Patricia Briggs - Raven's Shadow

Books by Patricia Briggs

About the Author

Raven’s Shadow (2004)

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

PART TWO

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

About the Author

Patricia Briggs lived a fairly normal life until she learned to read. After that she spent lazy afternoons

flying dragonback and looking for magic swords when she wasn't horseback riding in the Rocky

Mountains.

Once she graduated from Montana Stala University with degrees in history and German, she spent her

time substitute teaching and writing. She and her family live in the Pacific Northwest, where she is hard at

work on her newest project.

Visit her on the web at:www.hurog.com .

Raven’s Shadow (2004)

This book is dedicated with gratitude to:

Robin and Gene Walker

Dan, Pam, Jason, John, and Alex Wright

Buck, Scott, and the rest of the crew at Buckner’s V.W. Parts Exchange

Paula, Michael, and Liam Bachelor

Dave, Katharine, and Caroline Carson

Anne Sowards—who made this one better

And, as always, to those stalwart people who read it in its roughest stages (in alphabetical order):

Collin Briggs, Michael Briggs, Michael Enzweiler, Jeanne Matteucci, Virginia Mohl, Ann Peters,

Kaye Roberson, and John Wilson

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

“It’s not far now, my lad,” said Tier. “That’s smoke ahead, not just mist—we’ll find a nice village inn

where we can warm up.”

His horse snorted at him in reply, or more likely at a bothersome drop of rain, and continued its steady

progress down the trail.

The horse, like the sword Tier carried, was of far better quality than his clothing. He’d scavenged both

the horse and sword from men he’d killed: the sword in his first year of war, the horse earlier this year

when his own mount had been killed beneath him. A warhorse bred and trained to carry a nobleman,

Skew had carried Tier, a baker’s son, through two battles, six skirmishes, and, by rough reckoning,

almost a thousand miles of trail.

He was a valuable horse, though in the first few weeks of Tier’s journey the avarice in the eyes of the

ragged men in the areas torn by years of war had as much to do with hunger as gold. Tier had waited

eagerly for one of them to attack him, to ambush him if they could. But something, maybe the

battle-readiness that still lurked under his calm facade, kept them away from him.

But in the more prosperous areas away from the Empire’s borders, the chances of an attack were

greatly lessened, damn the luck. A fight would have given him momentary respite from the dread he felt

toward his current task—going home.

So many were dead. The two young men from his village who’d signed on with him to fight in a war half

a continent away from their home had died, as had many other young men hoping for gold, glory, or

escape. Tier had survived. He still wasn’t quite certain how that had happened—he certainly hadn’t

planned on it. He had never sought death, but any soldier knows his demise could come at any time.

If the war had lasted forever, Tier would have fought until he died. But the war was over, and the post

the Sept he’d served offered him was nothing he wanted. He had no desire to train up more young men

for battle.

So now he rode back home. It would have never occurred to the boy who’d crept out of the family

home almost a decade ago that returning would be so much harder than leaving.

Tier’s massive gelding shook his black and white mane, splattering Tier with water. He patted the

horse’s neck.

“There, what did I tell you, Skew?” Tier said. “There’s a roof down there, you can see it between the

trees.”

He looked forward to the warm common room of an inn, flooded with noise and ale—things to fill his

emptiness. Maybe a bit of cheer would stay with him until he was home.

He was getting closer. Even without a map, the bitter taste of old magic that filled these mountains would

have told him so. Though the battle had been over long ago, wizard’s magic had a way of outlasting even

memories, and the Shadowed had been a great wizard. Closer to the battlefield of Shadow’s Fall, riding

the forest paths could be dangerous. Near his home village, Redern, everyone knew to avoid certain

places still held in fell magic’s grip.

Unconcerned about magic of any kind, the bay and white patchwork-colored gelding picked his way

down the narrow mountain pathway, and, as the slope turned gentle, onto a dirt track that in turn

widened into a cobbled road. Shortly thereafter the small village Tier’d glimpsed from the hills above

emerged from beneath the trees.

The wet stone houses, so different from the wooden villages he’d ridden through these past nine years,

reminded him of home, though there was a softness to the architecture that his village did not have. It

wasn’t home, but it was a proper village. It would have a market square, and that’s where the inn would

be.

He envisioned a small, warm room, bathed in golden light from the fireplace and torches—someplace

where a soldier could get a good, hot meal and stay warm and dry.

