The forty minute ride to town took them past land and cottages Dnara hadn’t been conscious to see on her journey to stay with Penna and Tobin. The other cottages were near identical to theirs, practical and cozy, surrounded by wood fences that kept sheep or pigs in, or out if the owners farmed corn. There were many farms with newly plowed brown earth, hopeful the corn would sprout and grow before the preserved remains of last year’s hard won harvest ran out. None of the cottages they passed had smoke rising from their chimneys, a sign the fires there had gone cold, the hearth unwilling to relight.
From one field holding a few thin looking sheep, a flock of ashbirds rose then flew overhead and danced in a upwelling swirl before breaking off to the east. Their grey wings made the sky look full of smoke, and their chattering song directed the path they took before fading into the distance. Then came a bird she’d never seen before, its large black figure landing on the cottage roof next to the sheep. Then another landed next to it, a strange muttering shared between them. Then, another landed. And another. The sheep bleated and backed away, and Dnara felt the birds’ large black eyes upon her as a cool wind shivered across her back.
“What kind of bird is that?” she asked Penna, her voice kept quiet as if afraid the birds could understand her questioning their existence.
Penna shielded her eyes from the sun and peered to where Dnara pointed. “Them? Why, ain’t you ever seen a raven before?”
“No.” And she felt stupid for uncovering yet another unknown in this world. A common bird, if Penna’s surprise were an indication, and not worth the uneasy feeling pooling in her stomach. Then she remembered the bathhouse attendant’s words, about her hair looking like raven’s feathers. Now, she had her answer, and she couldn’t disagree. The ravens’ feathers were darker than a deep shadow, as if cloaked in a night without stars. But, as they moved their heads in their strange, low conversation, a shimmering of dark purples and blues caught the light, like the gem embellishing her keeper’s fancy silver quill.
“There were none where I lived before,” she said on an absentminded thought, her attention drawn back to the way her keeper’s hand would move in graceful strokes as he spent hours writing in a book she’d never managed to read.
“Oh, well, they’s clever, ravens,” Penna said. “Too clever for their own good, some say. Carriers of the blight, others warn, but that’s just fear driven nonsense. And, would you believe, they can talk like people, too. A few words at least, if you train them. Had a man in town with a talking raven, would do shows for the kids...” Her voice trailed off and a sadness entered her eyes. “Back when there were children,” she finished more quietly.
Dnara let the conversation die, not wanting to open the wound further. Penna and Tobin once had a baby, she’d learned, twenty years ago before the blight became so dangerous. The baby had lived for three seasons, never once crying. On the night of the baby’s sudden death, Penna developed the cough. Theirs had been the last baby born on their dirt road of cottages into town. Five winters later, no children were born in all of Lee’s Mill that survived. Now, Lee’s Mill had only a handful of children under fifteen, and none under ten. It made her own fantasy of having a cottage with a family seem that much more impossible.
Her gaze moved to Athan of its own accord, but his eyes were locked squarely on the gathering ravens. He had an uneasy look on his face, and even Treven seemed anxious by their presence. Neither relaxed until the cottage fell over the horizon behind them, and Dnara, too, let out a relieved breath when sight of the ravens was lost. Something about those large, inky colored birds with their sharp beaks and glassy black eyes unnerved her, too. Although, she was curious to hear them speak, as Penna had said they could.
“Look there,” Tobin said as they approached the south gate into Lee’s Mill. “Looks like the festival is happening despite the fire shortage.”
“In spite of it, you mean,” Penna said indignantly. “We’ve not let the blight stop the festival in all these hard years, so I’m not at all surprised folks won’t let a lack of fire stop them, neither.”
“Festival?” Dnara looked to the gate, surprised to find it decorated with colorful cloth banners of yellow.
“Faedra’s Blessing,” Penna answered cheerily as the wagon traveled underneath the banners and Dnara craned her neck back to watch them flutter with the wind. Each banner had intricate embroidery in green thread; a border of leaves surrounding a harvested bounty of various crops set under a pair of lovers, the woman’s stomach round with child. “We offer our songs, dance, and what little else we can in the hopes Faedra will bless us with a bountiful growing season and a harvest that will get us through the winter. The opening ceremony is tonight, leading to a full night and day of celebration followed by another ceremony tomorrow at sunset. The sunset will line up with the temple’s spire, marking the equinox and the start of spring.”
“It’s certainly something to see,” Tobin said. “It’s why we’re
