Patricia Briggs - Ravens Strike

Ace Books by Patricia Briggs

MASQUES

STEAL THE DRAGON

WHEN DEMONS WALK

THE HOB’S BARGAIN

DRAGON BONES

DRAGON BLOOD

RAVEN’S SHADOW

RAVEN’S STRIKE

For evenings of song and laughter, Debbie and Tom Lentz, and Theo Hill Jason, Sara, Jalen, and

Chris Stejskal John and Sue Wilson And to my own Bard Michael This book is dedicated with

love.

Acknowledgments

The following people read this book, or parts of this book in its roughest stages and offered

useful and necessary advice.

Michael Briggs, Collin Briggs, Dee Enzweiler, Michael Enzweiler, Jean Matteucci, Dan

Matteucci, Ann Peters, Kaye Roberson, Kyle Roberson, Clyde Rowland, and John Wilson.

I’d also like to thank Robin Walker, for her wonderful artwork, and Michael Enzweiler, who

provided the map of Colossae that Rinnie found.

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PROLOGUE

In the eighth year of the Reign of Phoran, Twenty-Sixth of that name, the Sept of Leheigh

died. His son, Avar, long having lived in Taela as a boon comrade of the young Emperor, traveled to the

estate the Sept, his father, had bequeathed him. Hidden among those who traveled with the new Sept

were a handful of mages who came for secret purposes.

They left one of their number, a mage-priest, to establish a new religion in the heart of Leheigh, a land old

in power and well suited to secrets—this they thought the most important of their twofold assignment.

The second was to steal away a man gifted with the Bardic Order of the Owl, just returning to his family

from a winter’s hunt. The familiar task was no more difficult than many other such abductions they had

accomplished—perhaps easier, for the Orders of Mage and Hunter were, either of them, more suited to

resist the attack of wizards than the Order of the Bard.

They had no reason to suppose that this man was any different from the scores of such men and woman

they had stolen in the past. No more did I—and I should have known, for Tieragan of Redern was no

stranger to me.

The thought of his eventual death, needful though it was, saddened me. That his death meant anything to

me at all told me that I had put it off almost too long. I would miss listening to him sing, I thought on the

day I sent my wizards out to take him. I took some consolation from the knowledge that even if he had

lived, I would not have been able to listen to him for much longer: he or his kin would have noticed what I

was.

If I could not listen to his songs, it was fitting that soon no one would hear Tier’s music. So I told myself,

and put his death out of my head. I had forgotten, though, what he had been and had only remembered

the farmer who sometimes earned a few extra coins by singing at the Hero’s Welcome in the evenings.

So I left Tier to my wizards, who had always served me well, and concerned myself with the growth of

my religion.

It had taken almost a full century before I realized that I could use power gained from things other than

death. Death is what I crave, but I am chary of using it more than necessary. It draws too much attention,

and the power that it brings is too addictive. It makes me reckless, when I want to be subtle. Instead I’ve

learned to feed on strong emotions: envy, hate, and lust.

My temples are an endless supply of such emotions. What do people pray to their gods for, after all?

Let my father die so that I might inherit his wealth, says one, while another bows his head and asks,

Let Toren’s wife look upon me with lust. Some prayers are more desperate. Please, let no one find

out that I stole my lord’s gold. I don’t want to die. I fed upon those desires, even as the gods must

once have. They made me strong.

I am not the Unnamed King. They sometimes treat him as though he was the only Shadowed. But he was

not the first Shadowed, nor, as, I can attest, was he the last. Unlike him, I do not need the adulation and

the name of power when I have the reality of it. I don’t want to be Emperor of the world. I have other

plans. It suits me to allow others to accomplish my purposes. It amuses me.

I pride myself on knowing which men will serve my needs best. I grew dependent—no, not dependent—

complacent. I grew too complacent because my people always obey me, always accomplish the tasks I

set them to.

If I’d been paying closer attention to the wizard-priest Volis, I would have seen that his ambition was

going to interfere with my own plans. I could have stopped the destruction of my temple in Redern.

