Chapter 3
The witch had been waiting for him to return. Her magic tugged at him constantly, but his wing still wasn’t healed enough to fly. In this dream, Weena wasn’t with him. He soared over a dreadfully familiar landscape, compelled to return to the witch’s hut near the river.
Inside, the witch threw bones into a pool of blood.
In a burst of panic, he banked hard. He couldn’t go back now. Weena was helping him find his crown. If he could remember who he was, the witch’s spell over him would be broken.
Smoke billowed up the chimney, enveloping him. He breathed in a lungful of soot and choked.
When the dark cloud cleared and he could see the thatched roof again, he understood. The witch had called him home in the dreamscape. She had been searching for him in her farseeing way.
Now, she knew where he was. Weena and her mother were in danger.
He would watch the witch. See what she did. Then, he would try to warn them. He perched high in a tree and waited. At first light, the River Witch left her hut near the river and stepped into a rowboat that barely floated, using a long pole to push it into the river.
She was coming for him.
Dread filled the raven. He took wing and pushed into the sky, desperate to wake up so he could warn them.
“Your pet seems agitated.” Mum observes the raven sidelong.
We’re sorting the herbs we’ve collected from the garden.
The first frost came last night. We tie them into bundles and hang them near the fireplace to dry.
When they’re ready, we will put them into jars labeled according to the time of year they were harvested.
Spring is when their potency is weakest. Those are the ones we use to treat sick children. Young plants for the youths.
Summer is generally peak potency, but you can still derive useful tinctures from fading autumn plants. We harvest everything and cultivate what we can overwinter for spring usage. Our garden is our livelihood.
“He’s healing,” I tell her, but she is right. He does seem agitated.
I didn’t dream of the man in the abandoned castle last night. Instead, I had a nightmare about a thick black cloud billowing toward our cottage.
Perhaps that is why I’m not entirely surprised when an old woman strides up the path and through our gate. She isn’t anyone I recognize from the village. Unease lifts the hair on the back of my neck. I scoop up the raven and call out, “Mum, you have a client,” before escaping into the rear yard.
The raven looks deeply affronted when I deposit him in the coop with the chickens.
“It’s only for a few minutes. Customers don’t like wild animals hanging around their healer’s house, you know? Makes them think we’re witches.”
Not the powerful fae kind, either. Those are nearly gone from the Five Realms. The Snow Queen, before her defeat, was the only one I knew of. Their legacy lingers, however, in the stories the people of Montrace tell about women they don’t trust.
Women like me.
Superstitious commoners will burn witches, given the slightest excuse. Any fool could call the raven my familiar. I could be given a sham trial and trussed up for a public execution by nightfall tomorrow if the wrong person saw me with him.
I don’t want to lose him. I’ve grown attached to my friend. He listens without judgment. While I hardly put stock in Mum’s tale about our commingled blood binding our fates, he is the first animal I’ve rescued that I’ve considered naming in a long time.
Then there are the odd dreams. But he is only a bird, not a cursed prince, never mind a king. These are the fantasies of a lonely, isolated young woman with no future.
Mum glances apprehensively at me when I come back into the house. “Rowena, the lady is asking about a raven. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
I study our visitor. She’s older, but her hair is a silken silver sheet down to her knees.
She has an ageless quality, radiating restless energy when she speaks through youthfully plump lips painted bright red.
The only indication of her age are the faint crow’s feet and those unnaturally glossy gray tresses. Her eyes, though...
They gleam with unnatural brightness. They’re a vivid yellow-green. Cat’s eyes. I see why my mother lied. I will, too.
“I see ravens all the time,” I tell our visitor. “Were you looking for a specific one?”
“You know where he is,” she says, her voice low and commanding. “Show me, girl.”
I bristle inwardly. Outwardly, I blink with feigned innocence and say, “They like to roost in the tree out back. This way.”
Out in the yard, I point to the trees at the edge of our garden clearing, where a cluster of black birds perch amongst the branches. “If you recognize any of them, feel free to take one home. They’re pests. Get into the compost and make messes on the regular.”
The woman stares at them for several seconds.
Storm clouds gather overhead, moving too fast to be natural. I glance at them apprehensively.
“Idiot,” the woman seethes. “Those are crows, not ravens. Where is he?”
Her eyes flash an eerie electric shade of yellow. At the same time, lightning splits the sky. I stumble back a step as fat raindrops pelt my scalp.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insist.
“Augh!” the woman screeches. A second bolt strikes the tree, scattering the birds gathered in the branches. One black form tumbles gracelessly to the ground, followed by a sickening crack of splitting wood. Breathing in the smell of burning wood and charred feathers, I wrinkle my nose and cough.
