THREE

 

      

"We can only pray to God that you’re better warriors than seamen, when pirates fall upon us!" Lady Beatrice declared. She bore a close resemblance to her snub-nosed spaniel in a temper, pushing up her lower lip while her jowls quivered with disgust. "Happily the princess has chosen to dress like a miller’s wife—she, at least, may escape the notice of a pack of infidels who would relish nothing better than to abduct a Christian noblewoman such as myself!"

By this morning, five days beyond their last view of the Spanish shore, Elayne had long since discarded the elegant fur and stiff layers of clothing that swathed the countess. In the sweltering heat of the Middle Sea, she wore the simplest gray smock that she could uncover from her chests, with only a scarf thrown over her head and shoulders for modesty. 

The Hospitallers sweated in their black robes sewn with white crosses, tasseled rosaries clashing lightly against their swords with each roll of the waves. The crusading Knights of Saint John were celebrated as the greatest fighting sailors on the Middle Sea. A militant order they might be, but they were no match for Countess Beatrice. The knights stood just inside the stern castle, bearing the countess’s tirade with perspiring fortitude and a few scattered apologies. Elayne thought there was a little shame in the glance that passed between them. As well there might be, since this dawn had discovered the ship alone on the empty Middle Sea, with no sign of the convoy’s sails in sight.

Or it might have been amusement at the idea that any pirate could be unwise enough to abduct Lady Beatrice. Elayne gave them a sympathetic nod. She was in no haste to rejoin the convoy. If she could have an answer to her prayers, they would toss the compass overboard and miss her destination entirely.

 

* * *

 

There was a sail on the horizon.  Elayne looked up as the first loud cry sounded overhead. The sound of sailors’ feet thudded outside.

The deck tilted. Lady Beatrice screamed as the ship lumbered into a sharp turn, wallowing down with a force that threw them flat to the floorboards. Elayne lay stunned for a moment amid a pile of carpet and bedding as the cry of "Pirate!" ran through the ship.

The countess began shrieking orders. The spaniel yapped. Elayne scrambled over the heavy chaos of baggage, craning out the stern castle door. She could hear distant chanting across the waves, a low hollow sound that was terrifying in its regular deep timbre, as if fiends hooted their displeasure up from Hell.

A galley sped toward them, great oars flashing, throwing a white spew of foam before it. As it rose on a swell, the apex of a vicious bow-ram split the air and then ripped through the water again, throwing spray aside like a racing sea monster.  Aboard her own vessel, the crew and men-at-arms lined the sides of the ship, crossbows and spears at ready.

As if in a dream, she watched helplessly, the sound of the chants filling her ears as the pirates came at them.  She stared at the painted bowsprit above the ram, at the crossbows raised, at the ferocious bearded faces under infidel turbans—each instant seemed to unfold with a crystalline slowness; each second caught in suspension before the galley’s strike.

At one and the same moment, roars of command issued from above her on the stern castle and from the deck of the pirate galley. The oars on the galley swept upward as one unit, pointing toward the sky. 

Elayne broke from her trance. "Help me!" she screamed to Lady Beatrice. The old lady for once seemed to pay attention: she sprang with a startling energy to push one of their chests against the door. Elayne grabbed the other end as the spaniel scrambled aside. Together they hauled the heavy wood against the entry and gasped and heaved and flung the other baggage on top.

Elayne sat against it, her back to the muffled sounds outside.  She’d braced for a horrible impact, a great sound, but it seemed that somehow the galley hadn’t struck their ship.  The two of them huddled down behind the barricade, waiting in the suffocating heat. Even the spaniel was quiet, panting from its hole under the sleeping berth. 

She could hear the infidels’ urgent shouts, and a renewed roar of command from directly above them. Splashes and thumps and incomprehensible cries followed.  

Lady Beatrice reached out and took her hand. The countess’s fingers were trembling, but she gave Elayne a hard squeeze. In her other hand, she held up a tiny dagger, one of the pretty jeweled toys that court ladies wore on their girdles. With a grim look, the old lady made a thrust in the air, as if plunging the knife into an attacker, and then pressed it into Elayne’s hand. "Don’t tell them who you are, girl," she whispered harshly.

Elayne accepted the dagger soberly. Crossing herself, she sent a prayer to her enigmatic guardian angel, begging that he not desert her now.

The ship shuddered, a deep thump as the other vessel came alongside. Elayne and Lady Beatrice stared at one another. 

Then, unmistakably, Elayne heard a voice shout, "Pax!"

She could not make out the exchange that followed, only that they all now sounded quite calm. Even convivial. Elayne began to breathe again.

"Madam?" One of the knights finally addressed them in a loud voice, to the sounds of shoving and pressing upon the door. "Madam, we’re in no danger, God be praised."

Lady Beatrice did not answer. But she took care, with Elayne’s aid, that she was standing proudly, leaning upon her cane with her chin up and her wimple in good order, as if nothing had disturbed her. The Hospitaller pushed past their barricade without much effort, glancing down at the chests and bags. He looked up. "Ladies, you are unharmed?"

"Who is this varlet?" Lady Beatrice demanded, staring with a stern distaste at the richly dressed stranger waiting behind their escorts. 

"Captain Juan de Amposta, madam. He brings news." The knight bowed solemnly. "He respectfully wishes to make known to madam that the Moorish pirates in the Middle Sea have become abundant and incorrigible."

The captain moved into the cabin and went to his knee with a lavish greeting. "Forgive my impudence, that I wish to serve a lady of your grace and gentleness! I’m here to offer you armed and Christian escort, if it please you."

"I have armed and Christian escort," the countess said, flicking her hand disdainfully toward the knight. "Such as it may be."

"My lady, it’s my galley that I offer, to shepherd these slow-sailing craft. She’s swift and well-equipped, to prevent a corsair from boarding you." 