But that temple was a convenience, not a necessity. It was formed as much to keep the ambitious and

powerful wizard Volis where he could do little harm as for any other purpose. Thousands fed me from

my temples in Taela. I did not need Redern, and so did not guard it as well as I might have. My neglect

allowed Tier’s wife to destroy it. My fault, true. But on the whole, I consider Volis’s death to be as great

a benefit to me as the temple was a loss. He was getting too ambitious, too curious. He knew too much.

The destruction of the Secret Path in Taela, though, was a much greater loss, but I am not at fault there.

No one could have expected that Tier, who was not even a Mage, could destroy in a matter of months

what had taken me centuries to build. No one.

It took the whole of humanity, wizards and warriors, to bring down the Unnamed King. I, who will

become so much more than He was, will not have it said that I was brought to my knees by a farmer.

I burn with the humiliation of it yet.

I could have defeated them—a ragtag band of Travelers and a Sept’s personal army would have been no

match for the power I wield. But it would have been the first step in a war that I do not want. What good

is it to rule the world when there is no world to rule? That is a question that the Unnamed King should

have asked himself. But, I suppose by then he had already burned away most of who he once was and

become nothing but an outlet for the Stalker’s power. I have a better plan.

I can repair the damage. Rebuild the temple, rebuild my Secret Path. The destruction was not as great as

it would seem: there are always ambitious men who will serve me. Tier has caused me no permanent

setback; he is not so important.

But he must be punished for what he has done, what his family has done. He will wish he were dead

before I am through with him. Perhaps I shall grant his wish.

CHAPTER 1

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“Get that bucket filled for me, Lorra. Tole, bring more charcoal.” Aliven knew his voice was

harsh, but the world was a harsh place, with no room for people who did not work.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as his daughter snatched the wooden bucket from its place near

the forge and left the smithy at a brisk walk for the well.

He would lose her soon, he thought, as he sorted through his store of metal. He’d two offers for her hand

from neighboring farmers, but she hadn’t made up her mind yet. He hoped she chose Daneel, who was

soft-spoken and old enough to have proved his mettle, but she’d been showing a preference for

Sovernt’s youngest.

He would be happy to see her settled with either, though it would leave him only Tole and Nona, neither

of whom was big enough to carry the bucket full of water or half a dozen other chores required to keep

the smithy running.

“Step up, Tole,” he said to his son, who had only half filled the forge coal bed. “The morning won’t wait

on your dawdling.”

“Yes, Da,” muttered the boy in a tone just this side of insolence.

“You watch your—”

Lorra’s shrill scream cut through his voice.

“It doesn’t look like much of a village, Papa,” said Lehr.

Tier smiled at his youngest son, who had somehow crossed over from boy to man these past few

months. His ash-blond hair, a legacy of his mother’s people, was mostly tucked under a hat, but anyone

with an eye to see could tell that there was Traveler blood in him.

Lehr’s long strides had no trouble keeping up with Skew, though Tier’s old warhorse was walking

briskly. Tier shifted in his saddle, hoping to alleviate the steady ache in his right knee. He might believe

the adage that any wound that hurt was a sign he wasn’t dead yet, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy it.

He took a deep breath of cool forest air to remind himself that he was free and on his way home: a little

pain was a small price to pay.

He squinted at the small cluster of buildings in the little green valley. “It’s small, but see that first building?

There’s a kiln behind it. It’s either a pottery or a bakery.”

“But, Papa,” said Tier’s older son Jes, who walked on Tier’s other side, “Benroln said we need grain,

not pots or bread.”

“Very true,” agreed Tier. “But so near to a great road, they will have trade goods, too.”

“There are farms all around here,” explained Lehr. “They’ll bring grain here where they’ll see higher

profits from it than if they had to transport it to a bigger market.”

Jes gave a puzzled frown. It might have been that he found Lehr’s explanation too complex—or

something else had distracted him.

It was ironic that Jes, who looked as Rederni as any village son, would be the one to pay the highest

price for his mother’s Traveler blood. The lesser part of that price was the slow thoughts and slower

speech that set him apart as a simpleton—though he wasn’t, quite.

“It doesn’t look right,” said Jes after a moment.

“What doesn’t?” asked Tier. Jes’s conversations sometimes were as difficult to follow as a

hummingbird’s flight.

“The buildings.” Jes stopped abruptly and stared ahead.

Tier stopped Skew and tried to see what might have attracted Jes’s attention.

“There’s no smoke from the smithy,” said Lehr.