As he drew closer to the town market, the smell of smoke and roasting meat filled the air. It was reflex

only that had him loosen his sword and made the gelding flex and snort: too much war, too many villages

burned. Tier murmured to Skew, reminding him they were done with that part of their lives, though he

could not make himself resecure his sword.

As they turned into the market square, he saw a burning pyre.

Evening was an odd time for a funeral; Tier frowned. This close to home they would bury their dead, not

burn them. He looked through the crowd and noticed there were no women or children watching the fire.

It was an execution, not a funeral.

In most places where the memories of the Shadowed lingered, they burned witches. Not the highborn

wizards who worked their magic for the nobles who paid them—they were above village justice—but the

healers, hedgewitches, and Travelers who offended or frightened the wrong person could find themselves

in serious trouble. When such a one burned, the village women would watch from darkened

windows—safe from the wrath of the dead.

Strangers like Tier sometimes found themselves taken for Travelers or hedgewitches. Still, he was armed

and had hard coin to pay his way—and from the smell of smoke and flesh, this village had already slaked

its bloodlust. He rested his hand on his sword hilt, and decided it would be safe enough to stop for the

night.

Tier rode by the pyre with little more than a glance, but that quick look had told him that the man in the

center of the burning wood had been killed before the fire was lit. A dead man was beyond aid.

The sullen crowd of men gathered around the pyre quieted further as he crossed near them, but when he

took no notice of them, they turned back to their grim entertainment.

As Tier had expected, he found the inn on the edge of the village square. There was a stable adjacent to

the inn, but no one manned it. Doubtless the stable boy could be found in the crowd in the square.

Tier unsaddled Skew, rubbed him down with a rough cloth, and led him into an unoccupied stall.

Looking for hay, he noticed a handcart bedecked in Traveler’s trappings, leather fringe and bright paint,

sadly faded. So the man they’d burned had been a Traveler.

Tier walked past the cart and took a forkful of hay back to Skew, though his eagerness to spend the

evening in the tavern had ebbed considerably since he’d ridden into the village. The nearness of violence

had set his nerves on edge, and the quiet stable soothed him. He lingered until full darkness fell, but finally

the thought of something hot to eat overcame his reluctance to face people.

As he walked out of the stables, only a few figures were left silhouetted against the light of the fire:

guards to make sure the man didn’t come back to life and flee, Tier supposed.He’d never seen a man

with his throat slit come back to life and cast magic. Oh, he’d heard the tales, too—even told a few

himself. But he’d seen a lot of death, and in his experience it was final.

When he entered the tavern, he was taken aback by the noise. A quick glance told him that no one had

noticed him enter, so he found a place between the stairs and the back wall where he could observe the

room for a moment.

He ought to have realized that the mob wouldn’t have dispersed so easily. After a killing, most men

sought alcohol, and the inn’s common room was filled to bursting with men, most of them half-drunk on

ale and mob-madness. He considered retreating to sleep in the stables, but he was hungry. He’d wait a

while and see if things would calm enough that it would be safe for a stranger like him to eat here.

The room rumbled with frantic laughter, reminding him of the aftermath of battle, when men do crazy

things they spend the rest of their life trying to forget.

He had cheese and flatbread still in his saddlebag. It wasn’t a hot meal, and the cheese was a bit blue in

spots, but he could eat it in peace. He took a step toward the door.

As if his movement had been a clarion call, the room hushed expectantly. Tier froze, but he quickly

realized that no one was looking at him.

In the silence, the creaking of wood drew his eyes to the stairway not an arm’s length from where he

stood. Heavy boots showed first, the great bull of a man who wore them followed at last by a girl he

pulled down the stairs. From his splattered apron, the man had to be the innkeeper himself, though there

were old calluses on his hands that might have come from a war axe or broadsword.

The innkeeper stopped four or five steps above the main floor, leaving his captive in plain view.

Unnoticed in his position near the back of the room, a little behind the stairs, Tier faced the growing

certainty that he was not going to get a hot meal and a soft bed tonight.

The distinctive silver-ash hair that hung in sleep-frayed braids almost to her waist told Tier that she was a

Traveler, a relative, he supposed, of the dead young man roasting outside.

He thought her a child at first, but her loose night rail caught on a rounded hip that made him add a year

or two to her age. When she looked up at the crowd, he could see that her eyes were clear amber green

and older than her face.

The men in the inn were mostly farmers; one or two carried a long knife in their belt. He had seen such

men in the army, and respected them. They were probably good men, most of them, with wives and

mothers waiting for them at home, uncomfortable with the violence their fear had led them to.