"You must be more fearsome than our fine brethren of Saint John, then," she snapped, glaring at the Hospitaller. The knight narrowed his eyes slightly, but made no reply.

"Madam, your pardon," Amposta said courteously. "It’s impossible to defend a round ship such as this from galleys. Your commander tells me that you’ve lost your convoy. It’s by God’s grace that we came upon you when we did, or—" He glanced toward Elayne, then shook his head. "I don’t like to think of the consequence."

"And what is your proposal, Captain?" Lady Beatrice asked peremptorily.

"I offer protection, my lady. We can accompany your ship into safe waters, unless we discover your convoy again." 

"Fortune indeed, that you came upon us!" Lady Beatrice said. "After these fellows from Rhodes have made such a ruin of the thing."

The captain smiled and glanced at the dour Hospitaller. "God bless them. We are fast friends of the Holy Order of Saint John."

The knight inclined his head, but did not return the tribute. He seemed to have little to say—Elayne feared that the weeks of humiliation by the countess and now disgrace over their navigational blunder had rendered the knight-brethren somewhat disenchanted with their service.

Amposta lowered his voice. "I wouldn’t propose such an invitation to any common wool monger, madam, but if my lady and her maid should wish to sail aboard my vessel, as a part of the pact, I make you free of her, and with honor. The accommodation is…" He shrugged and smiled. "Perhaps it would be a degree more to Your Ladyship’s taste."

"Countess!" the Hospitaller said sharply. "I cannot advise it."

Elayne might have thought that the Knights of Saint John would have learned something in their dealings with Lady Beatrice by now—the moment he stated a conviction, her decision to do the opposite was a foregone conclusion.

"An admirable proposal, Captain," the countess said, thumping her cane on the deck. "See to the removal of our baggage."

The Hospitaller’s mouth twitched once. He bowed deeply and stepped back, giving way to the captain. It was possible, Elayne thought then, that he had learned something of Lady Beatrice after all.

 

* * *

 

A number of uneasy prospects passed through Elayne’s mind as they went aboard Captain Amposta’s galley. She had heard of seraglios and slaves, and this captain had a dark Saracen look about him, even if he wore a Christian cross at his throat. The galley was so swift that it could circle the sailing ship as it lumbered along like a greyhound could range about a plodding ox.  But Amposta made no attempt to seize or disturb their rich cargo.

No one mentioned Elayne’s rank or destination to these strangers—an omission that suggested the countess might not be entirely convinced of Amposta’s good offices. Elayne was perfectly content to be regarded as a simple handmaid. The oars pulled with such steady vigor that she could even walk about on deck while the galley cut smartly through waves that had tossed and rolled the sailing ship.  

"Is that the coast?" she asked on their third day aboard, pointing to a faint smudge of grayish-white on the blue skyline.

"You have excellent eyesight!" the captain said approvingly. "No, not yet. That’s the isle of Il Corvo, the Raven. A beautiful place, and well-protected. Inform your mistress—if Her Ladyship the countess wishes to rest there for a day, we will put in and refresh our water."

The thought of standing upon dry land, even for only a day, was blessed. Elayne hurried to inform the countess.

 

* * *

 

"God’s toes, why should I toil any further up this cliff to honor some foreign rubbish!" Lady Beatrice exclaimed. She leaned upon her cane, breathing heavily, and glared about the empty tower room. They had come to be presented to the lord of Il Corvo, climbing a steep narrow stair, escorted by Captain Amposta in the lead and an armed guard behind. "Let him wait upon me. Come, girl!"

The captain reached out and caught her arm as she turned. "I think not, madam."

"You wretched devil!" Lady Beatrice hissed, jerking away. "Unhand me! Are you possessed by the Fiend Himself?"

His lively demeanor had changed. "You may find that you fancy the Fiend better than my master."

The countess ignored him, limping with quick conviction toward the tower door. When the guard moved his pike, barring the stairs, Lady Beatrice shoved her cane into his belly-plate. "Stand aside!" she declared, her voice ringing off the rough walls.

Elayne stood silently, watching. The understanding slowly bore in upon her that they were made prisoners.

"Remove the weapon, varlet," Lady Beatrice ordered, flipping her famous reed cane under the man’s helmeted chin, pushing his head up and back. Elayne well knew that murderous tone of voice: it had reduced dukes and archbishops to quailing pageboys.

But the guard stood his ground. He merely looked over his nose at the captain, who laughed and shook his head.

Lady Beatrice’s translucent skin flushed with rage. She whirled about quickly, belying her fragile figure. She was three hands-breadth smaller than Amposta, and had not a single means to enforce her command, but her lip curled and her back arched as she spat, "You insolent harlot!" Her cane sliced the air, a supple snap of her wrist. The captain had not the reflexes of Lady Beatrice’s servants, or perchance he hadn’t thought she would dare—his hand came up too late and the blow caught him smartly on the ear, a resounding smack that sent him recoiling, his shoulder colliding with the stone wall as he bent over himself.

The captain straightened, sucking air between his teeth. For an instant, Elayne thought he would leap at Lady Beatrice like a wild animal. 

But a calm voice came unexpectedly, a shock in the small tower room. "I give you pleasant welcome to Il Corvo, madam."

Elayne saw the captain’s face change—beneath the vivid red mark across his cheek, his skin drained stark white.

She turned about. There had been only the four of them present. Now, though the guard beside the door had never moved, there was a fifth. 

He stood tall and still, watching them—arriving from nowhere, as if he had created himself out of the ether. Jet-dyed folds of silk fell from his shoulders. Beneath the dark cloak he wore silver, a tunic fitted perfectly to his body. His hair was black; the color of fathomless night, tied back at the nape of his neck. He was like a statue of pure metal—inhuman—elegant and fantastic. Elayne wasn’t even certain for a moment if he were real or a marble figure come to sudden life, but dark as sin, as gorgeous and corrupt as Lucifer himself.

