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The Queen of Ravens
BOOK ONE
THE GREAT GAME
Prologue
Dear reader. I bid you the warmest of greetings from your humble servant, Atia Ravenclaw.
I feel it is my duty to forewarn you that some events retold in these pages will be disturbing for some, for I have not gussied up the truth, and left it raw and unsweetened in most cases. This may be uncomfortable for some readers and indeed play upon their own experiences. If you are one of these people, my sincere apologies, sympathy, and love... and I can only hope that one day you receive help in finding some peace with them. And truly, I am not without sympathy, for I too have suffered abuse of many kinds.
But if you are of the persuasion that feels offense at things for no other reason than to make a fuss, then these books are not for you, and I might suggest books on flower arranging or pottery rather than uncensored Naxian history.
Much has been written about the last years of the great empires of Naxia and Shăr, but little of it truly contains a deep account of the actual events that led to a brief unification of The Middle Kingdoms and the eventual end of dynastic rule some hundred and fifty years later. Indeed, it is of my opinion that what information still exists is little more than half-truths and misunderstandings of what really occurred.
Why “The House of the Raven” rose and fell so quickly, or indeed the infamous Ema Oshelila along with a dozen of the most influential nobles vanished without a trace, is wildly inaccurate and a pure fabrication in most cases. My goal is to dispel the half-truths, push back the veil of myth around these events, and bring to light the lives of my sisters, friends, and parents.
Contrary to the learned men of this age, the Ellin were no myth, and to the zealously religious, I regret to inform you that Ilisa and her sister were not gods. That my father and his brother, while great men, were men with many flaws, and my sister Isa and her dear friend Zirana were no less flawed for all the great works they would eventually do. Indeed, it is true that the spider of Shăr and Zirana d’Mengian are the same person, and not two different mythical beings as the bards would later retell. That Elia Raven-hair and N’tanya Fine-hair were not the same person at all, but two influential leaders in their own right, now all muddled up with each other.
It feels truly strange for one who lived through these events to argue with those who did not, but I can hardly blame you all for it. They happened nearly a thousand years before I finally finished these accounts, and the wheels of time and industry ground on forever, changing the world I once knew, even if I did not change with it.
So, in these pages, you will find my accounting of the events that led to the fall of “The House of the Raven” and the end of the old empires. Through my diaries, those of my sisters, and conversations with what little of our family remained, I have worked tirelessly to recount those events.
There are many myths, half-truths, and indeed outright lies surrounding my father and his brother’s lives, and also that of my mother. For, in point of fact, I had two, and Ema was not my birth mother as some would later retell. Here, within these pages, I seek to dispel those lies.
My adopted mother was not as ruthless as the bards would later tell you, and my father was not as infallible as the old songs and stories would have you think. Indeed, it is hard to extract the myth from either, and no less so from my esteemed sisters.
Few can imagine the life of a court girl or woman now, especially when placed against this so-called enlightened age. It was not one of ease, even if it was one of privilege when compared to the common people of the time. The life was rigid, and often cruel, and so it follows that the women it produced were all too often much the same.
“We do what we must” was as much our maxim as it was an excuse for our actions in the great game of house. So we struggled, we fought, and we destroyed lives. In the end, even our own, for power, wealth, and the thrones of the great cities. Even now I shudder at the suffering it brought, for in the end, none of it actually mattered, and we all faded into myth and legend as much as we broke the empire.
“We were all so blessed and cursed,” as M’sharlla, the now mythical Queen of Naxia, once told me; “tragic houses built by broken men and ambitious women.” So now, when I look back at those days and push our lofty goals aside, I am often faced with the harsh reality that all we brought was suffering, and sometimes suffering is just suffering. It doesn’t strengthen you, and it doesn’t build character…. it simply hurts.
Yours faithfully
Princess Atia d’Oshelila Ravenclaw, Countess of Iralia...
So, our story can be told.
“But Atia, if I knew then what I know now,
I would have rejoiced in my fear, revealed in our struggle,
and succored the pain… my sister once told me.
I disagreed.
I told her, if I had know what was to come, I would have simply run away.”
~ The Diary of Princess Atia d’Oshelila Ravenclaw, Countess of Iralia.