“That’s it,” said Jes, nodding with his usual exaggerated motion. “Smithies have smoke.”

“Maybe the smith isn’t working today,” Tier said. “We’ll be there soon enough.” Urging Skew forward,

he squeezed a little too enthusiastically with his legs and couldn’t bite back a yelp.

Shadow take these knees, the wizards who broke them, and the Traveler healer who can’t fix

them any faster.

That last wasn’t fair, and he knew it. Brewydd had told him that riding Skew rather than one of the carts

was making his knees take longer to heal than necessary. But it was bad enough to have to ride while

most everyone else proceeded by their shoe leather—he was not going to sit in a cart.

“Are you all right?” asked Jes, his hand hovering just over Tier’s leg. “Mother told me to watch out for

you.”

“Just my knees.” Tier gave his son a smile despite the way his right knee was throbbing. “They’re taking

a long time to heal up—I must be getting old.”

“Mother says you push too hard,” said Jes frowning. Obviously Tier’s smile hadn’t been as convincing as

he’d intended.

They had all taken to fussing over him, which Tier found both touching and annoying. He’d rather nurse

his hurts in private if he could.

“Brewydd says that your mother is fretting too much,” replied Tier.

“And Mother says to leave healing to the Lark,” added Lehr, though he was looking concerned as well.

“Brewydd knows what she’s doing.”

Jes frowned.

“I’m all right,” Tier said again.

Lehr, he could have just told to leave it alone, but once Jes got something on his mind he could be

amazingly stubborn. So Tier caught Jes’s dark eyes with his own, and said firmly, “Even your mother

agreed that I was fit for a visit to a village to negotiate for supplies—that’s what we Bards are supposed

to do. We owe this Traveler clan more than we can repay, but I can get them good prices on the things

they need and ensure that they’ll have a welcome here next time they pass through. My knees still bother

me, and will for a month or two more, but they are a fair bit on their way to normal.” It helped that he

told the truth. Jes would hear it in his voice.

“I don’t like those wizards,” said Jes, and for a moment there was something dark, something alien in his

voice.

“Nor I,” agreed Tier, having no trouble making the connection between his knees and the wizards who’d

caused them to be broken, because he’d just been thinking the same thing. “But they are gone for good

and can do no more harm to anyone.”

“We rescued you,” said Jes in sudden satisfaction. “And you will be fine, and we are going home. Rinnie

will be happy to see us. I wouldn’t have wanted to stay with Aunt Alinath.”

“Your aunt’s a good person,” admonished Tier. His sister was uncomfortable around Jes’s oddities, and

because of that, she mishandled his oldest. Nevertheless, she was his sister, and he loved her.

Jes set his chin stubbornly. “She is bossy and rude.”

“Like Mother,” said Lehr, with the quick sunny smile that he used all too seldom.

“Mother is Raven,” said Jes, as if that explained and excused those faults, which, Tier thought, was

largely correct. “And she is only rude to fools.”

Lehr laughed. “And that’s most of the people she meets.”

Tier shook his head. “She’s not usually rude, just intimidating.”

“If you say so,” said Lehr. “Weren’t we going to negotiate with someone to buy some grain? Or are we

going to stand here all day gossiping like old women?”

Jes grinned shyly and ducked his head. “Papa will negotiate, and you and I can watch. I like watching.”

“Right. Just mind you don’t say anything about Travelers unless Papa does.”

Tier urged Skew forward again, this time with his weight and a click of his tongue. The

patchwork-colored gelding paced forward with his usual glass-smooth walk.

There were three huts, the smithy, a small pottery, and a handful of small buildings in the village that

Benroln had sent them to. But there was no answer from inside the potter’s shed when Lehr knocked,

nor did anyone come out at his shout. He opened the door and briefly peered inside.

“No one here.”

So they went to the next building.

The smithy was a three-walled, open-face shed and appeared as empty as the pottery had been. Tier

threw a leg over Skew’s back and slid—slowly for the sake of his stiff knees—to the ground. He

dropped the gelding’s reins to ground-tie him and limped into the building, Lehr and Jes beside him.

Inside the smithy, tools were hung in an organized manner on one wall, rough steel lay scattered on the

ground next to the forge, as if someone had just dropped it there. Tier put a hand over the bed of coals,

then touched them cautiously, but not even the memory of fire lingered.

