“If not, I’ll find some volunteers,” I offer.
Soren kisses my cheek, my lips, and my forehead. His lips land anywhere and everywhere. “You’re amazing.” He says between a kiss behind my ear and then shoulder.
“My mother would be proud of me.”
Soren and I make our way through the maze-like passages of the tavern and to the shed.
Trotter worries his whiskers and gazes at the wooden construction when I catch up to Soren and we pour into the shed, both exclaiming, “We have some ink.”
“And,” Soren says proudly, pulling his arm from his sleeve, “I do not.”
Trotter beams. “Well, I’ll be.”
“Let’s see how far we get with this,” I say.
Trotter produces a brush, but before he dips it into the pot I say, “Wait. I have another idea.” I uncover the pot and hold my hand over the contents, concentrating on drawing the ink to my flattened palm and then raining it down on the wood. I imagine my arm is a wing covered in dark feathers and wave my hand and the ink saturates and covers the wood.
From across the room, Trotter makes a sound of awe and approval.
I don’t open my eyes while I visualize my other arm as the other wing, then the head, the tail, and at last, with the remaining ink in the pot, the main part of the body.
Soren cheers, breaking my trance. “You did it,” he says.
“We did it.” And I mean him, who had the ink on his skin, the owner of the traitorous thoughts, Trotter who helped build the raven, and these strange new abilities I have.
“Excellent,” Trotter says, clapping his hands together.
“We have the raven. We should go soon,” Soren says.
Trotter eyes the window, “Yes, it’s best we move things along quickly lest word reaches the wrong ears.”
When we get to the main room in the tavern, voices rise and fall. Shoulders droop. Fists shake. Those gathered despise the king and his cruelty, but take aim with their words against each other as they argue. They’re speculating and afraid. I won’t bring them fear. I will bring them my courage, my power, my best. I ask Trotter to whistle and all at once, the room goes quiet.
I stand up on one of the tables. “You sound like a flock of pigeons, chattering in the puddles, arguing over the nest or dinner. You are the ravens. The Raven’s Rising. The silver king cast you out. He can hear your dissent; thrives off it, I bet. He can feel your fear; it’s his fuel. Yet you don’t want to live like this any longer. You don’t want your families torn apart. You don’t want to suffer under his rule. You are either with him and divided or you are with us, united.”
Cheering comes from the corners of the room and moves inward.
Soren thunders, “Take your fists out of your pockets. It’s time to rise up and fight.”
Chapter 25
Soren
Murmurs skim through the crowd.
Trotter whistles again.
“We want you to start the rumor that the two people who escaped the city walls,” I gesture between Kiki and myself, “have returned with the ravens that the silver king seeks. But we’ll only give them to him if he agrees to an audience with us.”
“Why? He won’t listen to a couple of wastrels,” someone calls from the crowd.
Gerda glares. “Do you have a better idea for how to get through the gate on the outer wall of Fjallhold and across the drawbridge?”
There’s no response.
“Didn’t think so.”
“But we’re not just walking in with a couple of birds in a bag. For those of you who remember the strawmen from the old Hallowtide celebrations, we borrowed the idea and constructed a giant wooden and straw bird to hold the ravens. That’s why we needed the ink. Instead of actual birds inside, we’ll stuff the wooden raven with you: our best and strongest fighters. Just before dawn, we’ll pass through the gates. Along the way, we’ll create a diversion, the bird will empty, and some of you will secretly ambush the patrol while others will open doors and gates, allowing the rest of us into the stronghold.”
Gasps of surprise and excitement ripple through the crowd.
“What happens when he throws you into the ashpit?” Scriv asks with a laugh.
“We fall together or we rise together,” Kiki says, glaring at him.
I continue, “We’ll request to speak to the king. We’ll offer the ravens in exchange for freedom.”
There’s instant dissent.
“The silver king won’t believe you.”
“He won’t go for it.”
Trotter whistles again.
“If the silver king wants the ravens he’ll do whatever we want him to.” I smirk.
“What will he do after he realizes you tricked him?” someone else asks.
“The silver king won’t do anything,” I answer with a sly smile.
“And why’s that?” Scriv asks, speaking for the doubters in the group.
“The wooden raven is a cage.” I smile. “We’ll capture him.”
The walls and windowpanes shake with a roar of approval. Despite the naysayers, I feel confident we can do this.
When the clamor dies down I add, “In the meantime, those who’re capable of fighting, come see me. Those with weapons to spare, see Gerda, and any fae, see Kiki.” I gesture to her.
Chairs scrape against the floor. Over the ensuing chatter, I boom, “Everyone else let the rumors begin and meet outside the castle at dawn. We call ourselves the Raven’s Rising, and we will not fall.”
They respond with booming
