Raven's Strike (Raven #2)(45)

Seraph shook her head. "I'm going to see if I can persuade it to help me."

She heard Hennea get up, but only peripherally. Most of Seraph's attention was on what she intended to do. There was no room for doubt when she worked magic. Only utter confidence would make her magic do as she desired.

Something small and warm was tucked into her cold hand, the ring.

She'd chosen the Lark, because Healing seemed very close to what she was trying to do.

Seraph thought through the problem she faced and what she needed several times, curbing her panic and her impatience as best she could. She'd begun on a third time when something sharp pierced the skin on the hand that held the gem. She looked down, and the rust-colored Order that had surrounded the gem had formed itself into the shape of a large needle.

She thought very hard about how grateful she was as she slipped her yarn into the needle. She set the darning egg beneath the largest of the holes in the fabric of Tier's Order. She had no idea what would happen if she pierced flesh with her needle, and had no particular desire to find out.

Carefully taking the needle in her Order-gloved hands, she used her will more than her fingers to set the needle into Tier's Order, two fingerwidths from the edge of the tear.

Like a tightly knitted sweater, the threads of Bardic Order slid away from her needle without harm and the egg protected Tier from the sharp point. The ring, which she held loosely between two fingers, passed through Tier's Order as if neither were affected by the presence of the other. The needle, though, worked as well as she had hoped it might. Carefully, she pulled it back through the weaving of Tier's Order, stitching all around the hole to strengthen the edge before she began reweaving the fabric of Tier's Order with her magic.

Hours passed, but she was absorbed in her work, painstakingly knitting Tier's Order together again. The familiar task was absorbing, and she didn't realize how tired she was until Tier's voice penetrated her concentration.

"Seraph, listen to me."

"I'm not finished," she said stubbornly. There were still holes. Small holes that would turn into larger ones. She looked for her yarn, but she couldn't find any more.

"Hennea says you can do no more. Seraph, stop."

The needle faded away, until she held only a ring. Dazedly, she realized Tier was holding her wrists and shaking her.

"She's stopped," said Hennea, her voice little more than a hoarse mumble.

"I'll get them to their beds."

That was Lehr. What was he doing back already?

"Take Mother up," said Jes. "I'll get Hennea, then help you with Papa."

"I can get myself up," said Tier.

Tier. Seraph slid her hand in his loosened grip until she had a hold on his arm.

"Hennea," she said. "Can you look?" She was too tired to use any more magic.

"It's better," the other Raven replied. "It won't hold forever, but it should give us some time. I wouldn't have thought of using the Orders that way."

"You haven't darned many socks," replied Seraph. She wondered briefly what her weaving had looked like to Hennea, who saw light rather than fabric. But she couldn't hold on to the question long enough to ask it. Knowing Tier was better, even if just for now, let her collapse peacefully into the soft darkness of exhaustion.

Jes waited while Lehr picked up their mother and started up the ladder steps to his parents' loft. Then he extended his hand to his father, who got to his feet with a groan.

"Thanks, Jes," he said. "I was wondering how I was going to do that." He followed Lehr up the ladder steps, limping heavily.

Hennea was leaning against the stones of the fireplace - cool now, since there was no fire burning. Her eyes were closed, but he could tell she wasn't sleeping. Rinnie was, though. There hadn't been anything to keep her awake, just the heavy scent of magic that still hung thick in the air.

He left Hennea where she was and scooped up his little sister. As soon as he touched her, he could feel her dreams. She was flying in the night sky, with the land a dark presence far below her, dream-riding the storm winds in body as in reality she did with her mind.

<Some Cormorants can fly,> the Guardian told him, then abruptly withdrew.

Jes's hands curled protectively around Rinnie. It bothered him, this knowledge he should not have, that the Guardian should not have. How did he know Cormorants could fly when Rinnie was the only Cormorant they had ever known? But as much as it disturbed him, the Guardian was far more frightened by it. Jes couldn't think of anything else he'd ever encountered that had frightened the Guardian.

He carried Rinnie around the makeshift wall he and Lehr had built yesterday and laid her gently on her bed.

The unearned knowledge was part of the change that was happening, a change that frightened both the Guardian and him. Mother was worried about it, too. He'd always talked to the Guardian, soothing him, easing the constant rage the Guardian lived with. But it wasn't until they'd caged him with the foundrael that the Guardian had spoken back.

"She is too young to fly," Jes muttered softly. "We wouldn't be able to keep her safe."

The Guardian was silent, and Jes couldn't tell if he was listening, or if he'd closed himself off entirely. The latter was dangerous. When the Guardian emerged from such hibernations, he was gorged with anger, impossible to reason with.