For he was corrupt—and the master of this place—no one need bow to make that evident, although both the captain and the guard fell to their knees with haste. Elayne dipped into a reverence, keeping her head lowered, though she watched him from under her lashes. She could not tear her eyes away. Even Lady Beatrice leaned upon her cane and made a brief courtesy.

He smiled. "My lady, you must not bow to me. I don’t require it." Though his words were deferential, though he smiled, it seemed less a courtesy than a mandate. "You’ve been served ill, I fear, to be asked to climb so far. My regrets. You may beat the man senseless if you like."

"And who might you be?" Lady Beatrice demanded—with considerable audacity, Elayne thought.

"Alas, I have no noble titles, my lady. They call me only Raven, after the name of this island—Il Corvo."

He might have no title, but he carried himself as if he were a prince. His cloak sighed and stirred like something living, light woven into black.

"Humph," Lady Beatrice said. "A graceless cur, I think. I’m the Countess of Ludford, on Christian pilgrimage, fellow!"

He studied her, and then his glance drifted to Elayne. She wanted very badly to lower her face, but it was as if a viper had her for its mark, his black eyes glittering with that subtle smile. She did not dare to look away.

"Perhaps you’ll muster the patience to enjoy my home and table, my lady Countess," he said, still watching Elayne. "My port-master tells me that your ship is in need of some repair—I hardly think it safe for you to venture forth in a leaking vessel."

"Trumpery!" Lady Beatrice exclaimed. "Don’t suppose I’m any such fool as sails into your harbor every day! That ship is sound enough. We shan’t impose upon your idea of hospitality a day longer."

"I believe you will," he said softly. He wore no ring or jewelry, but on the shimmering black robe there was a strange emblem embroidered in silver, not a coat of arms, but some entwined letters or symbols, like an astrological sign. "But Your Ladyship will like us better after I have Amposta here tossed onto the rocks below."

The captain made a dreadful sound, as if a protest had been choked to a gurgle in his throat. The man called the Raven looked toward him. Elayne could see Amposta freeze under that faint smile just as she had.

"A poor jest," the Raven said. "Forgive my impudent humor."

The captain grinned, baring his teeth, the red mark on his cheek burning.

 

* * *

 

"So we are hostage," Lady Beatrice snarled, pounding her cane on the tiled floor. "Sold like sheep! Those treacherous bastards of Saint John sold us!"

Elayne sat down on a bench at the foot of the bed, saying nothing. The spell of the Raven’s presence still seemed to hover about her, strange and somehow familiar at once. Besides, the countess wouldn’t like to be reminded that it was she herself who had chosen to go aboard the captain’s galley.

The chamber was richly furnished, covered with eastern rugs and silken hangings, lit by enameled oil lamps that burned without smoke. But the arrow-slit windows looked out on a moonlit sea lying so far below that Elayne could not even see the shoreline. The tower wall and cliff beneath were invisible to her, as if the room floated high above the water by sorcery.

A servant had come, a Moorish girl who seemed to speak no language that Elayne knew, but only brought a tray and then vanished silently. Elayne served Lady Beatrice, who never ceased railing against the Knights-Hospitallers as she ate. But the countess grew weary at length, and willing to lie down on the feather mattress. Elayne drew the bed hangings and heard the countess snoring before she had even shielded the lamps.

This Raven was a pirate, of course. They were his prisoners, had walked open-eyed and guileless into an elegant snare. She could not seem to quite apprehend it. She licked at the syrup on a fig and took a very small bite. Eating was still a burden to her. On Lady Melanthe’s strict injunction, she took enough to keep herself from wasting, but had no enjoyment in it. She lifted a section of orange, and then ate it. Her fingers grew sticky. She dipped them in the little bowl of water on the tray. 

When she looked up from drying them, Elayne started so that she upset the water as she came to her feet. "Sir!" she murmured, staring at the dark lord of the place as he stood in shadow not two yards length from her.

"My lady," he said, bowing.

"I did not hear—" She glanced toward the planked door, which she herself had barred from within. The heavy rail was still in place. She blinked nervously. "How came you here?"

"Talent," he said. "And study." He moved near, standing over her. Elayne stiffened as he touched her. He took her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to him. She suffered his leisurely inspection, having no choice. He lost none of his inhuman perfection at closer range. His face was still that graven image of proud Lucifer, fallen from Heaven, his eyes deep black and wickedly beautiful.

"I know you," he said pensively. "Who are you?"

She lowered her eyes. "Elena," she said simply, using the name of her Italian christening, which had long ago transformed on English tongues to Elayne.

She hoped it would sound common and unremarkable in this part of the world, the name of a girl who had no ransom value to anyone. But his hand fell away as if she had just uttered some dreadful iniquity. He leaned closer, searching her face.

"Who sent you?" he demanded.

Elayne swallowed. She shook her head slightly. She was afraid—and yet she felt remote, as if she were not really in this chamber, but safe somewhere, watching from afar.

He took her chin hard between his fingers. "Who?" He smiled with an affection that seemed warm and terrible at once. She stared at him. Though she had no intention of speaking, she felt the answer hover on her tongue, as if his smile alone could compel her.

"Tell me now," he said gently. "You must tell me."

"Lady Beatrice," she whispered, clamping her lips closed against saying more.

His black eyebrows lifted. "No, tell me who sent you. Who put you in her service?"

"The countess," Elayne mumbled. "I serve the countess."

"The Countess of Bowland?" he asked kindly, his voice very quiet. "Melanthe?"

