Chapter Sixteen
The Raven
‘A common and much-loved stitch used in domestic pieces. Though simple, it has a pleasing form and an elegance of line that makes it useful in many different designs.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
When my legs could no longer move and my lungs could no longer draw in a breath, I fell to my hands and knees on the leaf mulch under the close-knit trees.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”
Tears blurred my vision as I wrapped Baldbeak’s wound gently in my handkerchief.
The blood was barely visible against the iridescent black of his feathers, but when it touched the white silk, it ran through the furrows and pinpricks of the embroidery, making it seem to glow.
He was just an armful of bones and glossy feathers now.
Feathers that stuck out at odd angles, like torn pages protruding from a book.
His beak open in a final gasp. His eyes filmed over and unseeing.
I felt a touch on my shoulder.
“Netta. I’m sorry.” Mieka knelt beside me.
I couldn’t speak.
“What happened back there?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at the crowded trees.
“It’s all right,” I managed to say. “No one is coming after us.”
“But how—” She broke off with an effort and rubbed my shoulder gently. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “He was a brave bird.”
“He was more than a bird,” I said.
It was strange how quickly his body had gone from being a him to an it.
I touched one of the wing feathers gently, feeling the slight rasp of the barbs against my fingertips, then cupped my hands around the whole mess of it—of what had been Baldbeak—and lifted it gingerly upwards.
His body was the size of a small dog’s, and black feathers overflowed my cupped hands like molten tar, but he was still so light.
Had he been this light in life? I remembered the solidity of him on my shoulder, the affectionate clutch of his claws.
I suddenly noticed the movement of my Hair against my shoulders. It slithered forward in an unnerving, purposeful motion, tangling itself around the dead bird in my hands.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
The Hair wrapped itself around and around Baldbeak’s broken body.
I felt a building pressure in my chest again, an ache in my bones, as if they were pressing against my skin.
I gritted my teeth against the pain and terrible push of it, every part of me seemingly straining forwards towards the dead bird, with the Hair making a taut and shining shroud around it.
Baldbeak twitched.
Mieka screamed.
I gasped, almost dropping him, but managed to hang on at the last moment.
The bundle of feathers, beak, and bone writhed and clicked in my hands in a series of sinister, sinuous motions, seemingly rearranging itself.
The feathers smoothed and flattened. Finally, the beak opened wide, the little tongue protruded, and then he coughed.
“No,” said Mieka. “This isn’t possible.”
It did seem impossible. Only when the familiar gleam came back to Baldbeak’s eyes and he let out a small but definite croak did I truly believe it. His voice was hoarse, guttural, but unmistakably still his.
“Baldbeak,” I whispered, smoothing the sparse feathers between his eyes. “Are you all right?”
There was a long, anxious silence. And then: I feel … strange. But nothing hurts.
He shook himself vigorously, then hopped up my arm to his usual perch on my shoulder, feeling reassuringly heavy and moving without even a hint of stiffness in his limbs. By contrast, I felt as hollow as bird bones, as if something had drained from me.
Mieka was shaking. “Netta. You can’t … You haven’t. It’s not possible. How?”
“I don’t know.” Even my voice sounded empty. “I just … wanted it so badly.”
Baldbeak clicked his beak at Mieka in a friendly way, and she shrank back as if he had struck her.
It occurred to me to wonder if Baldbeak was … wrong, somehow, now? He seemed his usual self, but had I imbued him with some sort of dark magic that would manifest itself later? I stared at him, and he stared right back.
What?
“Are you still … you?”
He cocked his head and gave an irritated raark.
“All right, you’re you.” Every joint in my body ached.
“But what are you, Netta?” Mieka burst out. “I’ve never even heard of power like this. Except for …”
She didn’t finish her sentence, but I heard the Plague as clearly as if she had spoken it aloud. The Plague raised the dead … But not like this, I was sure. The dead who had walked the land were terrifying, mindless approximations of the people they had once been. This was just … Baldbeak.
Maybe he hadn’t really died at all?
No, he had been dead. I was certain of it. I had felt him cool and unresponsive beneath my touch. And now here he was, ruffling his feathers, looking quite as usual.
“Look,” I said, “please don’t tell anyone about this, all right?”
She gestured at the empty forest around us. “Who would I tell?”
