Page 41

CHAPTER

Forty-One

T HE MEDICS WANTED Neema to rest another hour in the tent, but they couldn’t stop her from leaving. Still clutching the ice to her jaw, she ventured back outside, cringing as the blaring intensity of the Festival Square assailed her: the roar of the crowds, the dazzling sunshine, the brightly coloured Guardian flags, the smell of food trays and alcohol and sweating bodies. She’d missed Cain’s fight with Katsan. Tala was up on the platform now, fighting the Visitor. Once again, the Dragon Proxy was letting his opponent win.

Why hadn’t the Raven chosen the Visitor? He wanted to kill Ruko. Why choose her? It made no sense. She wasn’t a warrior. She wasn’t a killer. As she headed up to her rooms in the Dragon palace, she wondered if she had imagined the whole thing. Had her brain muddled the order? Could Ruko have struck her first, and then she had her vision—just as Cain suggested?

It was the last coherent thought she had, for a while. The sickness was rising from her stomach, and this time she couldn’t hold it down. She had barely reached her rooms when she threw up a slick of black, oily liquid—ruining the beautiful embroidered rug Benna had found for her.

She stared in horror at the mess, then threw up again. Black and purple clots this time, along with the liquid. A sodden feather. Remnants of her encounter with the Raven.

She heaved and retched, over and over until there was nothing left to bring up. Her sides ached, and her stomach felt like it had been passed through a mangle, but she felt a lot better for the purge.

She rinsed out her mouth, sluicing away the taste. Ink, oil, metal, blood. Stuck her tongue out in the mirror. Pink and healthy. But her hair… she saw now what Benna meant. She teased her fingers through her curls, finding strands of dark purple and blue buried in with the black. Touched by the Raven.

Otherwise, she was fine. A tender spot where Ruko had caught her, nothing more.

She could see her bed behind her in the mirror. Tales of the Raven lay in the middle of the mattress.

She turned sharply. She had left it under her pillow this morning. “You.” She picked it up. As always, the black leather cover felt warm to the touch. “I was wrong about you. You’re not Dragon-made. What are you? A gift, like the weapons?”

The book lifted and buckled in her hands, offended.

She dropped it back on to the bed.

It flapped open, pages shuffling, finding its place with an emphatic snap. A blank spread, right in the centre. Slowly, an image formed on the left-hand page, whites and greys and blacks. A wild and desolate field in winter, patches of ice and mud, tufts of grass. The gnarled silhouette of a dead tree.

And there, huddled right in the middle, a tiny black smudge.

Black clouds gathered in the white sky. Grey rain fell. The smudge shivered, and roused itself. Inched forward within the picture, growing in size as it came nearer. A bird. A raven. It opened its hooked black beak.

Letters formed on the opposite page, a deep, purple-black in a distinctive bold type.

Hello, Neema.

Neema blew out a steadying breath. “Are you the Raven?”

More ink, seeping through the page.

I am a fragment of the Raven.

The words faded.

Neema took this in. “A fragment?”

Another pause, as more words formed.

I am the raven abandoned in the nest. I am the raven spurned by its mate. I am the raven that cannot be forgiven, for crimes that are mysterious. I am the raven shunned by its kin, for reasons that may be justified. I am hated, I am despised. I am—

—the bedraggled bird on the opposite page opened its wings with a flourish—

the SOLITARY RAVEN.

It closed its wings, and returned to being miserable. Rain pelted down from the sky.

The Solitary Raven. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

Not a coincidence, no.

The illustration changed to an image of Neema trapped in the imperial vaults, the night the Hounds locked her in. She was kneeling in the dirt, praying to the Raven to save her. Alone. Abandoned. Desperate.

You called to me and I came.

In the image, the book materialised in Neema’s lap. She hugged it to her chest, grateful for its warmth and company.

“But you expect payment in kind.”

A short pause as new words formed on the opposite page.

No one likes a cynic, Neema.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

A slightly longer pause, and then:

Yes, Neema—we expect something from you. We are the Raven. We watch. We consider. We anticipate the Last Return, and we prevent it. Dragon told us to come to you in dreams and portents. We tried, but you did not hear us. You did not believe in us.

So I came to you as something you do believe in.

“A book.”

Yes.

The image shifted back to the gloomy field. The bird puffed up its chest, pleased with itself.

You ignored the other fragments, but you did not ignore me.

You read me, and I read you.

I knew you wouldn’t kill Ruko. I told them my plan was better, but they never listen to me. That is why they failed.

They FAILED.

The words cleared, leaving behind a blank page. And then,

HA HA HA HA HA HA

HA HA HA HA HA HA

HA HA HA

The bird on the opposite page drew in more breath

HA HA HA

HA HA HA HA HA HA.

THEY FAILED! HA HA

HA HA HA HA HA HA.

“Stop that,” Neema said.

The words stopped, but the bird carried on rolling in the snow and mud, legs in the air. Eventually, in its own good time, it gathered itself, and some new words materialised on the blank page.

Have the rest of us gone? The other fragments?