Elayne’s eyes widened. But he seemed now not so threatening, more human. "The countess," she murmured. To gaze up at him made her dizzy. "She said..." Elayne tried to remember, but her brain felt drugged and slow. All the voices of the past months seemed to clamor together in her head, a tumble of instruction and warning. "She said...she told me...trust no one."

She felt his hand tighten on her chin. He drew in air with a soft hiss. "Did she?"

"I don’t know," Elayne said in confusion. She put her hand on the bedpost. "I’m not sure."

He smiled, like the Devil speaking from the shadows. "Then trust me," he murmured, or Elayne thought he did. She could not seem to see him clearly. He faded, or the light faded, or the shadows crept into her eyes. 

 

* * *

 

She was roused from deep heavy sleep by a candle in her eyes and a sharp hand on her shoulder. Elayne rolled over, her heart jolting, disoriented by the sudden awakening.

"Il Corvo summons you," a young woman’s voice said. Blinking, Elayne stared at the hooded figure but caught no glimpse of her face, for the candle shone bright enough to blind.

"My garments," Elayne said hoarsely, with a wild fear that she would be brought before the pirate wearing nothing, exhibited and sold as a naked slave.

"Wear this," the girl said. Her voice was unfriendly. She held up a robe of deep royal blue trimmed in gold. Elayne pulled it over her smock. Countess Beatrice snored on in unheeding slumber.

"A comb—" Elayne said tentatively, trying to tie up the garters with shaking fingers.

"Hurry. It’s no matter. He will prefer it so."

Elayne took a deep breath. The Countess of Bowland, he had said, as if he knew all about her godmother. She had not told him of Lady Melanthe. But she had some apprehensive notion that indeed she had, only she could not remember when or how.

He was a pirate. He would be striving to obtain the highest ransom for Lady Beatrice. He would want to know if Elayne had any value. Possibly he intended to force her to write a begging letter for her release, full of dread and pleading.

She didn’t want to be held prisoner.  But she wasn’t, in truth, in any hurry to resume her journey to Monteverde and her marriage. Elayne felt be-spelled: suspended between the earth and the sky in this rich carpeted room that seemed to hover like the gulls in the sapphire haze.  She said nothing more to the girl, only followed her cloaked guide through long passages and up endless stairs until they came to an arched door standing open on blackness.

"Go through," her escort said. "He awaits you."

Elayne stepped through the door. With a soft boom, it shut behind her, leaving her in darkness. 

She felt that she was looking outside before her eyes were certain of it. Slowly they lost the bedazzlement of the candle. She could see that the door opened onto a platform, a wide terrace surrounded by white columns, unroofed beneath the night sky. The floor was tiled in white, scored by dark lines that spread out from her feet as if beckoning her to walk forward.

It was silent. But above the pounding of her heart she could just make out the sound of the waves at the base of the sea cliffs, a resounding echo at the edge of hearing.

She crossed herself. As she stepped out onto the terrace, the whole sky opened above her, set off by the wheel of columns, thick with countless stars. She stood transfixed by the heavens, looking up. Never had she seen so many stars, as if the sky were not black but a living brilliance, a sparkling sheet of icy fire. They looked near enough that she might put out her hand and pluck one, and yet unfathomably distant.

The place seemed an incarnation of starlight. She turned in a slow circle. The stars swung above her, cold and stately. When she stopped, she distinguished the outline of a man against the column before her. It did not alarm her—she was too amazed. She stood still, gazing toward him as the starlight poured down on the pale pavement between them.

He walked forward, his cloak reflecting silvery highlights. 

"What is this place?" she asked, her voice almost lost in the stupendous silence.

"My observatory," the Raven said. "You’re standing upon it." 

She looked down at the intersections of lines scored across the floor, marked at intervals by numbers and symbols.

"You’re an astrologer?" she asked.

"I trifle," he said. "I could cast your horoscope with fair accuracy, I daresay."

"Pray do not," Elayne said. She did not want to give him any further power over her than he had already.

His soft laugh echoed from the columns. "As you wish." He tilted his head a little to one side, looking down at her with dark eyes. "Afraid? I had not thought you so orthodox."

"I am faithful in Christ," Elayne said guardedly.

"Come, admit it," he said. "You’re a heathen."

"No, I am not."

"A pagan. I shall have no qualms about selling you to the Saracens."

"They won’t thank you for it," she said, ignoring the chill that touched her.

"You’re mistaken there, my lady. A virgin female bred to courtly manners, young and fair of skin, with your extraordinary eyes—worth five thousand French crowns, I venture."

The breath left her chest. She stood very still, trying desperately to calculate. She had no idea what a French crown might be worth, but five thousand of them sounded a ransom for a prince. Or a princess. "If this be a ruse to make me afraid, I only wish it might be successful. I’m only maidservant to the Countess of Ludford."

"What choice have I, then? As a sparing merchant, sweating over my reckonings."

She said nothing, her meager defense already exhausted.

"Perhaps you would like your fate cast after all." 

"As it lies in your hands," she said stiffly, "little wonder if you can foretell it."

He seemed amused at that. Or perhaps he was merely calculating his profit when he sold her to the Saracens. There was no way to read his face but as an exquisite work of art, a mystery like the enigmatic angels carved above an altarpiece.

"Come," he said abruptly. "I’ll show you more."

She followed him as he turned away, all thought of sleep vanished now. She felt as wakeful as she had ever been in her life.  

He paused before a pair of columns.  Elayne realized she was looking through a door. A faint illumination rose up, carrying with it a strange scent, acrid but not unpleasant, as if flowers or herbs were burning.. The bluish glow provided just enough light to see the stairs sinking out of sight. He turned to her, bidding her enter.

She wasn’t at all pleased to be descending this staircase. "Sir, I prefer not to go down."