“Patrick, for one. Just … I don’t quite understand what happened here either. So can we just keep it to ourselves? Please?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could say anything, there was a familiar shimmer in the air. The shape of a man, standing at ease and—impossibly, maddeningly—adjusting his cuffs. As if that mattered right now.
“I must admit, I’m curious as to what you could possibly be talking about,” Patrick said. “Though I am relieved to find that you have already slipped away from Ban Morin’s men. I thought I might have to perform a daring rescue.”
“How long have you been following us?” I demanded, jumping up and backing away from him, just as Mieka said with relief, “Thank Plague you’re here.”
“You can’t stay here,” he said, which wasn’t an answer to my question. “Ban Morin’s men won’t stop hunting you, and you’re too far from the monastery to make it on your own. I can help you.”
“Oh, like you helped us back there?” I said. My hands clenched into fists. “Were you watching us the whole time? Did you see the Priest get killed? Did you see what happened to Baldbeak and do nothing?”
“Yes, I have been following you, but I was not … Netta, wait!”
I turned and started to stumble away over the uneven ground, nearly tripping on the little hillocks and tufted grasses that I couldn’t see in the growing darkness.
“Netta!” I heard from behind me. “Don’t be foolish!”
“Netta!” Mieka’s voice, this time.
I gritted my teeth as I made my ungainly way to the cover of the trees—and then halted.
I had no idea where Spire was and no means of getting there except on foot.
I couldn’t return to the Followers, if any of them were even still alive.
It seemed all other possibilities had finally been eliminated.
I turned and saw Patrick waiting.
“I did not see what happened with the Followers until it was too late,” he said softly. “I did not arrive in time. I am sorry. I saw the Priest on the ground, the others fleeing … There was nothing I could do except come to find you and Mieka.”
“You have a knack for being not quite on time.”
“If I had reached your tower earlier, I would have done my best to prevent that attack again too.”
“I don’t trust you,” I said.
“I know.”
What choice did I have now? I could strike out for Spire on my own, but with Ban Morin’s men out searching for me, it seemed foolish not to accept any help. And Mieka worked for Patrick, and she was a true friend, I believed. Perhaps I could rely on him now, at least for a little while.
I bit my lip, but I accepted the arm he offered me, and we walked back towards Mieka.
Patrick’s horse and carriage were concealed in a small clearing. They were not as ornate as Milady’s, but the gleaming wood panels on the sides and the brass fixtures whispered wealth.
Patrick consulted with one of the outriders, then turned to Mieka. “Ride with Sarrow here. I’ll send you a raven later.”
Mieka looked from Baldbeak to me, then gave me a quick hug. “I’ll see you soon,” she whispered. “Give him a chance, all right?”
Patrick opened the carriage door for us. Baldbeak hopped in immediately, probably thinking that this was perfectly suitable transportation for a recently resurrected raven, but I hesitated.
Patrick watched me. “You can’t go back, my dear,” he said gently.
“Don’t call me that.”
“You’re shivering. Get inside.”
Baldbeak poked his head out, fixing me with his yellow gaze. I scowled, but stepped up into the warm interior.
“He’s going to spoil your upholstery,” I said as Baldbeak started happily scratching at the seats.
“I’m used to it,” said Patrick. “It won’t surprise you to know that I often travel with ravens.”
He swung himself in beside us, suddenly very close and warm in the small space.
Perhaps because he had rarely truly been present with me, his presence now seemed to take up more space than was its due.
He knocked on the roof, and the carriage started to rumble forward.
It occurred to me that the last time I had been inside a carriage was with Milady, unwittingly driving towards a prison, and I felt sick to my stomach.
I dug my fingers into the fur blanket that lay across my lap and determinedly refused to shift my gaze from the window.
Outside was all darkness, with not even a slice of moon for illumination.
Baldbeak had made himself comfortable at last and hunkered down, chest puffed and eyes half-closed.
He was asleep in seconds. Dying and being brought back to life would be rather tiring.
“I suppose my fate is in your hands now,” I said to Patrick drily.
Patrick didn’t speak for a long time, and when he did, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “I am sorry that your trust has been so often betrayed.”
I shrugged, feeling childish, but not wanting to give him the satisfaction of speaking.
“I will endeavor to show you that, in this case, it is not misplaced.”
“Mieka seems to think you are telling the truth.”
“She is no fool,” he said.
I stayed silent for a moment, drumming my fingers on my knee.