“What can you tell me about this, Lehr?” asked Tier. “How long have they been gone?”

It was an unreasonable question to ask of even the most seasoned tracker. The roof of the smithy kept

the rain off and the walls protected the dirt floor. Tier wouldn’t have been able to tell how long the steel

had lain on the ground, abandoned to tend to whatever emergency had called the smith away.

But Lehr, like Jes and Tier himself, was an Order Bearer—and his Order was Falcon—the Hunter.

Lehr cast his Falcon’s eyes over the scene and Tier felt the rise of magic as his son read the traces left by

the people who’d lived here.

“No one’s been in this building for at least two days, maybe as long as three,” he said finally. “But there

were chickens here until yesterday.”

They’d seen no chickens when they rode up.

“There are people here still,” said Jes after a moment, his voice crisp and alert. “I can smell them.”

Something about the deserted place had alarmed his oldest son. Jes, his sweet-natured slow-speaking

Jes, was gone as if he had never been, and in his place was the deadly predator who sometimes looked

out of Jes’s eyes. Jes’s Order was a heavier burden than the others. Jes was Guardian, and the

magic-induced dread that accompanied his secondary nature, unique to the Eagle’s Order, sent chills up

Tier’s spine.

Lehr didn’t even look up from the ground just outside the smithy. “Something ate the chickens.”

“What kind of something?” asked Tier.

“I don’t know,” Lehr answered. “It’s not very big—about the weight of a small wolf. See, here’s a

print.”

Tier peered at the faint trace in the dust of the small trail. To his eyes it could have been any of a number

of animals. “Could it be a raccoon?”

Lehr shook his head. “It’s not a raccoon. No racoon has claws that size.”

“Can you see where the people went?”

“There’s someone here, Da,” Tole said, his face pressed against a crack in the wall. “Out by the smithy.

Strangers this time.”

Aliven looked up from the damp cloth he was using on his wife’s forehead. She hadn’t opened her eyes

since he’d brought her here days ago.

Because their home was closer to the well than the smithy was, his wife had been quicker to answer their

daughter’s scream. By the time he’d gotten to the well, Lorra was dead and his wife was struggling

beneath some dark beast. When the strange creature noticed Aliven it ran off; at first he’d thought that

the sound of his shout or the sight of his hammer had sent it fleeing—but he’d since learned the folly of

that. Perhaps it only hadn’t want to kill its food too fast lest it spoil. In any case, between the time he’d

carried Irna into the house and returned for Lorra, it had come back and dragged her body away.

He’d sent his son for Tally, his wife’s cousin, who’d been so immersed in his potting that he’d not heard

Lorra’s scream. As the other man had come hurrying over, it had attacked yet again, from behind the

garden hut. If Aliven hadn’t been carrying his hammer still, the beast would have gotten them both instead

of just clawing up Tally’s face.

He’d never seen anything move as fast as the beast did. Aliven had gotten Tally and the two children into

their hut and barred the windows and doors. So far the beast hadn’t torn through the wooden walls, but

the smith was pretty certain the thin walls wouldn’t keep it out when it finally decided it wanted in.

It had, after all, herded him back into the hut as neatly as a well-trained sheepdog putting lambs into their

fold. Yesterday, a couple of farmers had come to pick up the plowshare he’d fixed for them. Aliven had

left the hut to warn them, but he’d been too late. He’d found them both, dead, behind the potter’s shed.

The beast had let him stay there a while. But when he’d gotten to his feet, it had pushed him back to the

hut with unseen growls and noises. It wanted them there until it was hungry again.

Both Irna and Tally were dying. The initial wounds had been bad enough, but infection had set in with

frightening speed. Irna hadn’t moved for a day and a half, and Tally had been unconscious since

daybreak.

Trapped inside the confines of the little hut, Aliven’d had to make do with what they had, and—he

carefully wet the cloth again—he was running out of water.

Maybe these new people Tole was watching would be able to help. The Sept sent men out on patrols,

soldiers who might know how to deal with the beast.

“Who is out there?” he asked his son.

“A dark man with a little grey in his hair, tall like Daneel. He’s limping pretty badly. They’ve a horse—it’s

spotted like a cow, Da. There are two other men with him, younger. They look like they’re all close kin.

