The Omens of a Crow [COMPLETE] (Watty 2018 Award-Winner)

Chapter 12

She awaited him on the south road, cloaked against the chill and guilt of the night, perched sidesaddle on a mottled gray. She was alone.

"There are still many of Lord Went's men-at-arms about, m'lady," Krow said.

Kastanie Selbourne looked at him with cool eyes, and he was reminded of his impression from their first meeting. A woman forged of iron. That, at least, hadn't been an act. An act for him. Bait for the trap. This was the real Lady Selbourne.

"The head has been removed," she replied. "Rawlings is dead; the others will not recover. They'll report back to their master, and the game will begin again."

Krow did not reply, for it was futile.

"Leaving without your payment?" She held up a pouch in a delicate hand.

"I have no use for blood money."

She was most amused by this. "Oh? It will replenish your precious healing supplies less efficiently than other coin? You could be condemning your next patients to death for your stubbornness." Her laughter was long, just as beautiful as when he'd first heard it. Like the ringing of silver bells. Or a siren's call. "Fear not. It is nothing more than the wages you negotiated. You cared for the plague victims, did you not? You've done your job, so you may accept your reward without tarnishing your honor. I'd not dare to pay the Blackblade for death dealing."

He caught the pouch when she flung it at him and fixed her with a stare. "I've never beheld charity so soiled."

Her sneer was pronounced even in the dim light. "I've a legacy to uphold, Krow, and I'll not explain myself. You cannot understand the responsibility on my shoulders."

"That is certain, m'lady."

"You must leave now," she said. "Ride, Krow. Ride far beyond the borders of Brython, and swiftly. I do not wish to see you hung from a gibbet."

"If my neck is stretched, I will have you to thank for it."

She did not deny the accusation. "Many have died tonight, five of whom were in the service of noble houses, and, by extension, in the service of the crown. There must be a reckoning for that, I'm afraid. That it must be you brings me no pleasure."

"Just as Jory's death brought you none?"

Her lips twitched, but she only inclined her head. "Just so."

There was an oily taste in his mouth. "What would you have done if I had fled?"

Lady Selbourne did not answer for a long time. "Rawlings talked it seems."

"Aye. Just before he died."

She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "I – or, more specifically, Jory, upon my order – planted the idea in the peasants' minds that extermination was the only way to rid themselves of the plague. Their paranoia and hatred of you did the rest. All I had to do was fan the flames. You see, I knew from our first meeting that you would never embroil yourself in the immoral squabbles of the nobility, but you were also the last chance to save my house. If I could but threaten that which you felt forced to protect, you would rid me of my assailants."

He spat into the dirt. "If it was Rawlings's job to unseat you, why would he go along with a design you had planned?"

"Rawlings was far from the typical moronic sellsword, as you know," she said. "It was the perfect opportunity for him to accomplish his task without leaving any loose ends – and he recognized that – even if he also knew it was my attempt to salvage the situation."

"So he joined in with the riot," Krow finished for her, "to use it as a cover for removing you from power." He spat again. "But you did not answer my question. What would you have done if I'd ridden away?"

"I'd have been raped repeatedly before being killed," she said, as if talking of nothing more than a morning stroll. "Rawlings would have used the riot to disguise my death, which could be blamed on the rampaging peasantry. In reality, he'd have taken me in the confusion, allowed his men to have their way for a time – they need more payment, after all, than the paltry sum that trickles down from Lord Went – and buried me somewhere in the forest." Krow shook his head. "It was a dangerous gamble, yes," she said in answer to the motion, "but one which I found acceptable. Besides," she allowed that small smile to creep across her lovely features, "I was confident you would brook no threat to your patients." The smile grew more pronounced, poisonous as a viper. "As for assurance of your skills...I attended a tourney in Lumiere ten years ago where my late husband was defeated in the melee – along with all other comers – by a young man with blood-red hair. Nothing more than a squire among the Order of the Silver Tear. He was announced in the lists only as Childe Krow, but I remember the whispers in the crowd of another name: Fjorrnir. The Son of War. None had ever seen such a prodigy of martial skill."

Krow sat on his horse in silence. He could protest. He could say it had been someone else, a different person. He could claim it was a long time ago or that he was only a healer. It all seemed hollow after the bloodbath at the cottage. Instead, he put his heels to his steed, and began to move away.

"I'll miss you, Krow." Her voice followed him. Cold, aloof, but not mocking.

"I imagine you miss all your pawns after they've lost their usefulness."

"You treat me unjustly," she admonished, and he pulled to a stop, turning half about. "Unwitting your help may have been, but it was welcome and pure. I meant it when I said I'd met no one like you. Do not hold all this against me."

"Then where shall I hold it?" Krow asked. "Above the dead?" He bowed his head, and the money pouch slipped from his fingers. Golden crowns spilled and bounced across the stones, ringing in the air of early morning. He hoped never to meet Kastanie Selbourne again.

Krow touched Namtar's flanks, and the pale horse turned its head south.