Читать книгу The Raven's Warrior - Vincent Pratchett - Страница 12

The Sacking Of The Temple

Selah had spent her first six years fatherless, but with no regrets. By age seven she was both strong and resilient, and the taunts of older children were quickly silenced with a small but well aimed fist. In the quiet shadows of night she had often seen her mother lovingly caress the orange robe by her bedside. Instinctively she knew it held a memory and therefore a bond. She did not know, however, that it brought her mother back to that night long ago when a young monk had climbed over the temple walls.

For her mother there would never be anyone else. From conception’s first night she would dedicate herself completely to the study of traditional medicine. As she treated her steady stream of patients, Selah would be there helping prepare tonic, antidote, and cure, for ailments of all description. Mother and child would often forage like free animals for the rare and potent healing herbs that grew in the surrounding area. They would speak often of the time when as an adult she would meet the father she had never known, and he would meet the daughter he never knew existed.

She was surprised when the dark and distant plume from the temple summit had brought forth from her mother tears of sorrow. She did not understand the grief with which her mother prepared the cart and said, “We go now to meet your father.” She knew only that this was not the joyous meeting that they had talked about so often and for so long. Following her mother’s emotional cues, she prepared herself for whatever was to come, and at the age of seven found the strength of steel in her young and innocent soul.

The acrid black smoke that had billowed upward from the ruined temple had changed texture. It hung in the air like the oily black plumage of the crows watching from high places. As the small girl and her mother struggled to pull their cart from mountain path to entrance, the last remnants of a smoldering gate collapsed in what seemed an ominous gesture of welcome.

The open courtyard that had once pulsed with the sounds and routine of sacred monastic life now screamed silently from the faces of the many corpses that lay strewn and scattered about. The actions of the woman and child mirrored perfectly the actions of the scavenging crows; they began methodically to pick apart the dead. This, however, was no common pillage.

They had no interest in the valuable armor and weapons of the many dead soldiers. Instead they searched robe to saffron robe looking relentlessly for him. They sat defeated and still, until a raven cried out from a mountainous pile of armored bodies, awakening them from their despair. They both moved at the same time, and with one mighty push, the black bird flew up and the large body at the top went tumbling down, revealing the treasure that the woman and child had been seeking. They had found Mah Lin.

While the woman struggled with the task at hand, the small girl studied the large black bird. It stood calmly, framed by the open door before it, peering into the dark interior. ‘What was it staring at?’ she wondered, her childlike curiosity immediately banished fear. When the raven walked inside Selah quickly followed. With awkward hops it led her down the stone steps and disappeared into a cool square room. She stood still, listening for its whereabouts and letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.

Her vision cleared and the scrolls and parchments on the many shelves now became her focus. She scooped up an armful. By dust and smell she knew that they were old and that she must show them to her mother.

By sundown the body of the monk, his sword, and the ancient manuscripts he had died protecting were halfway down the mountain on the rickety wooden cart. The raven was never far away. By deep night they had reached her home and only then did it fly directly to the monk and begin picking, not at the flesh, but at the many arrow shafts protruding whole and broken from chest and torso.

She and her cub moved once more in unison. They pulled open the blood stained robes. Underneath was the silk tunic she had spun for him some eight years ago. It was his way of keeping his one night of transgression close to his heart. With a twist and a pull, the silk eased the many broad-heads out as faithfully as it had stopped their full penetration.

As the door closed behind them, the woman and child gathered all their healing skills, and the black bird flew up to join the darkness.