Can they help us?” Tole looked up with hope in his eyes; Aliven hadn’t told either of his children about

the two dead farmers.

He left his wife’s side and put his own eye against the gap between boards for a minute. Tole, for all that

he’d not seen a dozen summers, was sharp-eyed. The older man and one of the young men looked as

alike as any father and son he’d ever seen. The second young man shared some of the same features, but

his hair was—

Aliven pulled his head away and spat. “Travelers,” he said.

“Travelers?” Nona, his youngest, looked up from tending Tally. “They’ll kill it for us!”

“You’ve been listening to your mother’s stories,” Aliven said, disappointment making his voice even

gruffer than usual. “Travelers only help themselves—and they help themselves to everything they can.”

But he unbolted the door anyway and put his head out. He’d not see anyone, not even Travelers, killed if

he could help it.

“Leave, Travelers!”

Tier looked up from where Lehr had discovered the marks of a struggle. Two men, he’d said, both of

them dragged around behind the pottery.

“There’s your people,” Tier told Jes, spying a man peering out from a smallish hut on the far side of the

cluster of buildings.

“We mean you no harm,” Tier said, limping toward the man. “My son tells me you’ve had some people

killed by an animal.”

“Go away, Traveler,” said the man again. “There’s no gain to be had from this. I don’t want your deaths

on my conscience.” His head retreated, and he pulled the door closed.

Lehr and Jes both followed Tier, flanking him. Lehr kept his eyes on the ground while Jes kept up a

restless sweep of their surroundings.

“This place reeks of fear and blood,” said Jes. “Fear and blood and something wrong.”

Tier slanted a wary glance at his oldest son. “Stay back from the hut when we get there. This man sounds

frightened enough. Your presence will only frighten him more.”

Jes met his gaze but didn’t say anything.

“It’s no use, Papa,” said Lehr, not looking up. “He’s not going to leave you when he thinks you might be

in danger. Trying to make him stay back is just going to frustrate you.”

“I suppose I can’t keep you back either,” muttered Tier.

That brought Lehr’s face up as he flashed a quick smile. “Mother told us to watch over you, remember?”

His gaze caught on a shed set just outside the huddle of buildings, and he took a sharp intake of breath.

“That’s where it’s laired,” he said. “Over there in the well house. It’s left dozens of tracks back and forth.

And Jes is right, I can smell the taint, too. Whatever this thing is—it’s shadow-tainted.”

Tier looked, but all he could see was a narrow path through knee-length, yellowed cheatgrass. “Can you

tell what it is yet?”

Lehr shook his head. “Nothing I’ve tracked before.”

Tier paused a moment, frowning. He loosened his sword for a quick pull if he needed it. “Lehr, keep an

eye on that well while I’m trying to talk. Your mother would never let us live it down if I got you killed.”

Lehr took his bow off his shoulder and strung it. “I’ll watch.”

Tier knocked on the door of the greying hut. “We’re here to help if we can,” he said, sliding as much

Persuasion into his voice as he felt comfortable doing. He would force no man completely against his will.

“Tell me what happened here.”

The door jerked open, releasing an unpleasant miasma of wound-rot and sweat. A wiry man, as dark as

Tier himself, peered out, squinting against the light, the same man who’d tried to warn them off. His beard

was still dark although grey shot plentifully through the thinning hair on the top of his head. His hands

were callused and bore the kinds of small scars working hot metal could give a man. This must be the

smith.

“Traveler,” spat the smith. “I know what your kind does. Fool with the weather, then beggar the

farmers to fix it right again. Call up a curse and remove it for payment. If you’ve visited this thing upon us

for gold, I’ll see you dead myself. If you’ve not, then I’ll tell you again. If you stay, it will kill you,

too—though likely it is too late already.”

“We’re not that kind of Traveler,” said Tier smoothly. “Though I know that there are more than one clan

who do as you say. I am Tieragan of Redern and these”—he realized that he couldn’t see Jes—a

not-uncommon occurrence when Jes was on alert—and changed midsentence—“this is my son, Lehr.”

The smith glanced around nervously. Tier didn’t blame him, he felt it, too—but unlike the smith, he knew

the source of his own unease. Jes was somewhere nearby. As if the menace that clung to the Guardian

wasn’t enough, his magic brought both cold and fear to anyone around him.

