“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.
“Around,” Daimon answered briefly; his brother looked skeptical.
“Not around here, you haven’t. Whoever it is, she’ll have to wait, or there
will be an empty chair with your name on it around the dais table at lunch and
hundreds of knights all asking the same question—”
“All right,” Daimon said, backing as he spoke. “All right.”
“Not to mention our father.”
“I’ll get changed.”
“You look—” Roarke hesitated, groping; the intense gaze under black, level
brows reminded Daimon forcibly of their father. “Like you’ve been seeing
visions. Like you’ve been in some other world.”
Wyvern’s eyes, Daimon thought, but without wonder: Roarke was the king’s
heir. “Well, I’m here now,” he said with regret. “I suppose I should thank
you.”
“Don’t bother,” Roarke answered cheerfully. “Just be there.”
—