Page 39

CHAPTER

Thirty-Nine

T HE FIGHT BEGINS before the bell.

That was the first thing Cain said to Neema, the next morning. He was waiting for her in the living room when she woke. He’d been up all night working on a strategy. Something they could both believe in. First—let her rest. Don’t rush in and wake her, don’t act panicked. Next, preparation. He’d made a list of practical things they could do together. Neema liked lists. The right food, plenty of water. Breathing, posture.

When he was sure she was in the right state to hear it, he said, “I have a plan. It’s simple and it’s going to work.” He laid it out for her, calm and confident. It was very important that he was calm and confident. He threw in a couple of jokes, because if he didn’t, she would know he was worried. That he was terrified this wouldn’t work, and that Neema would die. That Ruko would kill her.

“I’m scared,” she said, clutching herself.

“That’s natural. But I promise you—this will work. Focus on Ruko. Forget the crowds, forget everything, even the fear. Live moment to moment. You and him.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“I know you can. I’ve seen you do it.” He picked up a piece of her calligraphy. “Everything disappears when you work. Nothing exists except you, the brush, the ink. It’s the same thing. Exactly the same. Focus. Precision. Flow.”

Her face softened with understanding, and hope.

That was the moment when Cain thought, This could work. Maybe, maybe I won’t lose her.

In the Festival Square there was a new, feverish mood among the spectators. They’d heard about the changes and they knew how dangerous they were for weaker fighters like Neema. Some had stayed away. Children were kept at home. Empty seats studded the galleries. For those who did come—thirteen hundred souls and counting—the atmosphere was half carnival, half funeral. Everyone knew about the extra Leviathans, the rumours of unrest on the mainland.

Abbess Glorren did nothing to dispel the tension. In robes of forest green she stalked the platform, and all eyes followed her. The charisma of a true Tiger warrior, beautiful and deadly. “I thank his majesty for returning us to the ancient days,” she said. A tweak of an eyebrow. For once, the Tigers and the Bears were in accord. “Those who fight for the throne must be willing to give their lives for it. Yasthala knew this, as did those who came before her.”

Murmurs from the crowds, the odd hiss. Those who came before Yasthala were tyrants, dynastic rulers fighting their endless, bloody games of power. Some ruled wisely, many did not. In their name, millions had died, provoking the Eight to Return to restore peace and harmony. Seven times—so the Scriptures said—the Kind Guardians saved the world. Until Yasthala came—cruellest of all the tyrants. And finally the Guardians lost patience. The Dragon sent the Raven to Yasthala in a dream, with a warning and a promise. Mend your ways, Empress. Set things right. For the next time we Return, we shall not save the world. We shall destroy it.

For Rivenna, the third Guardian’s holy abbess, to speak admiringly of the past was something close to blasphemy. She did not seem to care. If anything, she appeared to revel in the reaction from the crowds. And there were a few who nodded, and smiled. The Tiger abbess found them easily in the sea of faces, and smiled a weighted smile in return.

As they walked up the platform steps, Ruko said to Neema, “Expect no mercy from me, Contender Kraa.” And then, more softly, “May the Raven protect you.”

Neema stood on guard, waiting for the bell. The emperor had placed Vabras in charge of the fights for the rest of the Festival. “If you hold back, you will lose points,” Vabras warned them.

She didn’t think about this. She did not see Vabras, or the crowds. The emperor on his balcony, awaiting her execution. The Tiger contingent, entertaining the crowds with a display of three real tigers, leaping through hoops to the crack of a whip. She did not see any of them. They did not exist. No flags, no speeches. No fear, no doubt. Only Ruko, the platform, and the bell.

Not the abstract Ruko. Not Ruko the Tiger Warrior. Not her terror of fighting him. But the living, breathing body in front of her. This person in space, in this moment.

The bell rang.

Ruko sprang but she was already stepping back, shifting out of reach. He did not pause and neither did she, shifting again to avoid a second blow.

Five seconds.

He was fast, and ferocious. One strike could kill her. She wasn’t thinking about that. Only this moment. Living from heartbeat to heartbeat.

Ten seconds.

Fractions of time, fractions of distance. One brush stroke on the page, and then the next. Concentration. Precision. Cain’s advice in her head.

“Ruko is used to fighting warriors who fight back. You’re different, and that gives you an advantage. Concentrate solely on your defence, and keep that modest. Don’t leap back too far, don’t run. Tiny shifts are enough. One inch is enough. Conserve your energy.”

Thirty seconds.

She shrank back to escape another strike, felt the rush of air as his fist missed her jaw. Eight, that was close.

Don’t think. Be.

Forty seconds. A minute.