Chapter One
Brothers of the Raven
How loud can a drop of water be? Gar thought, flicking an irritated glance back up the alley. Like most of the rundown buildings in the poor quarter near the river’s edge, the guttering along Gar’s chosen alley needed some serious repair. Although he could not truly complain now that the persistent rain from an hour earlier had melted into a dense, soupy mist, providing him with the cover he so desired.
But that drip! Growled Gar, working to ignore its incessant patter and wiping his face to clear the moisture condensing on his skin. The constant tapping on cobbles and rotting barrels worked to strain his hearing and mask the sleepy murmur of the city beyond his chosen alley. Not that many would be out this time of night, but there was work to do, and his guild fee was begging due again.
What else can I do? Rhard will have my skin this time if I don’t cough up. But a little murder and a touch of robbery will see that put to rest. Not that Gar actually enjoyed killing. The fact is, I don’t really mind it either. Honestly, it just makes robbing a little more convenient, he mused, straining at the night sounds filtering through the haze.
Grab them from behind, a quick slip of the knife from ear to ear, keeping a hand over their mouth until they stop kicking, of course. And then? Well, plenty of time to pick through their pockets, and who needs to leave a witness to run to the Night’s Watch? Besides, a man’s got to earn a living somehow.
It was a callous thought, really, but Gar was a simple man in his opinion. Well, a simple man with a knife and a gambling problem. But what are morals to the likes of me? It is not like I can eat them.
So tonight, he lurked among the barrels and refuse at an alley entrance. Which one in the twisted maze of streets by the docks, he was not sure. But it stank of piss, dead things, and rotting cabbage.
Why do they always smell of cabbage? He thought absently, his mind drifting through simple boredom. It was not a question he had an answer to, but it did not really matter; they all did, and besides, it masked his own fragrance. Pressed against the slippery, rain-wet wall, hidden by the gloom, he was just another indistinct shape in the misty dark. It was the perfect hiding spot, really, now that a dense mist drifted in off the river Sil to soften the edges, dampen the sound, and lengthen the shadows. Honestly, the night could not have been more perfect for a robbery. Yet, it had provided little chance to earn his living, he lamented, adjusting his rope belt. His stomach was empty and growling, which went a long way to explain his less than usual caution as the hours stretched on with little chance to ply his trade.
Close to giving up, and hoping to beg a little change in the morning while avoiding Rhard’s fee collectors, he took a sharp breath at the telltale click of boots on worn cobbles.
They were close… far closer than they should have been before Gar marked them, he thought, disgusted at his loss of attention, having almost missed them in his musings and the mist-muffled night. Sighing in relief, he focused the best he could as little butterflies of fear swarmed in his head and belly.
Or is that just hunger? Gar thought his instincts balanced between flight and fight. But it did not really matter if it gave him caution. It paid to be careful regardless of the hunger, for Shăr at night was a dangerous place after all.
Hands pressed against the slick, wet wall, knife at the ready, he crouched, poised on the balls of his feet, muscles tensing and relaxing, eager to get the job done and out of the damp. Straining against the milky lamp-lit street, he saw little at first aside from a dark shadow, until a man of above-average height materialized from the mist. His face was unremarkable except for a scar that ran from just under his right eye to his lower jaw. A heavy, hooded, gray woolen cloak worn to beat back the winter damp, covered long black hair framing ice-blue eyes that held an air of danger about the man as he moved with that fluid grace only hard-fighting men displayed.
Good, I need a new cloak, Gar chuckled, missing the warning signs. Gripping his knife, he counted his heartbeats as the man walked past before he lunged for his latest victim. And that is where it all went terribly wrong. Gar felt a very sharp sensation in his gut before he hit the ground with an explosion of air. Panicked thoughts swarmed in his head, as the last thing he would ever see arrived in the shape of a very long knife slammed into his throat and up into his brain, with a crunch and a wet smack.
***
Tugging his dagger free, the man stepped back and quickly glanced around the street for more assailants. Upon seeing no immediate danger, he cursed at the mist-shrouded night.
“Shăr, what a shithole,” Kallus muttered and shook his head, catching the stench of the dingy alley. Crouching with a sigh of disgust, he cleaned the blood from his dagger on the thief’s cooling corpse.
