Kingfisher(31)

“Who is ‘we’?”

“Oh, people I know. I hope you like it. Look!” she exclaimed with delight, and he turned his head into a splash of gold. He blinked, saw the water flowing from beneath the meadow, pooling in the grass, carving its bed as it grew stronger, more defined, feeling its way into the world. “Calluna,” he heard Vivien say, then the city came back, rising rigidly around him; the rill of water faded into hot streets smelling of asphalt and exhaust. He stopped, then realized he had stopped. He was taking quick, sharp breaths, trying to catch the scent of the spring again, the wet earth. He felt water on his face, sweat, or maybe tears from the searing glance of the sun.

“Where are we?” His voice shook. “Where were we?”

“Don’t worry.” She kissed away the tear under his eye. “It’s not far now.”

They turned at a street corner, and the city vanished.

A cobbled street ran silently between a huddle of cottages built of stone and thatch. At the end of the street, a small bridge arched gracefully across a reedy, lily-filled brook. Beyond the bridge, a castle rose, its towers tall and slender, its walls pale as the open lilies massed around it as the brook turned to embrace the castle. It was a beautiful, colorful affair, its turrets and corner towers painted blue and green, rose vines climbing its inner walls, long pennants streaming everywhere. A pair of wild swans flew down, settled into the moat, glided serenely among the lilies. Like a fairy tale castle, he thought. And then the words took on power and life, and he closed his eyes, feeling as though he had stepped off the edge of the world and had no idea how far he would fall.

“We’re in your photograph,” he heard himself say.

“Well, not exactly,” Vivien answered, and he remembered the ruins of that lovely castle, its towers broken, its bridge drawn up tight, closed. “That is now,” she explained, or thought she did. “This is then.”

He dragged his eyes open, found some comfort, even in free fall, at the sight of her smile.

“Where are we?”

“In Ravensley. Inside its memories. In Ravenhold.”

“Ravenhold.”

“One of the earliest realms in this land. Far older than Wyvernhold.” She regarded him steadily, willing him to see out of her eyes, know what she was not saying.

“And not on any map,” he breathed.

“How do you map a memory? A dream? We have never had much use for maps. It was the Wyvernbourne who drew lines around things, who declared boundaries. Air has no borders, nor does light. Nor should water though it does.”

“How did you—how did you bring me here?”

“I didn’t. You found your way. Those memories are your heritage.”

He felt himself grow cold, seeing too much, seeing himself. “I am Wyvernbourne.”

“You are the raven’s child.”

“I am—”

“You are both.” She took his hand, even though his bones had turned to ice. “Come with me. I want to show you one more memory.”

He heard traffic again, groaning and thundering as they moved. Thunder thinned to wind, roiling noisily, busily around them. She drew him down the road, over the bridge, into the meadowlands around the castle. In the midst of the green, a single tree branched high and full against the sky. Half-hidden in green, ravens or the shadows of ravens watched them among the leaves.

Vivien stopped just beyond the tree’s shadow, as though it formed some kind of windblown, constantly shifting boundary. On the ground within the shadow, an enormous, lovely vessel shed light from within itself, as well as from its bronze-and-gold surface, every inch of it etched with patterns. The cauldron bubbled and steamed, though it rested on grass, not fire; its fires were invisible. A woman stirred it. She spoke to it; she sang; small birds flitted around her head, commenting cheerfully in liquid splashes of sound.

The woman raised her head, saw the pair at the boundary between light and shadow. She was barefoot under her long skirt; her sleeveless vest revealed the muscles in her arms, strong from wielding the great paddle. Her face was plain, friendly; her eyes, like Vivien’s, were extraordinary. She said something and laughed. She gave the great pot one more swirl, then raised the wood out of the mix. She held it out to them, sliding it beyond the boundary just a little, just enough, so that the bowl at the end of the long handle was filled with dark and light, sun and shadow, day and night.

Her face changed, grew beautiful. Her hair turned from tree-bark brown to palest gold; the fantastic colors in her eyes misted into smoky, opaque gray. She looked at Daimon out of those eyes, and he saw himself in her.

He felt his heart fly into birds, all trying to burst out of him at once. He heard his own voice, an incoherent warble. Then he stood on the noisy street corner again, cold with shock, while, at his side, Vivien took his hand, blew on his chilled fingers.

He stayed with her that night, not trusting himself to find his way back to anything he knew.

Finally, the world caught up with him, in the form of his oldest half sibling, Roarke, who waylaid him the next morning when he returned to the palace to change his clothes.

“Where have you been?” he asked, then surveyed Daimon’s clothes. “You’re attending the formal lunch to welcome the knights in less than an hour; you should be in uniform. Where have you been?” he repeated, more slowly, his eyes, like the queen’s, as green as a mermaid’s scales, taking in more than what they saw.