Corvina Blackwood's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Corvina Blackwood wanted one thing: to bind her soul to her crow so neither could die while the other lived. For six nights she had searched her crooked cottage for a way to begin. She found nothing. The crow watched her from the rafters, feathers black against the smoke-stained beams. She was running out of time, and she knew it. The crow was old now. His eyes had clouded. He missed his perch when he landed, and his caw had gone thin. Corvina had raised him from a wet lump of feathers. She would not bury him. She refused. She had heard only whispers of the rite. A hedge-witch two valleys over swore it was real. A dying woman had muttered half a chant into Corvina's ear years ago. That was all. Whispers built nothing. She needed the true method, the exact words, the order of the steps. Without them she could not even start. So she climbed down to the cellar. On a low shelf sat a skull she had bought and never dared use. Its bone was cracked and stained brown. The last witch to own it had died on a rope. Everyone warned her the thing was cursed. Corvina had always kept it covered. She pulled off the cloth. The crow screeched above her and would not come down. "I know," she said. "I know what it costs." She set the skull on the floor and knelt. She pressed both palms against its cold crown and asked it the only question that mattered. How do I bind a soul to a familiar? For a moment, nothing. Then a voice slid into the back of her head. It was dry and slow, like a tongue dragging over old teeth. It did not speak through the air. It spoke inside her skull, behind her eyes. It told her the rite. She grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote fast. First, the blood of both bound creatures, mixed. Second, a fire lit from the feather of a bird that cannot die. Third, the chant spoken while both hearts beat as one. The voice gave her each step in order. When it finished, it did not let go of her. She tried to lift her hands. They stuck to the bone. The voice laughed, low and pleased. "A fire from a bird that cannot die," it whispered. "You will need a phoenix feather. There is only one such bird near here. Its plumage is black, edged in green. It guards its nest and burns what it touches. Go and take a feather, little witch. Then we will talk about my price." Her hands came free. Corvina fell back, breathing hard, the paper crushed in her fist. She had the rite at last. But now she needed a feather from a creature of fire, and something dead had decided to follow her to get it.