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Scattered to the Winds (Ren & Raven Short Story)
🕑 Added 2021-04-22 23:53:57 +0000 UTCRaven has two problems.
The first is the powerfully built woman looming over her kitchen table. With her sleeves torn at the shoulder to display tattooed arms corded with muscles, a jagged scar across one cheek, a well-used leather scabbard strapped to her hip, the hilts of at least two daggers poking out the top of her boots, she perfectly fits the look of an Undercity thug. She grabs a flatbread wrap from a nearby plate, munching on it as she watches the kitchen staff with a wicked look in her eye.
The second is the missing stocks from the open pantry. It drew Raven’s eye the moment she entered the kitchen—door ajar, shelves dotted with empty spaces that hadn’t been there the day before.
She sighs and smooths down the front of her skirt. One of these problems is going to be far easier to deal with than the other.
“Hatch, Arden,” she says, looking past the glowering thug. “Kirael needs help with the tables. Go check on her, please.”
“But—” Arden’s hands squeeze her kneaded bread dough.
There’s a loud thud behind her as Hatch presses his knife straight down through a parsnip and into the cutting board.
Arden looks from Raven to the thug and back again. “But madam—”
“No complaints,” Raven interrupts sharply. “Go help.”
Arden ducks her head and withdraws her hands from the dough. She wipes them clean on her apron and taps Hatch on the shoulder. He nods and puts down his knife. Throwing one last look at Raven, they shuffle from the kitchen and disappear into the hall. The door snaps closed behind them.
The thug grins and picks up another flatbread, chortling as she shovels it into her mouth.
“I’d appreciate it if you kept your grubby little hands out of my food, Roxis,” Raven says. “Not unless you’re planning on paying for it.”
Roxis rips a mouthful of flatbread free. Roasted vegetables and dressing ooze over her fingers. “Not planning on paying for anything,” she says. “Not when Therian’s patience is running mighty thin.”
“Oh, Therian will get his money,” Raven replies flatly. “By week’s end, as promised. I stay true to my word—which is more than I can say for others.”
Roxis’ eyes narrow. She raises a finger to her mouth and licks off the dressing. “You insulting my boss? Calling him a liar?”
“I’m offering criticism,” Raven says. “If he’s charging me to protect my establishment, I expect to receive that protection.” She reaches across the table and sweeps the plate out of the thug’s reach. “So far, I’m not impressed.”
Roxis snorts. Her eyes linger on the pile of flatbreads and she scarfs down the one in her hand. “You don’t—” She pauses, her words muffled by the food in her mouth. She finishes chewing and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “You don’t seem to understand how this works.”
“I know perfectly well how it works,” Raven retorts. “It’s the same deal as Nor’s. And Everion’s before her. And Corsac before them. Therian’s no different—”
Roxis snarls and flies across the room. She seizes Raven by the throat and slams her into the wall. Raven chokes, gasping for breath as Roxis’ hand presses sharply into her throat, pressing up on her tiptoes in a desperate bid to alleviate the pressure.
“Sounds like an insult,” Roxis hisses. “Sounds like you should pay for that—”
A small smile pulls at the upper corner of Raven’s lips. She looks calmly into the thug’s sneering face and lifts her chin. “Will I now?”
She tugs at the web.
Raven doesn’t know what mages call it—the hundreds of millions of pathways that connect all living things together. She can’t see them, but she can feel them. In her mind, she visualizes the pathways as an infinite golden spiderweb. Through years of trial and error, she has slowly come to understand how to use her magic to manipulate the pathways. Emotions are complicated. Pull one thread and you loosen another. There’s a delicate balance to it.
Most days she subtly manipulates the threads, quietly affecting those around her. Sometimes she barely recognizes that she’s doing it. Her magic is as natural to her as breathing. For those under her protection, she eases the bad and heightens the good. For the patrons that come to her hall, she makes them more competitive, more daring, more willing to risk their crowns. And for those clients who seek out the hidden services provided by her establishment, she suppresses everything, leaving them devoid of all emotion and giving them the unburdened silence they desperately crave.
But now is not the time for subtlety.
Raven tears at the web, pulling on the threads until they nearly snap under the pressure. Roxis shudders and lets go, a million emotions flooding her senses. She collapses on the floor, shaking and laughing, tears welling from her eyes.
Raven walks calmly towards Roxis’ twitching body and kneels next to her. She seizes Roxis by the front of her shirt, yanking her up off the floor. “Tell Therian I don’t appreciate threats,” she murmurs. “He will get his money in full and on time—and not a moment before. He can squeeze the others in the Narrows dry, but not me.”
Roxis nods, still shaking.
“I’m glad we understand each other,” Raven says and releases her. Getting to her feet, she walks calmly to the backdoor and thrusts it open. She waits patiently while Roxis slowly stands and shuffles out of the kitchen, step by trembling step. The thug passes through the door and disappears onto the narrow staircase outside.
Raven slams the door and bolts it shut. She sinks to the floor, her back pressed to the door, too exhausted to even reach the closest chair. She slumps forwards, chin brushing her chest, brown hands linked behind her neck.