"You’re afraid?" He seemed surprised.

"God’s mercy, yes!"

"It’s the way to my library."

She shook her head, taking a step backward.  "Tell me what you do there."

"I conjure the Devil as a black goat," he said, with an impatient sweep of his hand. "He arrives in a great cloud of hail and brimstone, and does whatever I bid him. Don’t you wish to watch?"

She drew a quick breath and crossed herself. "You’re too bold to make such a jest."

"No," he said softly. "Be certain that I know the Devil too well to summon him. I’ve lived by his hand and under his rule, and no power he could grant is worth that cost."

She gazed at him, wide-eyed. "You made a pact with—" She could not even summon the nerve to say it.

"I made no pact!" he said abruptly. "That’s done with. It was a human devil I spoke of merely. This is what I do in my library, my lady: I read. I study. I’m no foolhardy mage, who imagines he can command Hell itself. I’ve not the disposition of a priest, that I grant. I’m no meek sheep in the holy flock. It’s the natural powers in the world I would divine. Come and I’ll show you, if you will. If you won’t, then go back to your snug bed and your prayers."

He turned sharply, his cloak sweeping wide, and strode to the top of the stair. He ducked into it and went down two steps, then paused for an instant, looking back at her. The faint blue illuminated his cheek and jaw, the frowning wing of his black eyebrow.

If he had tried to force her; if he had threatened or tempted, she would not have gone. He was a pirate. And a wizard, it now came clear—a real one.

"Do you think I shouldn’t be afraid of you?" she asked suddenly. "It seems to me that I’d be a fool if I were not."

He stared back at her for a long time. She couldn’t see the expression on his face, only the shadowy planes of it. "Yes," he said. "You would."

"Very well," she said. "I am afraid. But I will come down."

He stood straight and still. The blue light outlined his figure in the stairwell, the black sweep of his shoulders and cloak. "Come, then," he said quietly. "Put your hand upon my shoulder. I’ll go before you, my lady, for your safety on the stairs." 

 

* * *

 

The strange sapphire illumination in his library came from flasks of glass set about the room, gleaming like bog-fire. Elayne had hunted happily beside springs and moats as a child, chasing frogs and salamanders in pure defiance of Cara’s disgusted admonitions, but that had been long ago.  She drew in a sharp breath as she made out the skins of snakes dangling from a rafter. Still, those were mere snakes.

"For mercy!" she gasped, gripping his shoulder as she halted on the last stair. Against the far wall, a stone furnace glowed red with burning charcoal, lighting the white underbelly of a monstrous lizard, longer than two men, that hung suspended overhead by iron chains. Its tail was thick and scaly, and its huge mouth opened on fangs such as Elayne had imagined only in her nightmares.

"It’s a crocodile," he said.

Eleanor stared at the hideous beast. It lay stiffly in its chains, dead and dry, the clawed feet dangling and the great mouth propped open by a stake, but still it was fearsome.

"A small water-dragon, of Egypt," he said. "As you see, it has no wings."

"Did you slay it?"

He laughed. "Not I. I leave that work to noble knights. I merely paid a large heap of gold to obtain it, my lady."

"Why?" she asked in amazement.

"I find such things useful, from time to time," he said.

Elayne realized she was gripping his shoulder. She let go, but the glossy feel of his cloak seemed to cling to her hand. She brushed her palms together.

"I’ve read of them in a book of beasts," she said.

"Is it so?" He turned to her. "I haven’t met before a maiden who reads of beasts."

"Nor have I met anyone who collects them as serviceable goods!"

"You read much, madam?"

"Yes, I read the Latin, Tuscan and French, and English, too." The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted the pride that had engendered them. It was hardly the education of a simple maid.

He made no comment upon it, though she didn’t hope that he took no notice. "Sit down," he said, indicating a round table at the center of the room. 

She looked about at the vials and flasks and bizarre vessels that lined the room. There were scrolls laid neatly in racks; mortars and pestles of all sizes, the skulls of unknown creatures. She felt a curiosity dawning that was the equal of her fear. He was a magician. He had mastered what she had only attempted to learn. "What’s in them?" she asked. "The scrolls."

"You would like to see?" He nodded, as if she satisfied him. "Then sit down."

Elayne wet her lips. She sat and watched him bring a beautifully carved and polished box to the table. He lifted out a stack of cards and spread them. They were all painted with figures, men and women like something from a moral tale, carrying suns and moons and scythes. Each was named and numbered in Latin: The Beggar, The Artisan, The Emperor; Grammar, Music, Logic, Poetry.

"These are the Triunfi," he said. "The emblems of the Taroc."

She had heard of the Taroc. Libushe had mentioned it, but Elayne had never seen the cards. He turned their blank sides upward and stacked and cut them apart, then stacked them again. The rare odor of myrrh filled her nose. His hands moved with simple grace, as if he had done it many times. His silver sleeve gleamed like light sliding up and down a sword blade as he moved.

He set the deck before Elayne. His dark, beautiful eyes rested upon her. "Take off some cards, and keep them with you."

"Why?" she asked. "Is this a spell?"

"We are philosophers. It is purely contemplation and study." 

"Study of what?" 

"Of you."

She stared at him warily across the table. "I don’t think you’ll find that there is a great deal of me to contemplate."

"So it may be. Gentle young ladies often lead dull lives, and have characters to match."

"As you say," she murmured, dipping her head briefly.

He grinned, a dark flash of humor. "Take up the cards, madam," he said.

 

* * *

 

She had expected it to be more interesting, but she grew weary of breaking the stack and handing him one card after the other from the top, over and over, while he placed them in a pattern on the table. Her neck and shoulders ached. Night and lack of sleep began to overcome her vigilance.

