip around the hilt.

Soro snapped off the crooked branch he’d been holding to keep his balance. Then he reached the hooked end of the branch toward Cal-raven and sent a water flask sliding down its span to swing by its strap at the end. “Drink.”

Need overpowered suspicion. Cal-raven took the flask and drank deep.

The fierce, cold purity of the well water shook him. At once the stars burned brighter. The water carried the smell of stone passages deep beneath the earth. His ears were battered by the sound of his heartbeat. As he drew the flask away from his face, the scent of the Cragavar north of the crater filled his nostrils, borne by the wind coursing southward.

Even before he hung the flask back on the hook, he asked, “How did you get here ahead of me? I’m exhausted, but you aren’t even out of breath—”

“I know it’s unlikely, but perhaps I know a few things about climbing Tammos Raak’s tower—things that even the king of Abascar might find useful.” In a hissing spill of ash, Soro jumped down to land hard on the tree’s trunk beside Cal-raven, the branch in his hand like a walking stick. He drew in a deep wheeze and sneezed.

Cal-raven waved the cloud of Mawrn away from his face.

“Let me show you something.” Soro smiled, and Cal-raven could see stitches across the dark wood of that masklike face. “Ready?” He raised his makeshift staff as if he would strike.

Cal-raven drew his sword.

“Consider this a second chance.” Soro brought the branch down and plunged its sharp, broken end through the soft bark between them.

Cal-raven heard a sharp crack. The solid foundation of the ancient tree
shuddered. Breaks branched out like veins, splitting and fragmenting the petrified surface. He cried out. Soro leaned on the branch, widening the gap in the bark. The ground collapsed beneath Cal-raven.

In a rain of debris, he fell through the rotten marrow and landed against a wall of dry, spongy wood in the starcrown’s core. He began to slide, along with a river of rubble, down an open burrow within the tree, and he clawed at the honeycomb surface. As he grappled, his foot found a ledge—a bar of wood nailed into the wall. A step.

If there’s one, there must be…yes, another
.

He laughed, shaking his head.

When the rush quieted, he looked up through the break Soro had opened. The stars were wild with light. There was no sign of the hunchback.

He looked ahead through the tree’s dark hollow. Although the way was narrow, the air foul, and the walls chattering with insect life, his path through the core of the tree was now straight and unimpeded. Through translucent curtains of cobwebs, he beheld a warm crimson glow, a sphere of light far away.

“Perhaps the darker path was the better one,” he muttered.

His hand found the farglass still bound to his belt. Then he cursed, for the sword sheath was empty. The blade was lost, buried somewhere below in the dark heart of the starcrown.

He began to climb. And the more he strove, the more strength he found. With every grasping lunge upward, his hands pushed through crumbs of rotten wood and rotbeetles to find another hold. Along some stretches he found dangling ropes of ivy—ivy!—heavy with clusters of bittergrapes. There was life to be found in the dark’s hanging garden.

His thirst quenched, he thrilled with life, sure that he would find the top before the moonrise.

When at last Cal-raven leapt up into the open maw of the starcrown’s fallen roots, he fell forward onto a bed of wind-stripped grass. Wind from the north roiled in this cave, beneath the flare of unearthed roots. He thought
of a story he had invented as a child—a tale of being swallowed by a dragon but fighting on within its belly and refusing to give up.

I’ve climbed up through its throat. I’m sitting in its open mouth
.

He rested on all fours, sucked in chestfuls of cold night air, and enjoyed the exhilaration of the well water’s enchantment.

I’ve made it to the top, Scharr ben Fray, by a passage kept secret even from you. For once, I know something you don’t
.

He gazed out through the hanging tendrils of ancient roots and took in the view of the world below and beyond—the forested spread of the North Cragavar. Beyond that he saw the darkness of Fraughtenwood and then the rising land that became the mountains of the Forbidding Wall. Wind whipped back his thin braids and blasted dust from his face until his skin burned.