Concentrate. Yield, and yield again. Just out of reach. Just out of reach. Sweat poured down her face, stuck her tunic to her skin. She didn’t notice. Didn’t hear the roar of the crowds as they began to realise—this fight was interesting. Vabras circling, watching every move. Benna in her corner, cheering her on. None of it. Only this. She was fighting for her life, second by second.

Ruko jabbed with his left fist, aiming for her ribs. She softened and drew back. Another miss. She felt a flare of hope. It’s working.

She didn’t see his right fist, swinging in from the side.

We did.

Neema.

This is our moment. Our fraction of a second.

On the fringes of her mind, she senses us. A rush of thin, cool air. A lightness in her bones. And power, so much power, almost in reach.

We are coming.

She hears the heavy beat of countless wings. She sees us, an endless flock, streaming towards her from a crack in the sky. All the ravens that were, all the ravens that are, all the ravens that will be. Wheeling. Gathering. She sees the iridescent sheen of our feathers, the fierce intelligence in our eyes. Our claws outstretched, ready to tear her apart with love. We are infinite and we are one, wings spanning the sky.

We are the Raven, and we are magnificent.

Neema.

We are here.

For you.

Let us in.

For this moment, for this held breath, the world is ours. Ruko is a statue, fist frozen in mid swing. We land on his shoulder and wait. This is Neema. We are expecting questions.

We tilt our head, viewing her from different angles. She is breathing hard. Her mind whirls through every possible, rational explanation and rejects them. She can deny us no longer.

She cannot speak, but instinctively she knows she can reach us, that we may talk on this plane, the plane of the mind.

—You’re real.

Yes .

—You are the Raven.

We preen ourself. Yes.

A pause, as she takes this in. Its magnitude. And then, as we had predicted: questions.

—What’s happening? Am I dead?

No.

You are about to die.

She tries to step back out of harm’s way, but she is held tight. This frightens her.

You are frozen in this moment, Neema.

But you cannot escape it.

She looks at Ruko’s fist, aimed at her temple.

—Can you help me?

We make a happy, yaffling sound. This is the question we have been waiting for.

Yes, we can help you.

That is why we are here.

We are here for you, Neema.

We will save you.

We love you.

Neema winces. Our many voices, aligning and interlocking like barbs in a feather. We are too much for her, we are much too much.

—And in return? she asks, once she has recovered. What do you want from me?

We do our best to look innocent, but she is wise to us.

—Come on. I’m an expert in folk tales. What’s the catch?

There is no catch, Neema.

All you have to do is let us in.

And kill Ruko.

We hop on to his head and stab his skull with our beak.

—I can’t kill Ruko!

We flap our wings, excitedly.

Yes, you can!

We believe in you, Neema. You can do it!

—I mean, I won’t kill him.

We stop flapping, and glare at her.

You must.

The world depends upon it.

—If that’s true…

It is true.

—… kill him yourself.

That is not allowed. We had our instructions from the Dragon. We could join Neema, and help her defeat the Tiger warrior. But for a Guardian to kill a soul upon the Eternal Path, without permission? No, no. THERE ARE OTHER BIRDS, RAVEN . We must convince her, it won’t take long, she has been prepared, we have prepared her magnificently for this moment.

Would you like to see a vision, Neema?

Of what will happen, if you do not kill him?

We show her, before she can say no. The vision Dragon gave to us.

Flashes of the horror. Ruko on the throne, his face contorted with a wild triumph. So altered by his glee, she barely recognises him. But it is him. Emperor Ruko, howling with delight as the sky rips apart and the Guardians pour through from the Hidden Realm, unstoppable: the snarl of the Tiger; the pounding, thunderous hooves of the Ox; the piercing scream of the Monkey; the baying of the Hound; the Fox and the Raven tumbling through; the Bear raised up and roaring. And behind them all, coiling and writhing down through the sky—the Awakening Dragon, breathing a great stream of fire down upon the throne room. Ruko, rising from the throne, spreads out his arms and laughs, welcoming them all. The Eight Guardians of the Last Return, come to destroy the world.

The vision ends.

Now do you understand, Neema?

—No. No, I don’t understand. Ruko wants to rule the world, not destroy it. What’s wrong with him? Why is he laughing like that?

That is not important.

—You don’t know, do you?

We know the Tiger warrior will provoke the Last Return if you do not stop him. This the Dragon has foreseen.

Neema frowns, but we sense a shift. Deep down, she has accepted the truth. This is real; we are real. She must let us in.

—But why me ?

Again, we do not answer. Such things are mysterious, even to us. We fly from Ruko’s head, to his fist. It has moved, very slightly, closer to her face. We are running out of time. Or, to be more exact, time is about to run into us.