The girl would be all right, Tier told himself. These men would not hurt a child as easily as they’d killed

the man. A man, a Traveler, was a threat to their safety. A child, a girl-child, was something these men

protected. Tier looked around the room, seeing the softening in several faces as they took in her

bewildered alarm.

His assessing gaze fell upon a bearded man who sat eating stew from a pot. Finely tailored noblemen’s

garments set the man apart from the natives. Such clothes had been sewn in Taela or some other large

city.

Something about the absorbed, precise movements the man made as he ate warned Tier that this man

might be the most dangerous person in the room—then he looked back at the girl and reconsidered.

In the few seconds that Tier had spent appraising the room, she’d shed her initial shock and fright as

cleanly as a snake sheds its skin.

The young Traveler drew herself up like a queen, her face quiet and composed. The innkeeper was a

foot taller, but he no longer looked an adequate guard. The ice in the girl’s cool eyes brought a chill born

of childhood stories to creep down Tier’s spine. Instincts honed in years of battle told him that he wasn’t

the only one she unnerved.

Stupid girl,Tier thought.

A smart girl would have been sobbing softly in terror and shrinking to make herself look smaller and

even younger, appealing to the sympathies of the mob. These weren’t mercenaries or hardened fighters;

they were farmers and merchants.

If he could have left then, he would have—or at least that’s what he told himself; but any movement on

his part now would draw attention. No sense in setting himself up for the same treatment received by the

dead man in the square.

“Where’s the priest? I need him to witness my account.” asked the innkeeper, sounding smug and

nervous at the same time. If he had looked at the girl he held, he would have sounded more nervous than

smug.

The crowd shuffled and spat out a thin young man who looked around in somewhat bleary surprise to

find himself the center of attention. Someone brought out a stool and a rickety table no bigger than a

dinner plate. When a rough sheet of skin, an ink pot, and a quill were unearthed, the priest seated himself

with a bit more confidence.

“Now then,” said the innkeeper. “Three days’ lodging, four coppers each day. Three meals each day at

a copper each.”

Tier’s eyebrows crept up cynically. He saw no signs that the inn had been transported to Taela, where

such charges might be justified. For this inn, two coppers a day with meals was more likely.

“Twenty-one coppers,” announced the priest finally. Silence followed.

“A copper a day for storing the cart,” said the nobleman Tier had noticed, without looking up from his

meal. By his accent he was from more eastern regions, maybe even the coast. “That makes three more

coppers, twenty-four coppers in total: one silver.”

The innkeeper smiled smugly, “Ah yes, thank you, Lord Wresen. According to the law, when a debt of

a silver is incurred and notremanded ”—from the way the word was emphasized, it was obvious to Tier

thatremanded was a word that seldom left the lips of the innkeeper—“that person may be sold to

redeem the debt. If no buyer is found, they shall suffer fifty lashes in the public square.”

Flogging was a common punishment. Tier knew, as did all the men in the room, that such a child was

unlikely to survive fifty lashes. Tier stepped away from the door and opened his mouth to protest, but he

stopped as he realized exactly what had been happening.

His old commander had told him once that knowledge won more battles than swords did. The

innkeeper’s motivation was easy to understand. Selling the girl could net him more than his inn usually

made in a week, if he could sell her. None of the villagers here would spend a whole silver to buy a

Traveler. Tier would give odds that the innkeeper’s knowledge of law had come from the

nobleman—Lord Wresen, the innkeeper had called him. Tier doubted the man was a “lord” at all: the

innkeeper was flattering him with the title because of his obvious wealth—it was safer and more

profitable that way.

It didn’t take a genius to see that Wresen had decided he wanted the girl and engineered matters so that

he would have her. She would not be beautiful as a woman, but she had the loveliness that belongs to

maidens caught in the moment between childhood and the blossom of womanhood. Wresen had no

intention of letting her be flogged to death.

“Do you have a silver?” the innkeeper asked the Traveler girl with a rough shake.

She should have been afraid. Even now Tier thought that a little show of fear would go a long way

toward keeping her safe. Selling a young girl into slavery was not a part of these farmers’ lives and would

seem wrong. Not even the innkeeper was entirely comfortable with it. If she appealed to his mercy, the

presence of the other men in the inn would force him to release her.

Instead, she smiled contemptuously at the innkeeper, showing him that she, and everyone in the inn,

knew that he was exploiting her vulnerability for profit. All that did was infuriate the innkeeper and silence

his conscience entirely—didn’t this girl know anything about people?

