Legend of the Ravenstone by M.S. Verish Page B

confess, I would have envisioned him to be older. He must have started his career young, for my maps date back many years....”
    Jaharo smiled at them. “Our leader has stopped for the afternoon meal. We will not likely stop again until dark, so I hope you are hungry.”
    “I suppose we could stand a light meal,” Arcturus said politely, and Kariayla bit her tongue.
    The wagons had been circled away from the road, and within that circle gathered their community of fellow travelers. Most of them were wealthy and of higher social standing—a fact that initially made Kariayla feel even more an outcast in spite of her wings. But while the aristocracy may have avoided her and Arcturus, they were too polite to pass their comments or forgo proper etiquette. She did not mind the formality, and Jaharo was happy to bridge the gap in conversation.
    The cartographer brought them individual bundles from the cook, holding them high as though they contained the answers to all life’s mysteries. “The great equalizer,” he announced, passing one each to Arcturus and Kariayla. He waited until they opened them before continuing. “Whether you are rich or poor, there are only so many foods that will keep during travel. Bread, dried meat, and sometimes cheese—which is what we have here. The cook’s caravan provides only some of our meals. When we pass through the towns along the way, you will have an opportunity to buy what you like.”
    “I expect the same applies to lodging,” Arcturus said.
    “If you prefer mattress and pillow to wagon bed,” Jaharo said, tearing a piece of bread.
    “Indeed.” He had glanced at the ornate carriage parked inside the ring of wagons. “It would seem our duke has no inclination to be social.”
    Jaharo shared his sight. “I had heard Dinorthon was not feeling well. His men are most protective,” he said of the half-dozen figures surrounding the carriage.
    A servant who had been passing by had stopped to listen to them. “You know why that is,” he said, his eyes wide. “That’s because we’re in the Prophet’s territory. He knows we’re coming.”
    Someone shushed him. “Be quiet, Victor.”
    Victor said nothing more and returned to his meal, but more than a few heads had turned in their direction.
    Kariayla gazed absently at the distant landscape, the clusters of trees and the rolling hills. The Prophet only strikes at night , she thought, recalling the rumors in the castle. The moon grows veiled, and the thunder brings the Demon. Bone-white flesh with eyes of flame... She had heard one of the minstrels trying to frighten the children with the story the Eve of the Vanquishing. Of course he had been flogged for that. The children would not sleep for days after.
    She glimpsed movement in the trees and strained to see what it was.
    “I will not believe such nonsense,” she heard Arcturus say to Jaharo. “To perpetuate such rumors is what makes a band of pick-pockets seem like monsters.”
    White. It was white. The hawk? Her suspicions were confirmed when the bird swooped from its perch to another branch. The Spirits are still watching over us.
    “What is it you see?” Jaharo asked.
    “Just a bird,” Kariayla said, turning to face him. Somehow she had not noticed the color of his eyes before. Not brown, not hazel, but golden like the sun or ripened wheat in autumn.
    “Is it?” he asked.
    Before she could wonder at his strange response, there was a stir amongst the travelers. Murmurs and glances were suddenly directed at her, and in the midst of it, she could see two mounted riders on the opposite side of the camp. They were not dressed in the royal colors, but she knew. A finger pointed.
    No. Please, no. She watched in dread as they started for her.
    “My dear, what is—”
    The hoof beats grew louder, but she was afraid to look. She shrank beside Arcturus, trembling. They came to take me back.
    The riders focused upon her. “We are here to return the girl to the