Raven's Strike (Raven #2)(95)

He looked at Hennea again, though she wasn't looking at him at all. She was staring at her hands.

"The old wizard had help in his endeavor. He was not well liked, but, as I said, he was powerful, and there were many who feared him or sought his favor. One night, with four dozen lesser mages, he called the war god's power to his son. But the power of the war god is not held lightly - fifty mages died that night. Fifty mages and a god."

"Do you remember, Raven?" The Scholar leaned forward and touched Hennea lightly on the shoulder.

Seraph frowned, but there was nothing magical in the Scholar's touch, she would have felt it. Why did he think Hennea would remember any of this?

Hennea flinched away from his hand and came to her feet. "Thank you," she said in a distracted tone. "I'm going to take a walk."

The Scholar watched Hennea disappear down the stairs and continued to watch until the sound of the outer door shutting rang through the room.

"You are not just an illusion," said Seraph.

The Scholar looked at her, no smile upon his face at all. "A child was born that night. A little girl. Rage such as no child should have gave power to her voice, the rage of a murdered god, and the very walls shook with His power in a baby's cries. She was taken to the Lark's temple, where the Lark Herself sent her to sleep until something could be done."

Seraph sat back down, abandoning her half-formed intention to follow Hennea. "Guardian," she said.

The Scholar shook his head. "Almost, you understand. A god is immortal, we thought. They cannot die. But Ontil proved us wrong. Only the Stalker and the Weaver are immortal. And that part of them that made the Eagle a god survived his death, though it survived broken and torn, tainted by the wrath of a murdered god."

"In the child."

"Years passed." The Scholar gave Seraph the same intensity of attention he had given to Hennea. "Years in which it became obvious to the wizards that the god of destruction was awaking. Not just in Colossae, but all over the world we heard of mountains falling to the earth and oceans heaving themselves beyond their boundaries."

"Hinnum, the city's greatest wizard, went to the Raven for help - as he had all of his long life."

"He was four centuries old," Seraph said.

The illusion's eyes brightened with temper. "Four and a half. I - He knelt before Her statue in Her temple and pleaded for aid." Seraph realized it had not been temper alone that had brightened his eyes because a tear slid down his face. "She used to walk with him in the gardens here, because Hinnum was Her favorite. They would argue and bicker like children and when his third, most beloved, wife died, She held him through the night while he cried."

"She loved him," Seraph whispered.

"Like a son," he said. "Her love and Her Consort was the Eagle."

Seraph sucked in her breath, caught up in his story. "And wizards used the gifts She had given them to kill Him."

The Scholar nodded. "She blamed Herself, and She blamed us." He closed his eyes briefly. "She was so angry. While Hinnum prayed, he heard others enter, but until the Owl spoke he didn't realize who had come into the Raven's temple. It was the first time he'd seen any of the other gods."

He sat down beside Seraph, taking her hands in his own. "The Owl was... was like your husband. Even frightened as I was I could not help returning Her smile. She lifted me to my feet, and I saw the Others." He paused, and Seraph decided not to point out that he'd claimed to be Hinnum again. She would wait until he was finished with what he had to tell her. Hinnum, she thought, Hinnum would know how to save her husband and how to kill the Shadowed - and somehow this illusion was Hinnum.

"The Hunter was not a big man" - the Scholar was saying - "nor did He speak much, but when he was in the room, I was always aware of him, even in the presence of the other gods. The Cormorant looked just like the statue in His temple - they all did really - but the Cormorant looked as though a smile belonged on His face. He wasn't smiling, but I could see that was the expression he was most comfortable with. I didn't like the Lark. I don't know why. Maybe it was the way that She held the child who slept in Her arms, the child who bore the rage and power of the god of war - as if she were a stone or rock, not a child who suffered for other people's sins."

The Scholar pulled his hands away from Seraph's and covered his face. "The Owl called my Lady, and forced the Raven to come to Her Call. Ah, Raven who was, that I could have died before that day."

He sighed and let his hands fall limply to his sides. When he spoke again, he continued his story with more dispassion.

"When the Raven came, the Lark showed Her the sleeping child, and said, 'I am no more powerful than your consort was, Raven. In another month I shall not be able to hold His anger asleep in this child. And then his power will ravage this world, and nothing will be able to hold it in check.'

" 'This isn't about the child, or about the Eagle.' said the Cormorant. 'It is about the Weaver and the Stalker. The Eagle's death has weakened the binding that holds them. We must restore the balance.' "

The Scholar looked down at his lap. "Then the Weaver spoke. I don't know what he said because his voice overwhelmed me, and I fainted. When I came to myself, only Raven was there, sitting beside me and stroking my hair."