Kate Forsyth - The Tower of Ravens (Rhiannons Ride, Book 1)

Rhiannon's Ride 01 - Tower of Ravens

If I could only catch one. If I could only tame one. Then I could escape.

They would never be able to stop me if I flew away on the back of a creature like thata Bestselling author Kate Forsyth returns to the landscape of her popular Witches of Eileanan series with this Celtic fantasy about a young girl condemned for being differentand determined to tame a wild winged horse to help her escape One-Hornas daughter is not like the others of her kind. Born of a human father, she lacks the horns so prized by her people and is scorned even by her own mother. Her only chance for escape is to capture one of the legendary flying horses and ride it to freedom if she can stay on its back long enough.

And so this strange, feral girl begins a dangerous journey of love, death, and betrayal that will earn her a new nameRhiannon, the rider no one can catch.

Found wounded, she is rescued and taken to the home of Lewen, a young man just beginning to understand his own magical potential as an apprentice-witch.

Rhiannon soon becomes fascinated with the human worldand Lewen. Together they travel through a land where the dead walk and ghosts haunt the living, a place where Rhiannon encounters dark forces that endanger all of Eileanan. But to save the land, she must convince Lewen and the other apprentice-witches to trust the word of a wild half-human girl

PRAISE FOR THE WITCHES OF EILEANAN SERIES

a?Surprisingly original, well-developed, and a lot of fun.a Locus a?A rich tapestry of settings, creatures, and people.a Australian SF Online Also by Kate Forsyth The Witches of Eileanan series The Witches of Eileanan The Pool of Two Moons The Cursed Towers The Forbidden Land The Skull of the World The Fathomless Caves

A ROC BOOK

Contents

A HORSE OF AIR

Barbreck-by-the-Bridge The Black Mare

A THING OF BEAUTY

Kingarth The Wild Girl Her Naming The Jongleurs The Apprentice Witches Blackthorn Barbreck-by-the-Bridge Ardarchy The Witchas Tower Crossing the Stormness

A PALE HORSE

Forest of the Dead Fetterness Valley Fettercairn Castle The Nursemaid The Great Hall The Dream Cold Comfort The Haunted Room The Tower of Ravens The Scrying Pool

TO THROW A PRINCE

Tales of the Past In the Night Storming the Castle The Chain Between Them

GLOSSARY

To my three beautiful children,

Benjamin, Timothy, and Eleanor a?[Necromancy] has its name because it works on the bodies of the dead, and gives answers by the ghosts and apparitions of the dead, and subterraneous spirits, alluring them into the carcasses of the dead by certain hellish charms, and infernal invocations, and by deadly sacrifices and wicked oblations.a Francis Barrett, The Magus, 1801 Through the Necromanceras magic words, the dust in the decayed coffin takes shape again and rises from a long forgotten past.a Emile Grillot de Givry, Witchcraft, Magic and Alchemy, 1931

A HORSE OF AIR

With a heart of furious fancies whereof I am commander With a burning spear And a horse of air To the wilderness I wander.a Tom o Bedlam, traditional folksong Barbreck-by-the-Bridge The girl crouched on the stone ledge, hugging her cloak of furs and skins close against the bite of the night. Far to the east, where the towering peaks of the mountains broke and fell away, the moons were rising. First the little moon, blue as a bruise, then the big blood-moon, glowing as orange as the leaping flames on the far side of the lake behind her.

She could hear the distant sound of voices and laughter across the ice as the wind shifted, carrying with it a shower of bright sparks. The pale circle of her face sank a little deeper into the dark huddle of her skins. She set her gaze resolutely to the east, where the snow-swollen river ran headlong towards the unknown future, towards freedom and the sea.

Tonight the inexpressible yearning was fierce in her. She could smell the bitter green coming of spring in the air, hear it in the clink of ice upon stone as the lake began to flex and test itself against the chains of winter, feel it all around her in the surge of sap and blood. These first few weeks of the green months were the cruellest of all, for they sang of joy to someone who had no understanding of the word. She could only sense it, like a deaf child hearing bells ringing all around her as a thrum of air against her skin. She did not know what she yearned for. She did not know why she sat here in the dark loneliness with a hot ache in her throat. She only knew that she could not bear to be with the herd tonight as they gloated over the spoils of their latest hunt, swaggering and boasting and wrestling about the fire while their new captive sat bound and bloodied, trying not to show his fear.

The girl was not driven away from her herdas carousing by any sense of compassion for the prisoner. She had no time to feel or wonder for anyone else.

All her pity and terror were saved for herself. She sat on the ledge of stone and set her face to the east, wondering only if she should take the chance to creep away tonight, while the herd was busy carousing. If she ran all night, hiding her scent in the tumult of white water, running on stones so she would leave no footprints, if she ran till her heart was bursting, could she win her way free? The desire to escape was so fierce in her that she could only keep herself still by clenching her fingers so hard she cut purple crescents into her tough, calloused palms. For no matter how fast she ran, no matter how well she hid her tracks, the herd would find her in the end, and they would kill her for wanting to be free.

Below her, something moved. She tensed and looked down at once, for there were many wild and dangerous creatures in these mountains. At first she saw only darkness, but as her eyes adjusted from the brightness of the luminous moons, she began to see a dark shape emerging from the shadows. There was a round rump, the deep curve of a back, the long line of a graceful neck lowered to drink from the river. Beyond she saw the vague shape of more horses, a whole herd of them, moving slowly along the stony bank of the river.

Behind her there was a burst of raucous laughter. The horses flung up their heads. One whickered. Moonlight glinted on the two long, scrolled horns that sprang from each forehead. She caught her breath in surprise. These were no wild ponies, but creatures out of myth and folklore. Whether it was the sound of her gasp, or a sudden shift in the wind that took her scent to the horsesa quivering nostrils, she could not know, but suddenly the herd all flung out great shadowy wings and, with a rattle of hooves and a soft defiant whinny, took flight. For a moment she saw their soaring shapes outlined sharply against the red moon, the sound of their wings filling her ears. Then the herd of winged horses was gone, lost in the darkness.

The girl was on her feet, filled with exultation as sharp as thorns. If I could only catch one, she thought. If I could only tame one. Then I could escape.

They would never be able to stop me if I flew away on the back of a creature like that.

She would not even admit the impossibility of such a plan. That she should see the fabled black winged horses on the very night that her need to escape had grown so urgent could hardly be coincidence. Those of her kind were ruled by superstition and omen. They did not believe in coincidences. The girlas brain boiled with ideas. Maybe if she tracked the winged horses to their lair, tried to tame one, make friends with it. She had tamed many a mountain pony that way.

Winged horses were notoriously wild, however, and she knew she did not have much time. The herd was growing tired of waiting for her horns to bud. Many younger girls had the buds of their horns swelling strongly, and had been bleeding at the rise of the full moons for months. Her first blood had come only that day, filling her with sick fear. She had scrubbed away the stain on her clothes with stones and icy water, and stuffed herself with a wad of crushed pine needles and sap so they could not smell her womb-blood and guess her secret.