“Poor fool, you were probably expecting a drunken sailor or a merchant, not a war-hardened veteran,” Kallus whispered, giving the rag-clad cutpurse a crooked smile and tossing a small copper coin onto the former thief’s chest. “Ormü owns you all,” he whispered, resuming his journey toward the river.
It was not long before Kallus stood outside a tavern, warm light spilling onto the foggy street through cloudy windows. Above the door hung a crude sign of a woman leaning on a keg, tankard in hand. The drunken wench, it read. But it was nothing remarkable and just one of a dozen or more run-down taverns and alehouses along the wharf district, with equally predictable names and equally awful wine or ale. It was filled, for what it was worth, with local fishermen playing dice and sailors on shore leave, or waiting for a new ship. Pipe smoke drifted heavy in the room, much like the river mist outside, and the air tasted like the inside of a moldy boot. At the bar, a short, bald, piggy-eyed fellow sporting an apron that at one time may have been white, occupied himself with cleaning a none-too clean mug with a cloth in no better condition than his apron. The man eyed Kallus as he entered the common room, looking all too much like a hermit crab that had lost its shell.
“I only got ale, ain’t got no wine; it be two coppers, it’s young, and no food at this hour. Drink it or not, you pay or be gone,” the man barked in that predictable dockside pathos, common to all wharf-side taverns and bars. Frowning back, Kallus kept a hard-eyed stare on the tavern keeper until the man began looking rather nervous.
“I would have expected a tavern to serve wine, but ale it is then,” Kallus retorted, breaking the tension with a smile that never quite touched his eyes and radiated all the warmth of a winter river. Chuckling at the startled look on the tavern keeper’s face, he found a seat in the back corner, where he could watch the tavern door and as many of the occupants as possible. Noting a familiar sharp faced hooded fellow near the fire smoking a pipe, Kallus twitched a smile in recognition, then frowned as the tavern keeper dumped an earthen mug containing a suspicious, oily liquid on the table. Raising a questioning eyebrow at the crude approximation of ale, Kallus bestowed the tavern keeper with another icy look. Sniffing at the murky mess slowly coming to rest in the dirty mug, he tossed two coppers on the greasy table, which the man scooped up and scuttled off with.
Ignoring the ale, he simply observed the patrons for a time in the dingy space, before the common room door opened to reveal a slim form in a heavy hooded cloak. Two much larger men, not doing a particularly good job at hiding the fact they were armed to the teeth, followed the hooded stranger into the tavern. Shoving a drunken patron out of the way, they plowed a path through the tables for their slender charge. Both had the typical light olive skin common to the inhabitants of the southern lands of Nin’De and Shao, if the plain curved swords and slave brands did not reveal their origins.
Chăñ slave soldiers? Kallus noted with a grunt, eyeing the pair. Impressive to look at, and a truly expensive purchase to make at the south gate market, but they were mostly ornamental and generally not very bright. However, his client had the coin, it would seem. Scanning the common room, the trio pushed their way through the tables of drunken and dice-playing patrons toward him.
“You are known as Kallus Ravenclaw?” Asked a soft, melodious voice edged with just the smallest hint of a southern Shărrian accent. “My master has a task for you,” the soft voice of a girl behind the hood said as she took a seat, revealing a hint of a gold band around her delicate right wrist when she placed her slender hands on the table.
A female house slave, and an expensive one no doubt… so the client is a cast noble, Kallus mused. Typical, the Shăr aristocrats would never demean themselves to come to a place like this, nor in fact risk it.
“What sort of task?” Kallus asked in a level voice, studying the two guards who simply ignored him. The slave gave him a half smile, obviously noting his appraisal of her two Chăñ men. They would be there as much for her protection as for stopping her from running away.
“My master asks that you obtain certain items, is all, and the compensation will be more than adequate, I am told,” the girl said crisply, earning little more than a raised eyebrow from Kallus.
No, not a girl. You are young, but no girl, Kallus thought, appraising the slender thing hidden under the hood.
“Hey you three!” shouted the landlord, his voice rousing a few of his sleepy patrons from their half-slumber. “We got only ale at this hour. There be no wine, no food, and ye be paying or ye be gone. I’ll have no lechers staying in here to get out of the fog!” he growled, slapping his rag on the scarred and worn bar top. Flicking a hostile glance at the piggy-eyed fellow, the young woman whispered something to one of her guards, who shrugged and tossed a small coin bag to the landlord. The man’s eyes widened when he looked inside, and with a startled look, quickly followed by a surprised smile, he scuttled off to fetch mugs, all the while clutching the tiny bag tightly.
