Rebecka Evertrue's Arc

Chapter 5 of 66

The white mare came off the between-roads at dawn and stopped at the edge of a birch wood. Rebecka slid down. Her legs shook. A day of ground lay behind her in an hour. Ahead, somewhere in these trees, was the cache her father had told her about once, before he died. He had never drawn her a map. He had said the quiver would find her when she came close enough. She did not know where to dig. She had ridden north on faith and a story. Now she stood in a wood full of birches that all looked the same, and the raiders were marching, and she had hours, not days. A crow dropped through the branches and landed on a low limb. Its feathers held a pattern like frost on glass, and its eyes were pale blue. She had raised it from a chick. She had left it at the homestead. Now it turned its head and clicked its beak at her. "He sent you," she said. The crow opened its beak. Marcus's voice came out of it, thin but his. "Rebecka. If you can hear me, listen. I found your father's book behind the loose stone in the hearth. There's a page for the cache. Three birches from a split rock. North face. Dig at the roots." She turned in place. Split rock. She saw it then, a granite shoulder cracked down the middle, twenty paces off. Three birches stood past it, leaning together. The crow spoke again. "Raiders are at the outer wards. I have the potions set. The cats are on the roof." A pause. His voice went flat, the way it did when a thing was decided. "I will hold. Do not turn back." "Marcus—" "Do not turn back." The crow shut its beak. She ran to the birches and knelt at the north roots. She dug with her knife and her hands. The dirt gave easily, as if it had been waiting. Six inches down her blade struck oiled cloth. She pulled the bundle free. The wrapping fell open in her lap. Inside lay a quiver of dark metal, and inside the quiver, arrows that hummed against her palm like a struck wire. Her bow, slung on her back, warmed between her shoulders. It knew. She closed her eyes. She had it. After three days and a killed scout and her daughter's rug traded away and a horse left dying by a stream, she had it. Then the crow spoke once more, quieter. "The east ward is down. Ride." Rebecka strapped the quiver to her back. She swung onto the white mare. The wood blurred. She rode south now, toward the smoke she could not yet see, with the weapon that could end any threat lying across her shoulders and no promise it would reach home in time.