“My name is Aliven,” said the smith, reluctantly responding to the goodwill that Tier was projecting with

all the skill he could muster.

Tier stepped forward and Aliven the Smith gave way, allowing Tier to maneuver past him and into the

hut.

Two children, a boy not much older than Tier’s youngest and a girl a few years younger huddled together

near the pole in the center of the room, their smudged faces unevenly revealed by the light that filtered

through between the boards. The boy had an arm around the girl and was keeping a sharp eye on Tier.

The only other occupants of the hut were two adults, a man and a woman, lying on pallets crowded

together on the floor.

Lehr came in behind Tier and knelt beside the blanketed man.

“What did this?” he asked, pointing to something that Tier, in the uncertain light, couldn’t see.

There was a barred window just to the right of the door. Tier pulled the bar and pushed the shutter board

to the side so that he could see what had so startled Lehr.

Under the improved lighting Tier could see the wounds on the woman, and the man’s face had been

sliced open by something sharp.

“It used three claws,” said Lehr. “Just like the thing that killed the chickens and the two men by the

pottery.”

“The Fahlarn had a three-pronged fork with sharpened points that caused wounds somewhat like that,”

said Tier, kneeling to get a better look. “But see the way the bone is marked? Whatever cut him was

sharper than the Fahlarn’s weapon, sharper than any claw I’ve ever seen.”

Jes entered the too-small hut in a wave of cold air that somehow pushed aside the smell of rot. The aura

of dread that followed him brought the smith to his knees as surely as an axe fells a tree.

“What happened to them?” asked Tier.

“The beast,” whispered Aliven. “It killed my daughter first, and clawed up my wife, who was drawn by

Lorra’s cries. Then it attacked Tally.” He gestured to the man Lehr still knelt beside. He hesitated,

looking at his children a moment, then said in a low voice, “When Kaor and Habreman came for the

plowshare I’d repaired, it killed them, too.”

“What did it look like?” asked Tier.

The smith shuddered from the memory or perhaps just the cold and fear that Jes wore like a cloak. “It

was too fast. I can tell you it wasn’t a wolf, boar, or badger. It was faster than a fox and maybe twice as

big. It had four limbs right enough and a stub tail that looked fluffy and pale. The rest of it was dark

brown or grey.”

He stared at Jes, then let his glance fall upon Lehr’s ash-blond hair. “I don’t have much silver,” he said

slowly. “My cousin has a gold piece put back from when he fought for the Emperor when he was a boy,

but I don’t know where it is. You might apply to my Sept, since it’s his well we’re using, but I doubt he’ll

pay Travelers for anything. He has his armsmen drive Travelers away from his territory.”

Tier opened his mouth to refuse to take payment of any kind but stopped. There were a lot of mouths in

the clan of Travelers who were escorting them home, and helping people like the smith was how they

earned their food.

“I don’t know what the charge’ll be if we rid you of this beast,” he said finally. “That’s not my decision. It

won’t be more than you can bear—my word on it.” That much he could fight Benroln on if he had to.

Jes dropped to all fours and brought his face next to the wounded man’s. The smith flinched at the

sudden movement.

“It was a mistwight,” whispered Jes. “I can smell it.”

“What’s a mistwight?” asked Lehr.

“A water imp,” replied Tier. “It’s not undead, despite its name. They’re called wights because they are

shy, and most people catch only a glimpse of them before they’re gone. I’ve heard that they can be nasty

if you corner them. I’ve never heard of them being shadow-tainted, but most people couldn’t tell one

way or the other on that, I suppose. Your mother will know for certain.”

Mistwights didn’t live around home, where the snow got too deep. He’d glimpsed one once when he’d

gone a-soldiering, but he couldn’t see how Jes would have ever met one. “How do you know what they

smell like, Jes?”

Dark eyes looked up, and Tier saw Jes, his Jes, rise up to answer his question. “I d-don’t know,” he

stammered. “We just smelled it and knew.” A breath later, and the Guardian’s sharp darkness was back

in his eyes.

Tier had never seen him do that before, transform from Guardian to Jes and back again, though it

Patricia Briggs - Ravens Strike

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