“How would I know?”

Close your eyes. Reach out to us.

Neema did as she was asked. Nothing. No high, cool air. No flutter of wings. No keen brown eye, watching from the corner of her perception. No stabbing beak in the middle of her forehead. The Raven had been shadowing her all along, she realised. Sleeping and waking.

She had wilfully ignored us for months, but she could feel our absence, now we had abandoned her.

“It’s gone. They’re gone.”

Good. I can be myself again.

The words merged, forming a purple-black stain. The stain spread out like a disease, soaking down through the pages, coating the edges. The bird, the field, succumbed to the darkness. The book was transforming itself, buckling and juddering with the effort, covers stretching out wider and wider until there was no denying—they were not covers any more, but a pair of wings. The spine broadened and sprouted feathers. A hooked beak tore its way through the top, a diamond-shaped tail fanned out behind.

One shake, then another, and it was done. The book was gone. In its place stood a large raven, with a thick black ruff around its throat. Its glossy black feathers gleamed, offering glints of purple, glints of blue.

Stretching out its throat, it gave a deep, jubilant call of freedom.

Neema watched, dumbfounded, as it hopped down from the bed and marched towards a chest of drawers, back half swaying left and right as it moved—a raven on a mission. Pulling out each drawer in turn, it burrowed its beak between layers of clothes, tilting its head this way and that until it found what it was looking for. With a satisfied gurgle, it threw the amethyst choker out of the drawer. Then it hopped back down to the floor and paraded around with it in its beak, yaffling with pleasure. It did this for so long, Neema lost patience.

“Raven.”

Solitary Raven , it corrected, still strutting.

“Solitary Raven.”

It ignored her.

“Solitary… Sol!” she snapped.

The bird stopped dead, one claw in the air. Dropped the choker with a loud thunk. “Sol,” it said out loud, mimicking Neema’s voice. And then again, in a range of different voices. Sol. Sol . Sol. Trying out the name for size. Finally it settled on a male voice, light and resonant in a way that was—ineffably—birdlike. Sol.

“You want me to call you Sol?” Neema asked. And then, to herself, “Eight. I’m talking to a raven.”

You are talking to a fragment of the Raven, Neema. Sol pecked the amethyst set in the middle of the choker. Tink. I am this stone. We are also this necklace.

“And you’re the biggest jewel, are you?” Neema asked, drily.

If you say so, Neema. I suppose I must be, if you say I am. I had never thought of myself that way, I am too modest, but if you insist then yes, I am the greatest, the most dazzling jewel in the Flock. Now let me in, please, and I will tell you my magnificent plan to save the world.

Oh no. Definitely not. She’d had quite enough of that on the fight platform. “I will not be taken over,” she said, gesturing to the pools of glistening black slurry on the ruined rug. “I will not have that gunge inside me.”

Gunge? Sol strutted over to the rug and eyed the gory mess, first with one eye, then the other. This is prime metaphysical matter. This is deliciously congealed metaphor. You should be so lucky to ingest it. He lowered his beak and started to drink, scooping up the greasy, clotted liquid with his lower beak and letting it slide down his throat. Mmm. Mmmm.

Neema dry-heaved and turned away.

Sol was still talking as he drank, in her head. To be fair, Neema, your tragic meat body is not strong enough to absorb such powerful abstraction. For you, this would be a deadly poison. But I am not asking you to drink this “gunge” as you so rudely describe it. I only ask that you let me in. Me. Sol. He seemed inordinately pleased with his new name. Not the others.

Neema frowned, suspicious.

One fragment will not hurt you, Sol assured her. We are everywhere. Shimmer Arbell had an aspect of the Monkey clinging round her neck for years. Your friend Benna—those red ribbons in her hair are a tiny fragment of the Bear. Perfectly safe. It is only when a person absorbs too many fragments they get into trouble.

“So if I’d let the whole flock in earlier—”

You would be dead.

“They didn’t mention that bit.”

No. They wouldn’t.

“They said they loved me.”

Not any more. Now you are like me. Sol gave his chest a short preen. Hated, unloved, wretched. Shunned. Your Guardian has shunned you, Neema.

Neema got up, and poured herself a glass of whisky. “So,” she said. “You have a plan.”

Sol picked up the amethyst choker and strutted across the spoiled rug. Eight, not that again. Only this time, he walked up to Neema and dropped it at her feet. Try it on.

Neema picked it up and crossed to the mirror. Opening the fastening, she lifted it to her throat.

No. Sol flew up on to her shoulder, and tapped his beak against her temple. Here.

“It won’t fit.”

Sol waited for her to work it out. Examining the choker more carefully, she saw there were two more diamond-studded panels, concealed at the back. She slid them out and hooked them together. And a necklace became a crown.

She settled it over her temples.

Do you recognise it now, Neema?

“Yasthala. This was her crown.”

Her lips moved as she spoke the words, but in the mirror, her reflection smiled. The strands of purple and blue in her hair deepened and spread.

The Raven empress.

Neema tore it from her head. “That’s your plan?”