It has been a long time since she unleashed her magic like that.
She exhales a long, slow breath, raises her head and leans back. That’s one problem dealt with… now for the harder one.
She stares across the kitchen at the open pantry. The stolen jars stand out, like missing teeth in a broken mouth. Minutes pass. She can hear distant laughter and indistinct chatter from the hall. It must be a good night…
Good, she thinks. We’re going to need it…
She catches a faint glimmer on one of the shelves. She narrows her eyes, wondering if it was a trick of the light. Slowly, she pushes herself up and pads across the kitchen to investigate.
The gaps on the pantry shelves are littered with small broken trinkets. A rusted dagger with a hilt inlaid with gold. One half of a pair of beaded earrings. A silver locket without a chain. A gold ring with an empty pronged head. A delicate chain bracelet with a broken clasp.
Raven presses a hand to her forehead. Sighing wearily, she sweeps the trinkets into her skirt pocket and shuts the pantry door. There’s no avoiding it now; the second problem is definitely going to be harder than the first.
The air is cool on the roof. While Raven is hesitant to call it refreshing by any means, it is a pleasant change from the stuffiness that plagues the gambling hall. It’s one of the hazards of running an unlicensed establishment—windows are boarded up, doors are shut tight, and there’s very little airflow.
Not that it matters much in the Undercity.
Raven shuts the trap door over the ladder and picks her way across the roof. She can feel the coarse, pitted stone through her worn sandals, a far cry from the smooth floors of the hall below. Like most Undercity buildings, the roof is flat and encircled by a small half wall, overlooking the sharply angled corrugated tin that protects the rest of the building. Though weather is rarely a concern in the Undercity (Raven can’t remember the last time she saw rain), its citizens pretend that it is.
A few decrepit wooden stakes support a frayed red canopy that blocks out the rocky overhang above. On other buildings, this area would be used either for storage or as a ramshackle apartment, rented out for a bargain price. For Raven, the roof is where she has carved out a small piece of personal privacy. A threadbare blanket and a couple withered pillows rest in a corner, surrounded by potted plants. The plants’ long, tangled vines creep across the floor, inching towards the half wall.
She steps over a snarled vine and turns to the far end of the roof. She doesn’t have far to go to find her target.
Ren sits precariously on the half wall, dangling his legs over the edge. Despite the nondescript black clothing and the hood pulled over his head, Raven knows it’s him. He may seem like a faceless, nameless shadow to others, but he can’t fool her.
“If you need anything, you know you can just ask,” she says, sticking her hands deep into her pockets.
He’s silent for a long moment and absently swings one leg back and forth.
“Ren—”
“It’s a trade,” he says. “Was it not enough? I can get you more.”
The trinkets lie heavy in Raven’s pocket. She thumbs the earring, running the pad of her finger over the sharp edge of the gemstones. “You don’t need to pay me. Stop by and talk with me. That’s more than enough. I’d rather that than waking up once a month to find my pantry raided—”
“You know I can’t.”
Her finger pricks the earring’s pin and the sharp point pierces her skin, drawing blood. She withdraws her hand and gently sucks the wound. “Is that the League talking?” she asks. “Or you?”
Ren’s shoulders slump. He hates confrontation, especially with her. She half expects him to leap off the roof and disappear into the mysterious void he visits when he triggers his personal magic.
But he doesn’t.
Raven steps up beside him and places her hands on the half wall. She turns to him, uncertain of what to say in the silence, and spots a small black cat curled sleepily in his lap. He gently pets it, stroking its back, and it purrs contently.
So that’s what’s keeping him here.
Raven folds her hands together and looks across the street. The lopsided, spindly buildings are stacked precariously on top of each other, crawling up the rockface like lichen. Windows are carved out of their thins walls, leading out onto sloping tin roofs or small, tight balconies. Narrow staircases zig-zag across the exteriors and merge into bridges, forming a convoluted network of haphazard scaffolding that stretches across most of the street. Signs etched with conjured lights stick out at odd angles, advertising the establishments within in clashing, pulsing light. It’s difficult to see the street below, but she can hear the hollow din of hundreds of people milling through the trenches like ants scavenging for food.
But if she looks up, it’s another view entirely. She has to push herself out dangerously over the edge, but if she tilts her head in the right direction, she can just make out the sky. Sometimes, at night, she can even see stars.
It wasn’t always like this. She’s fortunate her hall is on the top floor. She paid dearly for it years ago, but she’s benefited greatly from her location in the upper levels, away from the dangers of the trenches. Life in the Narrows isn’t easy and Raven is proud of the life she’s carved out for herself. Her life—and no one else’s.
“How’s Ves?” Raven asks.
Ren pauses, his hand resting on the cat’s back. Through the web, she can feel distress radiating off of him like heat from a flame.
“Fine.”
So Ves isn’t fine. Or Ren’s relationship with them isn’t.
She has a feeling it’s the latter.