“Give up the raven, and I will grant you healing power far beyond your mother’s. Keep him, and you will lose everything you hold dear.”
“What makes you think I hold anything dear?” Rain sluices down. I raise one arm to shield my face, shocked by my own stubbornness. It’s only a raven. I can’t risk my mother’s life for a wild animal.
Yet still, I lie.
“I don’t have your stupid bird.”
“Suit yourself,” says the witch, for that is the only thing she can possibly be.
She strides away, drawing the storm clouds with her.
Abruptly, the sky is tranquil blue again with only a few airy puffs floating in the distance, leaving me standing in a muddy garden, drenched to the bone, wondering what my audacity will cost us.
The lightning-struck branch crashed onto the hen house where I’d stashed the raven. After wringing out my skirt, I unlatch the door and step into the tiny hut, only to find him on the highest perch, his wings spread defensively, with his feathers puffed and his beak half-open, breathing fast.
“It’s all right now,” I croon soothingly. The hens give him wide berth. The branch didn’t break through the roof, which is a relief. I should be able to repair it before nightfall when predators come hunting.
The raven hops reluctantly onto my forearm. I wince when his sharp claws bite into my flesh.
“Easy.” I stroke his stomach with one forefinger. “The scary woman is gone now.”
Mum comes out, her face pale. “Weena, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “She wanted him. When I showed her the crows instead, she summoned a storm and struck the tree with lightning.”
I don’t tell her about the witch’s threat. Guilt coils around my insides, especially when Mum swallows visibly.
“You should have given her the blasted bird.” She huffs. “I’ll get the hammer and nails. You clear the debris. We need to get this repaired before we lose the chickens.”
In strained silence, we wrest the old planks free and replace them with new ones from the stack behind the shed. The raven stays close to me, supervising our efforts from the roof with his beady glare.
“I don’t need your help,” I tell him crossly. “You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”
Mum’s right. I should have given him to the witch. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’ve become attached to him.
Perhaps I ought to name him, after all.
The raven stretches his wings, testing their strength. He’ll be flying soon. Then he’ll be gone.
At least he’ll be free. I can give him that much.
But at what cost to myself? To Mum?
I find a single black plume in the coop. His. I’ve been tending our hens since I was old enough to collect eggs. I recognize the difference between a chicken’s feather and a raven’s. I tuck it behind my ear.
That night, the raven doesn’t want to sleep beside me. I set him on my headboard. He keeps a close watch on the front door from his perch. Guarding me, in his way. I twirl the black feather between my fingertips for a long time, contemplating the witch. Her terrifying display of power. Her threat.
One thing is certain. Mum is in danger. I must find a way to protect her.
Sleep doesn’t come for a long time.
When it does, I dream of flying.
Soaring over hill and field, I beat my wings and feel my heart pound in my throat as I climb higher into the sky. Clouds above me. The earth below. I belong to both and neither, suspended on the wind, exhilarated and terrified.
Follow me, the raven says.
He stretches out his arms beside me, but he is a man. His body is covered in black plumage, his body from the waist down that of a bird’s. Fierce excitement shines on his face as he banks away and drops.
This way.
Fumbling, falling, flying, I strain to keep up.
Where are we going?
Home, he answers. I’m close to breaking this curse, Weena. You must help me find it.
Your crown?
Yes.
Don’t call me Weena. It’s RO-wena.
The man casts me a sidelong look that I can’t read. I still can’t see the color of his eyes.
We plummet through a collapsed portion of the roof and land inside the broken castle, both us fully human again the moment our feet touch the ground. I tuck the feather into my pocket for safekeeping.
This way, he says, as if he recognizes this abandoned castle. He knows his way around. He leads me to an old wooden chest, sending a cloud of dust into the air when he opens it.
Nothing, he says despondently, kicking it. The lid falls with a dull thud.
What is this place?
My home, once upon a time. He straightens and leads me deeper into the castle without checking to see if I’ll follow him. I don’t want to be left alone in this desolate place, so I trail after him, keeping a reasonable distance between our bodies.
He throws open a door. Hinges shriek. I wince. A black shadow flaps out of nowhere. I press myself against the man’s back. He smells of cold forests and a hint of smoke.
Bats. I hear his amusement over the frantic pounding of my own pulse. You’re made of sterner stuff, Rowena.
Despite my annoyance with him, I have to force myself to peel away. To my surprise, he drapes one arm around my shoulders and tugs me close to his side.
The throne room is the likeliest place to find it. I’ll protect you from flying surprises.
I swat his shoulder, but press closer, finding comfort in his strength.