If the Raven were fatigued, he gave no sign of it, but seemed to be deep in thoughtful meditation as he examined each card, placed it, and then studied the evolving spread. Finally she came to the last two cards in the stack before her.

"Take the one from the bottom," he said.

Elayne offered it to him. He turned it up and laid it down facing her, in the center of the figure.

"The Knight," he said. "From the first decade, the stations of humanity. I don’t think you’re a humble maidservant, my lady Elena. Your birth is much higher than you tell me. But you need not look so alarmed." He leaned on his elbow lazily. "The degree of your nobility is not what I wished to discern."

She had grown wide awake in an instant. The elegantly dressed Knight posed before her mockingly.

"Here—" He spread apart two cards that lay at the lowest part of the wheel. "Your establishment interests me more. The Duke and the muse Clio, the giver of fame. But you see...here at her feet, this herb. It’s only the poor gith flower."

"Oh," she said.

"But perhaps you know it by another name. I’ve heard it called melanthy, too." He smiled at her, and suddenly Elayne saw her danger.

"Is it?" she asked stupidly.

"Yes. Does it not grow near Bowland Castle?"

She blinked. "I know not. I’ve never been there."

"But you’re in the household of my Lady Melanthe, the Countess of Bowland."

He spoke with simple assurance. Elayne answered nothing. She thought that someone must have told Amposta, but she kept a careful silence. There were any number of minor handmaids in the household of Lady Melanthe.

"You see, a little study of the details reveals much," he said.  "Here in the ninth house, we can see more—in your childhood you made a great journey out of danger…recovery from a morbid illness?" He tilted his head, turning over another card and considering. "No, I think not. The Emperor in the sixth position. Your health has always been superb."

He glanced up at her, as if to confirm this. She could not deny it; she had never been seriously ill. Even the measles had treated her lightly.

"A journey in truth it was," he said. "Over land and water. A vital cusp. Everything in your life changed at that turning. I don’t think you would have lived long if you hadn’t traveled so young." He frowned at the cards before him. "From the south to the north. Was it winter? Was there snow? And a fortification—a castle—a woman with child."

Elayne stared at him. He could not know of her childhood journey from Monteverde to England; Lady Beatrice could have told him nothing of that. Elayne recalled it only dimly herself. But in her mind, even as he spoke the words, a memory stood clear, of arriving at Savernake in a snowfall, of Cara’s bulky form, nearly to term with little Maria, of being swept up into a joyous welcome.

"You called out," he said. He rested his forefinger on a female figure, a singer holding a double flute. He smiled a little, as if remembering it himself. "A horse foundered in the drifts. You made a ball of snow and threw it."

She sat frozen, stilled by the strange precision with which he described her own memory. She could see the horse struggling, the empty, snowy road that led away from Savernake Castle. "How know you these things?" she whispered.

"Some I read on the cards," he said. "Some seem to be—given to me. But look now, the last card. That represents your future. Turn it up."

Hesitantly she lifted the card, holding it so that she alone could see its face. It was exquisitely painted like all the rest, but here the artist had traded the bright colors and landscapes for a darker hue. On a background of midnight blue, the winged figure glowed: an angel arrayed in robes of sable black and silver, resplendent against a sky of infinite stars. Elayne felt her breath fail her.

It was her own dark angel. Beautiful and powerful, radiant with mystery, a perfect rendering upon the artist’s card. And as she lifted her eyes, she saw the same face alive before her, watching her, in the person of a nameless pirate.

She sprang up, sweeping the card away and knocking over her chair. "It is a trick! It’s some artifice with the cards!" She stood breathing quickly, angrily. "He can’t be you."

The Raven never took his eyes from her face. He tilted his head a little, as if he too were doubtful. "Do you remember me, Lady Elena?"

"No—remember you? Have we met?" She shook her head helplessly. "I don’t understand this! It’s not—I don’t mean—not in life! Remember you from where?"

He smiled. "It’s merely a card, as you say. I only wonder why it disturbs you so."

"It is not merely a card, as you well know!" she cried. "It is you! And he can’t be you. I don’t know how you’ve discovered this, or made it come about, but he is not you."

He lifted his eyebrows. "You confuse me greatly, Lady Elena, I concede. The card is me, and I’m not him? Who is ’he’?"

She set her jaw and reached to pick up the card, slapping it face-up on the table. "I’m quite sure this is some prank you play with your victims, as it must be known to you that this card is a perfect rendering of your person."

His mouth quirked, as if he were subduing a smile. "I confess, you’re correct in that point."

She hesitated, taken aback by this easy admission.

"It’s a little game. I delight in games. It’s a pursuit of mine to observe the human character. Your response has been the most interesting of all so far. Tell me, who is this ’he’ that I cannot be?"

"No one," she said, truthfully enough. "It’s naught but a resemblance to a...a statue I used to gaze on during mass." 

"Of a saint?" 

"Um, an angel," she said.

"Ah, that would account for it," he said placidly. "I’ve oft been told I resemble an angel."

Elayne blinked at him. He did not appear like any angel she had ever seen, except her own.

"I expect it’s my cherubic expression," he said, and gave her a smile so wicked that her throat shrank.

"You are very frightening," Elayne breathed.

"I mean to be," he said. He riffled through the cards and spread them in a fan upon the table. "And yet...you do know me."

"No." She shook her head, twice. "I don’t know you."

"I’m in no mood to harm your lovely face, Elena," he said. "None at all." His lip curled slightly.  "It’s your good fortune that you remind me more of Melanthe than of your sister."

Elayne felt herself frozen. She answered nothing.

"Ah, the house of Monteverde. Do they either of them suppose that I would forget those night-flower eyes? Your half-sister’s are only brown, but you have that infernal Monteverde tint of blue and purple in yours. Foolish of Melanthe, to be so careless. But better for you in the end, as I don’t hold the timid Madame Cara’s visage very dear."