Raven swallows hard and nods, delicately reaching out through the web. If she can ease the simmering anguish, calm the pot before its boils over—
Ren turns sharply, dark eyes flashing from beneath the shadow of his hood. “Don’t.”
She freezes and releases the pull on his emotions, guilt flushing her cheeks. She has a longstanding rule to never manipulate her friends’ emotions without permission, but Ren seems so drained…
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought it would help.”
“Ves is all right,” he continues flatly, ignoring her comment. “Better than all right, last I heard. I haven’t seen them in… some time. A month, maybe.”
She nods. She hasn’t seen Ves in years. Once they were freed from the Undercity, they never returned. What she knows of them comes from directly from Ren… and the dark rumours of an avenging Aeda with mechanical wings whose indiscriminate wrath strikes down the poor and the elite alike.
“Look,” Ren says, “do we have to talk about Ves? That’s not why I came here—”
“Then why did you?” Raven interrupts. “Because if this what your visits are turning into, maybe you’re better off not coming at all.”
He hesitates, an answer on the tip of his tongue. Before he can answer, the cat opens its bright green eyes and lets out a loud, irritated meow. It rolls onto its back and paws at Ren’s hand, outraged at the sudden lack of pets.
“I’ve been watching you for months,” he says finally. “You think you’ve got things under control, but the whole Undercity knows about you now. They know where to go when the dreamweed fizzles out and the firewater dries up and they just need something to blot out the world. And the more people come to you, the bigger the target on your back—”
“Strange to be morally judged by an assassin,” she snaps, irritation flaring. “What I do would be perfectly legal if there wasn’t a black mark against the whole fucking Undercity.”
“I don’t care what you do,” Ren replies. The cat paws at his hand again and playfully mouths his knuckles. He gently disentangles his hand from the biting kitten and scratches behind its ears. “I care that people want to kill you for it.”
Raven’s fingernails dig into the backs of her hands. She thinks of Therian and his plan to extort the Narrows for all the crowns it has. He is not the first gang lord to claim the district. She’s seen dozens of them, each one exactly the same as the last. The same threats, the same practices… Even the year that brought an officially sanctioned magistrate to the area did nothing to alleviate the violence and decay that saturates the Undercity. The magistrate was no different than the gang lords.
“I can handle Therian,” she says.
“And Therian’s not the League.”
Her gut twists.
“The League is watching you,” Ren continues. “They wanted you when we were kids and they haven’t forgotten how you snubbed them. Do you realize how valuable your magic is to—”
“I don’t want anything to do with them,” Raven snaps. “That’s your life, not mine.”
“I know.”
He picks up the cat by the scruff of its neck and thrusts it into her arms. She accepts the cat, holding it tight to her chest as it mewls in protest. Ren stands abruptly and balances precariously on the lip of the half wall. Anyone else would fall, tumbling headfirst into the trenches far below. But not Ren. He has an unnatural sense of balance and absolutely no fear of heights. That combination paired with his personal magic has led to acts no one else would dare attempt.
Ren raises his arms and lowers his hood, his dark cloak flaring around him as he moves. Raven catches a glimpse of the daggers strapped to his belt. She purses her lips and glances up at him, cradling the cat in her arms. His face is pallid and drawn, and there are dark circles under his eyes. His unbrushed black hair is pulled back in a messy tail that must have been tied days ago. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.
This isn’t the first time she’s seen the signs.
“You’re going to do something stupid,” Raven says flatly.
Ren glances at her. If anything, her remark brings out the barest hint of a smile.
“Nara,” he says.
Raven stares at him blankly. The cat mewls and wriggles in her arms. “What?”
“That’s the cat’s name. Please take care of her.”
Another warning sign. The last time he prepared for a dangerous mission, he showed up three hours before dawn with a litter of feral kittens, requested she find them new homes, then vanished without another word.
“What are you going to do?” Raven asks desperately as Nara meows and squirms, trying to wriggle free. “Ren, please just—”
Just talk to me.
The words fall silent, too difficult for her to say.
He meets her eyes. “I’m not doing anything for anyone this time,” he says. “Whatever happens next, I just want you to know that I did it for me. Goodbye, Raven.”
Ren steps off the roof.
Raven rushes forward, the cat leaping from her arms and darting away across the roof. She leans out over the halfway, peering through the glaring , multicoloured lights, but she sees nothing. Only a hint of dark violet mist, swirling through the air. A silent after-effect of Ren’s magic.
It is already dispersing, as if it was never there.
Raven sighs. “You’re such an idiot,” she murmurs, slipping her hands into her pockets.
Her fingers touch the assortment of trinkets Ren left in her pantry. They won’t be useful as they are, but perhaps she can dismantle them, peddle the gemstones and melt down the metal. Then she might have enough to pay Therian’s dues and get him off her back…
Maybe the trinkets were never intended as payment. Maybe they were an apology.
A final one.
Raven raises her head, eyes searching for that tiny sliver of sky so far above.
“Goodbye.”
Comments
idrella
Oh dear, indeed.
thevikingwoman
Oh dear