“Back to business?” the young slave said, flashing Kallus a thin smile, clearly dismissing the landlord’s existence. Kallus could not help but smile back. The woman was calm, confident, and utterly sure she would be obeyed without question.
No, not your typical slave girl at all, are you? He thought, catching a glimpse of raven-black hair. She would fetch an astonishingly high price at market, which narrowed the list of potential clients down considerably. The slave was certainly young. Her face half hidden inside the hood, delicate and beautiful. But the blue of her eyes held a hard, yet haunted edge. They had seen much, it would seem, in her short years, he noted, letting the silence draw out a little longer before he answered the slave. It paid to be careful in Shăr, because you could get tangled in some very nasty webs dealing with caste nobles if you were unwary.
“Burglary, is it?” Kallus sighed and shook his head, clearly not all that interested. “If we like the conditions, then we will obtain the items your master seeks, but I have a few, as I said, conditions that must be met first.” The slave girl eyed him as the landlord scuttled up with three mugs, and just as quickly scuttled away. The hooded woman simply ignored the oily ale, her eyes fixed on Kallus, expression devoid of all emotion. He had seen this before with other slaves. It was not unlike the skills applied by noblewomen who played the great game of houses. Yet with slaves, they learned to bury their emotions for simple survival.
“Conditions were expected from one such as yourself. The guild stressed you would be careful, and very discreet,” she answered flatly, before tossing a wax-sealed slip of parchment over the table to Kallus. “You will be at that address the first hour after the middle day tomorrow, and we shall discuss the conditions... in more?” She paused and smiled. It was cold and never touched her eyes. “Ah... pleasant surroundings,” she continued, waving a slender hand at the oily ale with a look of distaste. The action was the only genuine emotion Kallus saw from the woman before she gave a sharp nod and left the table, leaving her two guards in comical unison to sniff their ale, grimace, and leave the mugs to follow their charge.
Leaning back against his chair, Kallus sighed as he watched the lithe beauty leave the tavern. Something about her face tickled his memory, but that was of little importance as his mind focused on the guild job. There were many slaves in the Western Empire, and dark hair and blue eyes were not uncommon among them.
But still you have a familiar look, he mused, then shoved it away as the recognition tickled at his sense of caution. There were other, more pressing matters than an indentured noble girl as pretty as she was.
Another noble feud...? Kallus thought. But it did not really matter. The caste elite played their games, and if you were careful, you profited from those games. The problem here was obvious, and his brother would be blunt in pointing it out. This would be no simple burglary, for if it were, the guild would have just passed it off to the thieves.
Guild? Bah, don’t make me sick. You are little more than a disparate gang of thieves, frauds, and protection racketeers. But they had a code, and by the by, the shady underworld stuck to it or got their throats slit. Each city had one, with the possible exception of Oshelila in the east, but that was immaterial, Kallus mused. If you wanted to work, then you followed their code and paid your dues.
“Gods, Kallus, could this look any more like a setup?” A sharp-faced man with long black hair loosely tied with a simple leather strip sighed as he sat at Kallus’s table. Promptly picking up a mug, he gulped its oily contents, then thumped the mug down and settled an unhappy look on Kallus.
“Wexian, how can you drink that cat piss?” Kallus grimaced, an amused smile cracking his stony features.
“Well,” Wexian retorted, “I open my mouth and swallow. You can’t taste it until you stop and don’t change the bloody subject. This looks like a setup to me,” snarled Wexian. Gracing him with a chuckle, Kallus sniffed his own mug and put it back down.
“You, old friend, are a brave man,” Kallus shuddered, pushing the mug aside. “But to answer your question, I don’t like it either,” Kallus continued. “Meeting here in a wharf-side tavern? Not the best place to keep a secret, but maybe a second meeting in this case makes more sense? The message from Rhard said that the client was a little paranoid.” Grunting at the question, Wexian shot Kallus a flat look, then shrugged.