If he had only spoken names, or even of faces, she might not have believed he could be speaking true. But when he called her sister timid, Elayne knew that he must have some close and vivid knowledge of her. "You’ve met my sister?" she asked faintly.

He made a short nod. "Yes," he said, "and hated her as she despised me."

Elayne stared at him. She could not even imagine her fainthearted sister in the same room with this man, far less that they knew one another enough to have hatred between them.

He turned his full gaze on her again. "Either you dissemble well, or your education in your family heritage has been sadly neglected, Princess Elena Rosafina di Monteverde. I am of Navona, and you have no greater enemies on earth."

She stiffened in her chair. "No," she whispered. "That’s all gone now. Lady Melanthe told me!"

"Oh, did she!" He laughed. "And how did she convince you of this fantasy?"

"She only said—there were once three families, Monteverde, Riata, and Navona—but I need not study deeply on Navona, for they are finished."

"Finished! And that is all? I’m stung."

"I’m sorry," Elayne said, ducking her head. "But in truth she made no mention of a pirate."

"Pirate!" he exclaimed languidly. "What a low opinion you’ve formed of me, my lady, on such small acquaintance." He picked up the angel card and glanced at it. "Finished," he said, tossing it down. His beautiful face became a devil’s mask as he narrowed his eyes. "Indeed."

"Perhaps she only meant—that we aren’t enemies anymore. I have no hate for you myself."

His dark eyebrows lifted. He looked at her as if she must be lying, and he would kill her for it. Elayne tried to hold his gaze.

"How should I?" she asked earnestly. "I don’t know who you are."

Somewhere very far away, at the outermost edge of hearing, a trumpet called three notes. It called again, and was gone, dreamlike in the silence.

After a moment he lifted the angel card again between two fingers, turning it to examine the shadowy figure. A faint curve appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Alas, it may be I’ll keep you with me longer than you find convenient. Should you object?"

Elayne looked away uneasily. "I don’t comprehend you."

"Oh, you will, my lady Elena," he said. He pushed himself to his feet, standing over her. He did not touch her, and yet as he looked down, his eyes seemed to move over her face with the depth of a caress.  He laughed suddenly. "Franco Pietro, eh? What a tragedy that would be! Wait here until I return." 

Elayne rose in alarm.  "Wait here?  Alone?"

But he had already gone, the stairs barely whispering an echo of his footsteps.

 

* * *

 

Elayne was giddy from lack of sleep. At first she sat rigid in the chair, looking at the cards spread across the table. She did not dare let herself drowse. But as time passed, she blinked in the eerie light of the blue spheres, her head swaying. She woke with a jolt from a half-dream of the crocodile swimming down toward her from the ceiling.

She took several deep breaths, shaking her head vigorously. To keep herself waking, she stood up and wandered about the library, staring at snakeskins and strange devices, contrivances of metal and glass, furnaces of stone with chimneys protruding from all sides.

"Take care," the Raven said behind her. "Not everything here is benign."

Elayne snatched her hand away from a sealed jar she’d been about to tap—it seemed to contain a live toad. The animal stared at her phlegmatically, perhaps alive, perhaps stuffed; not divulging any secrets.

He stood at the base of the stairs, his dark cloak hanging back over one shoulder.  She had not heard him descend, or any sound of his return.

"So inquisitive!" He shook his head.

She turned back to the table, made heedless by the weary spinning in her brain. "You asked me to await you," she said. "What am I to do?"

He lifted his eyebrows. "Sit quietly?"

"I’ve never excelled at sitting quietly. My sister has often said so."

"Ah, your sister," he said. Nothing more than that, but Elayne felt as if somehow another presence had entered the room.

He gazed at her steadily, with such a dark reserve that she felt blood rise in her cheeks. "Well, I will sit down," she said. She pulled out the chair and sat again, folding her hands in her lap.

"The picture of feminine obedience," he said. "Did you learn that of your sister?"

"Yes," she said, pursing her lips.

"Good. I wouldn’t like to think you’d wasted much of your life in that coy pose."

"Alack, you are difficult to please!" she said, goaded into boldness.

He startled her once more with his sudden flash of a smile. "Why, I only wish for you to please yourself—you’re by far the more interesting that way."

"Hmmm," Elayne said, taking a deep breath to try to clear her brain.  "How do you come and go in such silence?

"I’ll teach you, sweeting."

"Teach me?" she replied carefully, taken aback by the endearment.

He came near and brushed his hand over her cheek and hair, lightly, without touching it. "I shall teach you all manner of things," he said. 

Elayne held herself stiff, but a thought of Raymond flitted through her mind—he seemed a simple knight indeed in comparison to this pirate. Elayne did not doubt for a moment that the Raven could teach her all manner of things—the kinds of things she had never been allowed to learn under Cara’s strictures. Her spirit rose fiercely at the thought, bounding like a hawk from the glove.  She could not keep her eyes from him as he laid a leather satchel onto the table, untying the straps and drawing out the contents—scrolls and two small strongboxes—with slow care. 

He sat down across from her again, unrolling a parchment and bending over it as if she were no longer there.

She had thought Raymond handsome. But the Raven was something beyond handsome. Beyond gallant manners and teasing glances. He was like the old, old stories, like the unknown man who waited on a darkened hill, the mist around him, hand outstretched...

In the stories, if a woman went to him...she did not return.

But she wanted to go...

She wanted...

Elayne shook herself awake again, tapping her fingers against her lap, opening her eyes over and over as they tried to fall shut. She knew she must have some occupation or fall asleep. "What are these?" she asked, pointing to the things from the satchel.

"Trifles.  A few messages.  Pirate business," he said dryly.