“So, gents,” said the innkeeper, glancing toward Wresen, who was finishing the last few bites of his

meal. “A dead man cannot pay his debts and they are left to his heir. This one owes me a silver and has

no means to pay. Do any of you need a slave or shall she join her brother where he burns in the square?”

The flush of anger that had highlighted her cheeks paled abruptly. Obviously, she hadn’t known the other

Traveler had been killed until the innkeeper spoke, although she must have suspected something had

happened to him. Her breathing picked up, and she blinked hard, but otherwise she controlled herself

until all that showed on her face was anger and contempt.

Stupid girl,he thought again—then he felt the tingle of gathering magic.

He’d been nine long years in the Imperial Army under a Sept who commanded six wizards—doubtless

that was the reason Tier was contemplating helping the Traveler rather than running out the door like a

proper Rederni. Those years had taught him that mages were just people like anyone else: this girl was

unlikely to be able to save herself from a mob of frightened men. After they saw her work magic, no one

else would be able to save her either.

She was nothing to him.

“One silver,” Tier said.

Wresen started and shifted to alertness, his hand touching his sword, staring at Tier. Tier knew what he

saw: a travel-stained man, tall and too thin, with a sword on his belt and his years in the Emperor’s army

recorded in the myriad small scars on face and hands.

Tier opened his belt pouch and sorted through a smattering of small coins before pulling out a silver

round that looked as though it had been trampled by a dozen armies.

“Take off your hood,” said the innkeeper. “I’ll see a man’s face and know his name and kin before I

take his money.”

Tier tossed his hood back and let them see by his dark hair and eyes that he was no Traveler. “Tieragan

from Redern and late of the Imperial Army under the Sept of Gerant. I’m a baker’s son, but I gave it up

for the battlefield when I was young and stupid. The war’s ended by the Emperor’s writ, and I am

homebound.”

The girl’s magic died down to a slow simmer.That’s it, he thought,take the time I’m giving you to

remember that one man is easier to take than a whole room. You don’t really want revenge; you

want escape. He didn’t know whether he was saving her from these men, or the men from her.

“If you take her, you won’t stay here,” blustered the innkeeper. “I don’t want her kind in my inn.”

Tier shrugged, “I’ve camped before, and my horse will take me a few hours yet.”

“Two silver,” said Wresen abruptly. The nobleman set his hands on his table with enough force that his

sword bounced and the big silver ring on his left hand punctuated his words with a bang. When all eyes

turned to him he said, “I’ve always wanted to sample Traveler bread—and that one looks young enough

to bring to heel.”

Tier couldn’t afford to offer much more than Wresen’s two silver. Not because he didn’t have it, the

better part of nine years of pay and plunder were safely sewn in his belt, but because no one would

believe that he, a baker’s son and soldier, would spend so much money on a strange woman-child no

matter how exotic. He could hardly believe it himself. If they decided he was a confederate of hers, he

might find himself sharing the pyre outside. On the other hand, a bored nobleman could spend as much as

he wanted without comment.

Tier shot Wresen a look of contempt.

“You’d be dead before your pants were down around your knees, nobleman,” Tier said. “You aren’t

from around these mountains, or you would understand about magic. My armsmate was like you, used to

the tame wizards who take the Septs’ gold. He saved my life three times and survived five years of war,

only to fall at the hands of a Traveler wizard in a back alley.”

The mood in the room shifted as Tier reminded them why they had killed the man burning outside.

“We”—he included himself with every man in the room—“we understand. You don’t play with fire,Lord

Wresen, you drown it before it burns your house down.” He looked at the innkeeper. “After the Traveler

killed my fighting brother, I spent years learning how to deal with such—I look forward to testing my

knowledge. Two silver and four copper.”

The innkeeper nodded quickly, as Tier had expected. An innkeeper would understand the moods of his

patrons and see that many more words like Tier’s last speech, and he’d get nothing. The men in the room

were very close to taking the girl out right now and throwing her on top of her brother. Much better to

end the auction early with something to show for it.

Tier handed the innkeeper the silver coin and began digging in his purse, eventually coming up with the

twenty-eight coppers necessary to make two silver and four. He was careful that a number of people

saw how few coppers he had left. They didn’t need to know about the money in his belt.

Wresen settled back, as if the Traveler’s fate was nothing to him. His response made Tier all the more

wary of him—in his experience bored noblemen seldom gave up so easily. But for the moment at least,

Tier had only the girl to contend with.

