Read Online Raven's Warrior by Vincent Pratchett - Free Book Online

so long ago. I slid it back into its sheath reverently and set it down.
    We all retired to the main room and sat by the earthen hearth, but the feeling of the monk’s sword did not leave my hands. I watched the fire play and roll along the soot covered bottom of the large kettle, and listened to the steady clanging of its lid as the water within it boiled and bubbled. I scanned the hearth from bottom to top. I saw the hearth’s earthen floor, its burning wood, the nimble flames, its silver kettle, and its bubbling water, and I wondered to myself what would happen if the lid could not rise up to release the pressure.
    The Sea Lass broke my thoughts with, “Father made the kettle.”
    â€œI know,” I said dryly, “your father is a master.”
    It had been a long time since I had heard the sound of my own laughter, and as Merlin and Sea Lass added theirs, I felt warmed and comforted by much more than just the glowing hearth.

The Mother
    I awoke once more to the bubbling sounds of their easy banter and the comforting smell of the delicious evening meal already beginning to simmer. I was sorry to have missed Merlin’s departure, but grateful to share the simple chores of his daughter’s day. The way of keeping a home was new to me, and I had always thought it woman’s work, but now it held my interest. I realized that as my world had changed so too had I.
    I watched her carefully from a distance, moving around the ancient homestead like a queen travels through her kingdom. Her domain was uncluttered and simple, elegant in both design and adornment. The space was functional in its layout. A small room filled with harvest bounty was attached to the simple kitchen, and it was here that Sea Lass spent the early part of her day. She sang as she worked and gestured for me to enter as she continued with her daily routine.
    Sacks of the pale grain they called rice sat patiently on the floor, waiting to be cooked and presented for our sustenance and satisfaction. Her attention was focused on the many plants and herbs that hung root to tip from the substantial wooden beams that lined the ceiling. She had plucked a mixed handful and laid them sequentially on the table before us. Without surprise I recognized none, for botany held little importance in my past existence. Most were dry and brittle and seemed well ready to be thrown out.
    Once again, she must have caught those thoughts, for, smiling, she rolled some desiccated foliage vigorously between her palms and held them up to my face. I inhaled deeply with closed eyes and drank in the infused power of the rugged landscape. The pungent aroma released by the heat of her hands spoke of the season of their past growth, the sun, the rain, the soil, and the gentle balance of their place within it.
    Whether to season our food or to heal affliction, her purposeful actions freed the dormant vitality from the withered leaves of a plant that seemed long dead.
    I held a stem gently between my calloused fingers, as I teased its clump of roots I saw the dirt land on the crude wooden countertop like the white soot from the chimneys of my homeland. She drew me from this idle action with a question, “Where do you come from?” was all she asked. From the roots and the soil I looked up into the wide brown eyes of a curious child, and realized I had all but forgotten my past.
    I closed my eyes to banish time and distance, as memory began to conjure the dark phantoms of my own history. They opened slowly and fixed upon the delicate root and soil that lay before me, and speech gave my past both voice and life.
    â€œSea Lass,” I began, “The place from where I come is a mother blessed with beauty and fertility. She wears robes of living green, and all its shades cover her hills and valleys in a complete and seamless embrace. In her western reaches she is adorned with rock and mountains. It is in place both harsh and generous, and she wears this