Neema.

We can wait no longer.

You must let us in.

Let us in.

Neema, let us in.

Again we feel the shift. She is almost ready. She does not want to kill him, but she has no choice. One man, or the whole world. Everyone and everything she loves. Every book, every building, every friend, every foe. Gone.

—You promise this will stop the Return?

We promise.

She takes a breath, sighs it out slowly.

—All right. I accept. I let you in.

She has not finished speaking when it begins. She feels it, a sucking, a melding at the borders of her self. Something is pooling around the porous fabric of her, seeping like ink through muslin, cool and light at first and then thicker, the fabric is tearing and the ink is pouring through, thick and viscous, it is coating her from the inside, through her blood, into her cells, she is Neema and she is us.

The moment shifts, time is starting up again, sluggish and dense.

Neema’s eyes are coated liquid black, swirling with an oily gleam of purple and blue.

And with these new eyes she sees Ruko and knows—I can destroy him.

Destroy, yes.

The greatest warrior of the age will be no match for her.

For us.

Eye to eye, gazes locked. So easy. It would be so easy…

She is at her desk. Cain covers her hand. There is a line, Neema. Once you cross it.

An oily black tear slides down Neema’s face.

—I can’t.

You must.

But something is shifting again, on the borders of her self. A resistance. She is building a wall against us. We cannot get in.

Neema! You must. It is the only way.

She pushes back with her mind. Using what she has absorbed of our power to expel us.

—Out! Get out!

Stop!

How dare you defy us!

WE ARE THE RAVEN!

—I don’t care. I will not kill him. Not even for you.

We are stunned. We are silent.

—There has to be another way.

She is pushing us out, willing us to be gone.

We leave, we have no choice. A spiralling of ravens, pouring back up into the sky, calling to each other in distress. How is this possible? We have been so patient, so gentle, so wise.

The black oil drains from Neema’s eyes. The last fragments take to the sky. It is over. The moment has passed.

We have failed.

No, that cannot be right. We are the Raven. We are magnificent. We do not fail.

You have failed us , Neema Kraa.

The Eight will come in blood and fire.

The world will end.

Because of you.

Do not look for our help again.

You are on your own.

A fraction of a second later, Ruko’s fist slams into her face.

Neema dropped to the platform. Knocked out cold.

Cain was sprinting across the square. “Stop the fight! Stop the fight!”

Ruko blinked, as if waking from a dream. Neema lay at his feet, unconscious. He looked to Vabras for guidance. Vabras lifted his chin. Finish it.

A tiny figure darted past. Twin plaits and a kitchen tunic.

“Catch her!” Vabras snapped.

Too late. Benna flung herself over Neema’s body. “I protect this woman in the name of the Bear!” she yelled.

Pandemonium. People jumped up from their seats, straining for a better view.

Cain seized his chance. Turning sharply, he barrelled towards a couple of medics, grabbed one of them by his shirt. “Stretcher! You heard Vabras. Stretcher!”

On the platform, Vabras moved to drag Benna away. She clung on tight, shouting up to the crowds. “My name is Benna Edge. I met the Bear last night in a dream. It turned my ribbons red.” She lifted one of her plaits.

“That is not evidence,” Vabras said, still trying to drag her away.

The crowd didn’t care. They cheered her on. The faithful. The merciful. And those who liked to see Vabras annoyed. Everyone, in other words. The medics came up the steps, holding the stretcher between them. Vabras rounded on them, trying to push them back. “What are you doing?”

“You called for us, High Commander!”

“I did no such thing…”

Benna, still sprawled over Neema, called up to the stalls. “I promised the Bear I would keep Contender Kraa safe. We hugged! The Bear hugged me!”

Neema was coming round, eyes fluttering.

“Stay down,” Benna whispered in her ear.

Neema stilled her eyelids. More than happy to comply.

Vabras was arguing with the medics. People were streaming down from the stalls to witness the miracle of the red ribbons. All around him, chaos and confusion. His two least favourite things.

Ruko, standing apart, weighed up his choices. He could pick up this tiny creature with one hand and throw her out of the way. He could snap Neema’s neck. It would be over in seconds. And remembered for ever. Most of all by the faithful.

Looking down on Neema he saw subtle, gleaming strands of indigo in her tight black curls. They could not have been there before; he would have seen them. “Touched by the Raven,” he murmured. He looked up to the imperial balcony, narrowed his eyes at the emperor—his eager expression. He wants me to kill her. Now why would he want that?

“People of Orrun,” he called up to the stalls.

The crowds fell silent. This was the first time he had addressed them.

“I am a warrior, not an executioner,” Ruko said. And left the platform.

The square erupted.