Tier walked to the stairs, ignoring the men who pushed back away from him. He jerked the girl’s wrist

and pulled her past the innkeeper.

“What she has we’ll take,” Tier said. “I’ll burn it all when we’re in the woods—you might think of doing

the same to the bed and linen in that room. I’ve seen wizards curse such things.”

He took the stairs up at a pace that the girl couldn’t possibly match with the awkward way he kept her

arm twisted behind her. When she stumbled, he jerked her up with force that was more apparent than

real. He wanted everyone to be completely convinced that he could handle whatever danger she

represented.

There were four doors at the top of the stairs, but only one hung ajar, and he hauled her into it and shut

the door behind them.

“Quick, girl,” he said, releasing her, “gather your things before they decide that they might keep the silver

and kill the both of us.”

When she didn’t move, he tried a different tack. “What you don’t have packed in a count of thirty, I’ll

leave for the innkeeper to burn,” he said.

Proud and courageous she was, but also young. With quick, jerky movements, she pulled a pair of

shabby packs out from under the bed. She tied the first one shut for travel, and retrieved clothing out of

the other. Using her night rail as cover, she put on a pair of loose pants and a long, dark-colored tunic.

After stuffing her sleeping shift back in the second pack, she secured it, too. She stood up, glanced out

the room, and froze.

“Ushireh,” she said and added with more urgency, “he’s alive!”

Tier looked out and realized that the room looked over the square, allowing a clear view of the fire.

Clearly visible in the heat of the flames, the dead man’s body was slowly sitting upright—and from the

sounds of it, frightening the daylights out of the men left to guard the pyre.

He caught her before she could run out of the room. “Upon my honor, mistress, he is dead,” he said with

low-voiced urgency. “I saw him as I rode in. His throat was cut and he was dead before they lit the fire.”

She continued to struggle against his hold, her attention on the pyre outside.

“Would they have left so few men to guard a living man?” he said. “Surely you’ve seen funeral pyres

before. When the flame heats the bodies they move.”

In the eastern parts of the Empire, they burned their dead. The priests held that when a corpse moved in

the flame it was the spirit’s desire to look once more upon the world. Tier’s old employer, the Sept, who

had a Traveler’s fondness for priests (that is to say, not much), said he reckoned the heat shrank tissue

faster than bone as the corpse burned. Whichever was correct, the dead stayed dead.

“He’s dead,” Tier said again. “I swear to it.”

She pulled away from him, but only to run back to the window. She was breathing in shaking, heaving

gasps, her whole body trembling with it. If she’d done something of the same downstairs, he thought

sourly, they wouldn’t be looking to ride out in the rain without dinner.

“They were so afraid of him and his magic,” she said in a low voice trembling with rage and sorrow. “But

they killed the wrong one. Stupidsolsenti, thinking that being a Traveler makes one a mage, and that

being young and female makes me harmless.”

“We can’t afford to linger here,” he said briskly, though his heart picked up its beat. He’d gotten familiar

with mages, but that didn’t make them any more comfortable to be around when they were angry. “Are

you ready?”

She spun from the window, her eyes glowing just a little with the magic she’d amassed watching her

brother’s body burn.

Doubtless, he thought, if he knew exactly what she was capable of he’d have been even more frightened

of her.

“There are too many here,” he said. “Take what you need and come.”

The glow faded from her eyes, leaving her looking empty and lost before she stiffened her spine,

grabbed both bags resolutely, and nodded.

He put a hand on her shoulder and followed her out the door and down the stairs. The room had cleared

remarkably—doubtless the men had been called to witness the writhing corpse.

“Best be gone before they get back,” said the innkeeper sourly, doubtlessly worried about what would

happen to his inn if the men returned after their newest fright to find the Traveler lass still here.

“Make sure and burn the curtains, too,” said Tier in reply. There was nothing wrong with any of the

furnishing in the room, but he thought it would serve the innkeeper right to have to spend some of Tier’s

money to buy new material for curtains.

The girl, bless her, had the sense to keep her head down and her mouth shut.

Out of the inn, he steered her into the stable, where the stable boy had already brought out his horse and

saddled it. The Traveler handcart was set out, too. The girl was light, so Skew could certainly carry the

two of them as far as the next village, where Tier might obtain another mount—but the handcart

proposed more of a problem.

“We’ll leave the cart,” he said to the boy, not the Traveler. “I’ve no wish to continue only as fast as this

child could haul a cart like that.”

Patricia Briggs - Raven's Shadow

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