“Maybe?” Wexian replied noncommittally, grabbing another mug. “Look, Rhard gave us nothing to go on Kall, and add to the fact it is us and not some foot-pad being called up, has me nervous,” Wexian sniffed placing the second mug on the table, and reaching for the third. “Looks like caste nobles if that slave girl and her designer guards are any measure of it.” Frowning at the oily liquid, Wexian placed the mug back down and pointed a finger at Kallus, clearly irritated. “Which means we ask for double the money because you know damn well if it is cast nobles, then it means more than double the problems we have to deal with, brother. I am as sick of escorting wagons and merchants as you are, but this job stinks worse than this city,” Wexian hissed, all mirth gone as he tapped the slip of paper. “So, are you going to open that?” Kallus eyed the parchment before picking it up to crack the plain red wax seal. Scanning its contents, his eyes widened just slightly when he read the address.
“Pleasant surroundings indeed,” Kallus scoffed, tossing it to Wexian, who curled his lip when he read it.
“If that is who I think it is, ask for triple, and up front, Kall. The Duke of Shăr is an insufferable prick, and less trustworthy than a cut-purse,” Wexian groaned. “Either way, you want me to follow them, I gather?” There was no question of it, really; Wexian would do exactly that, and Kallus could count on it.
“Follow them for sure, and get as much information as you can before dawn,” replied Kallus. Sniffing at the message and its sparse contents, Wexian tossed it onto the table.
“Rhard is not trustworthy, Kall; we both know that. But he would be cutting his own throat if he double-crossed us, and the rest of the guild would flay him alive if we did not slit his throat first. As it is, my network here in Shăr is small brother, but I will dig up what I can before dawn,” Wexian sighed, inclining his head at Kallus, who made a disgusted sound at the comment, and rolled his eyes to the grimy, smoke-stained tavern roof.
“True, but you know the game. Ema will have some contacts here if you really get stuck,” Kallus replied, screwing the message into a ball and tossing it into his ale mug. Snorting at the name, Wexian shook his head, dismissing it.
“Some..? That woman will have half the city on her payroll, but no, I would avoid Ema. She will demand conditions upon conditions, and then some if I do. Best we avoid that,” Wexian replied flatly and stood, his all too ready smile returning as he left. “See you in a few hours, Kall.”
Watching his brother leave, Kallus gave him a wry smile. Wexian was not a man anyone sane would want to waylay on a night like this, but he was right about Ema, and neither wanted to get tangled in her webs again.
I love you as a sister and more, Em’laya, but neither of us trusts you, Kallus mused, thinking of the raven-haired beauty. He had known Ema as a rag-clothed child and loved her from the day she staggered into his adopted father’s camp… but Wexian?
The man was his constant companion, and brother in all but name. In Wexian’s own words, he was the best thief Kallus knew, aside from their sister Katla. Handy with a knife, the sharp-faced man could creep up on a cat. But most of all, Wexian was one of only a handful of men Kallus trusted, even if he was a thief and a cutthroat. They might as well have been brothers; hell, they could be for all they knew. Growing up in a Naxian slum, it did not really matter; only the strong and nimble survived to be adults. And besides, most street urchins were the sons and daughters of nameless whores anyway. None of it really mattered, Kallus thought, chuckling to himself as the memory of their childhood stealing and picking pockets to survive came flooding back. They had a job beyond guarding merchants’ wagons, and that was all that counted.
“I am getting far too old for this. Why do we keep doing it? We don’t need to,” Kallus muttered as he got up to leave. “Time to return home to Little Oshelila and mother after this. We have both been away far too long,” whispered Kallus and snorted at the thought. They would both be bored in a month and on the road again if they did that.
The landlord tracked him with piggy eyes as Kallus started for the exit, and the less chewy air of the dockside road. Lifting an eyebrow the man’s sullen look, Kallus just shook his head and tossed a silver coin at him as he passed the bar.
“Put it back in your vats, man! That ale is still fermenting, and on your life, do not serve that swill to the guild. They would likely hang you from your own door sign before the Night’s Watch gets a chance.” Outside, the mist swirled in clumps as a light dusting of snow worked to replace it. I never did like this city, Wexian; and the nobles here least of all, Kallus sniffed, slipping into the mist beyond the milky light of the tavern’s windows.