Sol was admiring himself in the mirror. If the Tiger warrior takes the throne, the Eight will Return and destroy the world. This the Dragon has foreseen. Ruko must be stopped. But he does not need to be killed, Neema. Win the throne, and you will break the prophecy. There will be no Return.

“You’re sure?”

Sol gave a slow blink. It is a magnificent plan.

So, he wasn’t sure. But what was the alternative? She wasn’t going to kill Ruko. That vision of him on the throne—he had looked insane. Possessed. Something terrible must have happened to him, to be laughing hysterically at the end of the world. She would like to spare them all that fate—Ruko included.

She fixed the crown into a choker again. “I like your plan—with one refinement. I don’t want the throne. We’re going to help Cain win.”

Sol’s beak opened wide in alarm.

“He’s not that bad. With the right counsellors…”

Sol’s beak opened even wider. Cain would be a bad emperor.

“Why?” A thought seized her. Cain’s ability to resist Yasila’s magic, and survive the Visitor’s poisoned food. “Does Cain have a fragment of the Fox in him?”

Sol blinked again, his translucent second eyelid sliding across his dark brown eye. A self-protecting measure. Cain does not have a fragment of the Fox in him.

Neema breathed out, relieved. “Good. So we have our plan. Help Cain beat Ruko, and save the world. Assuming Katsan doesn’t kill me this afternoon. Can you stop her doing that?”

I can advise you.

“That’s it?”

THAT’S IT?

“Sorry, I’m not being rude but—”

YOU ARE BEING VERY RUDE, NEEMA.

“It’s just that—”

NEVER HAVE I BEEN SO INSULTED.

“Sorry, but I was thinking of that moment when I was fighting Ruko and everything slowed down.”

Oh. That. Yes, I can help slow down your perception of time. But only a little bit. I am only one fragment.

“I understand.”

The best fragment, as you yourself pointed out.

“Right.”

But only one.

“Got it.”

Now please, let me in.

“Is that really necessary?”

Sol opened his beak and repeated the question, in Neema’s voice. “Is that really necessary?”

“Don’t do that,” she said. “It’s unsettling.”

Do you know what is also unsettling, Neema? Wandering around with an unusually large raven perched on your shoulder, for everyone to see. Shall we do that? Shall we take a turn about the island together? Do you think people will be pleased to see an unusually large, talking raven on your shoulder, heralding the end of the world? Do you think they will smile and wave? Or will they scream and faint and run away? What do you think, Neema? Which of those two options seems more likely?

“I didn’t scream.”

Sol pecked her in the head.

“Ow!”

He flew from her shoulder to the mirror, and glared down at her, furious. You didn’t scream, Neema Kraa, because I have been preparing you for my arrival for EIGHT MONTHS. Abandoned on your bookshelf. Stifling under your pillow. I told stories. I painted pictures. I came to you in dreams.

“Oh,” Neema said. “Right.” That did explain why she felt so comfortable talking to him. All those dreams, all those stories. They’d been deep in conversation ever since she picked him up in the tombs. “Fine. If it means saving the world, then fine. I let you in.”

Sol snapped open his wings and flew straight at Neema’s chest, legs thrust forward, knocking her on to her back. His claws raked deep into her chest, piercing her lungs. The pain was unspeakable. She tried to scream, but her mouth was full of blood. She choked and spat, drowning in it.

Sol was drowning too. Melting into an ooze of clotted ink and sodden feathers. He poured into her wounds with a terrible sucking sound, and seeped inside her chest.

As quickly as it had started, it was over.

Neema lay on her back, stunned. She could hear her breath, loud in her ears. And underneath that, something new. A scrabbling, a fluttering. She sat up, and looked down at herself. Her skin and clothes were intact, her chest unmarked. But she could feel Sol inside her chest, both there and not there—lifting and dropping, trying to get comfortable.

This is disgusting.

His voice sounded different. It reverberated inside her, making her bones hum.

Sol pecked and fussed, claws wrapped around the cage of her ribs. Metaphorical claws, metaphorical ribs. If Neema reached with her mind she could see him, both in her physical body and somewhere dreamed from her imagination. As if the interior of her chest was both as it was: bones, blood, muscle, lungs, heart… but also a room, a space. A nest. She could watch Sol settling in, almost as if he were an illustration from the book, because that was more comfortable than the reality; he had prepared her for this, too.

There and not there.

We ravens like to know every inch of our surroundings down to the last twig. Sol was taking an inventory of his new home, tapping and testing along each rib with his beak.

“Please stop doing that.”

Sol gave a final flap, then folded his wings.

“This is temporary,” Neema said. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

Don’t speak out loud, Neema, you will look insane.

Neema walked up and down thinking, But I am insane. I must be insane. What have I done?

She drank some more of the whisky.

Not too much, Neema. You will need your wits to win the Ox Trial.

She swallowed, felt the alcohol burn down her throat.

—I don’t want to win, Sol. We’re going to help Cain, remember?

A long pause. Grudgingly. Yes. I remember.