Elayne gazed about the room, desperate for some spur to keep her awake. "May I open that box?" she asked.

He looked up at her. "You have not changed an atom, you know," he said.

"What do you mean?" she asked, stiffening.

"You’ve always been so. A mobile spirit. Curious and inquiring."

"What do you know of me?"

"I read your cards," he said, dismissing her question. "Let me open the box, then, Pandora—to be safe."

He drew one of the boxes toward him, took a knife as slender as a reed from his belt, and unpicked the ornate lock with the skill of a seasoned thief. The lid sprang open suddenly, making her jump.

"No demons," he said, glancing over the top at her. "Some pretty things." He pushed the box across the table toward her. "You may have them if you like."

She touched the box gingerly, peering inside. It was filled with a jumble of golden brooches and buckles. Jewels winked and sparkled in the lamplight, tiny rainbows caught in the black depths of the box. "Benedicite!" she breathed, suddenly waking. She drew forth a breast pin shimmering with the red fire of rubies. "You don’t mean to give me this!"

"I’m sure it will become you," he said, without looking up. "If it will only keep you still for a quarter hour, I shall be delighted." He reached for a flagon of wine from a sideboard, pouring into a pair of silver goblets.

She took a deep sip from the offered cup, trying to rouse herself. She toyed with the sparkling breast pin. The twisting, teasing smoke of memory rose and twirled like a spent candle’s smolder in her mind, that sense that she had seen something, or said something before, without remembering when or where.

She was losing the battle with sleep. Her eyes drooped. She drank more of the tart wine, in an effort to keep herself vigilant, but toads and soaring falcons drifted and spun in her brain. Things won’t always happen as you expect, Lady Melanthe said, as outlandish notions and stratagems formed in a reverie, dreams of escape and nightmares of wandering. He had discovered who Elayne was. He was her enemy; he might try to ransom her to Monteverde, to Franco Pietro. But he said he would teach her and called her tender names. It seemed that Lady Beatrice was railing at her for her incompetence. Use your wits, girl! Use your wits!

Elayne came upright with a little jerk of her head. "Where is Lady Beatrice?" she mumbled.

"Asleep," the Raven said, and Elayne realized where she was again.

She blinked at him and rubbed her hand across her eyes. He sat back in his chair, stretching out his leg, watching her.

Opportunities will come, Lady Melanthe had said. Use your nerve.

"Sir," she said, struggling through her lethargy. "You’re a pirate."

He shrugged. "Perhaps I am, if you insist." 

"Hence—people pay you ransom to go free." 

His black eyes glittered. "They do. Unless I cast them off a cliff."

Her brain felt as unsteady as a ship’s deck, tilting and spinning with exhaustion. It seemed madness, that he said such things.

"Do you think I’m a murderer?" he asked.

"I don’t know what you are," she said impulsively. "I don’t know!"

"But you’re sure that I’m dangerous."

She frowned at him. It was impossible to decipher whether he was in jest or in truth. She squeezed her palms together. "My lord, I have a proposal for you."

He waited, steepling his hands and looking at her over the tips of his fingers.

"Sir—could I pay you to keep me here?"

For a long moment he said nothing. Then he tilted back his head and began to laugh.

"It’s not so absurd!" she said thickly. "I have nothing of my own, I confess, but you could write to the Duke of Lancaster—he’s been appointed my guardian by—by—" Her weary brain could hardly find the name. "King Richard. Of England." She took a deep breath to clear her brain. "And I believe that you’d find him eager to pay a goodly sum for my release. You could have all of that, but keep me here instead."

"Now, there is an admirable design!" he said. "I believe you have a pirate’s heart. But what if the duke refuses to pay?"

"Then—" She hesitated. "I believe—you seemed to know of Franco Pietro of the Riata..."

"Indeed! I should write to Franco Pietro, and say the duke did not see fit to ransom you, so will he kindly defray a proper sum to obtain his contracted bride?"

"But don’t send me to him, after you receive it," she prompted.

"Of course not! Why not write to both of them at once? I could ransom you twofold and still sell you to the Saracens. An excellent plan."

"No, I mean for you to keep me here."

"And what am I going to do with you here?" He tilted his head. "You would be awkwardly in the way when Lancaster and the Riata send their fleets to obliterate me."

"I doubt they would send fleets. Fleets? Not over me."

He nodded. "Avaunt, let us take that chance, then. No doubt I’ll sink them if they come. But still I don’t know what to do with you, if you can’t be sold," he said mildly. He filled her drinking cup again. "Do you wish to become my concubine?"

"No!" she said with a furious blush. Heat rose up through her body, awakening her. She avoided his eyes. "I don’t mean that at all!"

"There’s no choice, then. I’d have to toss you from the cliffs."

She set her jaw and took a quick swallow of the wine. "Never mind. I don’t speak in jest, though you laugh. You said you might keep me here longer than I like, but in truth, you can’t delay me long enough for my taste."

He traced the letters on one of the scrolls. "You don’t wish to marry the Riata?"

She drew a deep breath and took another generous swallow of the wine. "No. I abhor the idea."

"We’re in wondrous accord, then, my lady." He looked up at her as he ran his fingertip over the parchment. "I had no intention of allowing it to happen."

There was nothing visible to betray it, but Elayne felt as if some faint lightning rushed between them, like a storm far off.

The Raven stood, his tunic gleaming in the blue light. The water-dragon seemed to sway slowly overhead.

"Navona is not finished," he said in a voice that caressed the words. "Not yet while I breathe." He leaned on the table, his black cloak flowing down over his hands. Nothing he had discovered among his pirate treasures had elicited a look like the one he gave her now. "You may have your desire to linger with me, my lady Elena, but I need no payment from the duke. I demand another ransom, sweeting. I require you for my wife."