The following day, Kelwas and Goldenrod continued the work of cleaning the hall, sweeping dust and the old thin bones of whatever small creatures her brothers had picked clean. They wore kerchiefs over their noses and hair to beat the dust out of the tapestries. Investigated what the meager larder might still contain. Any bread, or cured meats had long been pecked at and eaten, leaving only greasy smears on the corners of things where the ravens had cleaned their beaks. Only a row of earthenware jars stood undisturbed, dust thick on their covers. When they pried open the wax seal of one, pickled beets bobbed in brine. Stomachs yawning with hunger, they nevertheless nibbled at one and waited before eating any more. It would do none of them any good to get sick from spoiled food.

Once she was sure the beets were unspoiled, Goldenrod cleaned after her father and fed him. Then, she and Kelwas sat on the far side of his chambers. Goldenrod set the jar on a small, weathered table, and sat on one of the low chairs. It made an alarming creak, but though the gilt on its clawed feet had long ago been worn away to reveal a mass of splinters in the form of a chair, it held the girl's weight. Sunlight dappled the flagstones and high overhead, their corner of the chamber opened to the air, with tree limbs for its roof. Goldenrod followed Kelwas' gaze, and said, "Sometimes in winter, a small drift of snow would build up here."

Her gaze softened, a faint smile on her lips. "How we would play then, sliding and tossing snow at each other, laughter coming out in little clouds. But that was. . ." Kelwas did not need to see her glance where her father lay to know she meant before.

After a moment, Goldenrod continued her story.

"The old raven stepped forward, his claws ticking on the cracked flagstones. 'In the long-ago. The dawn of the world,' it said - for the king lived in that time when the world still spoke to him through the sigh of the wind through the trees, through the shapes flocks of birds make against the sky, and the calls of every beast of the field - 'Before Khayme All-Father made the sweet waters. Before he made the land to grow green and lush. The arid waste was the first peoples' home. Barren lands, in all directions. Like a gem held in a dust-caked palm, lay the garden Khayme built. If he wished to feel cool breezes, there he walked. If he wanted the murmur of water all around him, there he found it. But Khayme did not walk those gardens alone. . .

The Raven's Tale

So it was that the All-Father's loyal servant was charged with keeping his garden, and so he did. Rhud walked the same paths as his Lord. He plucked here, he cut there. Soon, the garden entire was bursting with growth. Making his way over log, under branch, Rhud gave each their name. Every creature and creeping thing he named as well. The asp with eyes like molten copper. The dun sparrow. The fragrant honey-trumpet vine. Much more and more than many others. But he dared not name us, black-feathered and keen-eyed. We were never his Lord's subjects. Rhud was sure we ravens had been there before him. He suspected we had witnessed the All-Father sow his first seeds. Had seen Khayme coax their green crowns out of the earth long, long ago.

He found us too proud. Rhud, to whom even the lions bowed their tawny heads. But we disturbed not his Lord's sacred trees. And so, he could not forbid us. Three of them, there were. A gnarled, venerable apple tree. A hazel tree with smooth green bark. The hoary, sun-splintered oak aswarm with bees and filled with amber-gold honey. Though our harsh voices salved his loneliness (for his Lord was often away) he was ever wary of us.

Lush and green, the garden was. Circled by high walls, by shining stone. Like a brimming cup. Four gates faced four directions. Hardened and closed like a miser's heart. Outside, in every direction and as far as a raven could fly (and we can fly far, indeed), a dust-choked wasteland. People there eked out bitter, shriveled lives. Ghosts, only drinking tears and eating sighs. Did they not know of the All-Father's garden? Of its many cool shadows? Its flowing streams? Why had they not laid siege to its walls? Pried open the gates like opening a mussel? Take as much of its fruits as they could cradle in their arms?

Because the All-Father was clever. Not as clever as ravens, no, but clever enough. He had placed his garden at the heart of a labyrinth. Not one built of the same shining stone walls holding his garden within like the sides of a bowl. Yes, walls raised with confusion as bricks. The shimmer of the desert their mortar. Those who sought the garden wandered those bare lands. Lost. Lips opened, throats closed by thirst until they died. Rhud often walked along the ramparts at dawn. He could have seen their sun-bleached bones if he wanted.

What even Rhud did not know was that his Lord had left his mark upon everything in the garden. The smallest seed, the whorl of a tree's bark, the patterns on the rinds of every fruit. Each revealed the labyrinth. Yes, the labyrinth, and also the way through it. The way into the All-Father's garden. After a time, Khayme found the outsiders cultivating their own orchards. Apples, grown row by row. Hazel trees laden with nuts both brown and green. And bees, carrying messages between flowers, producing combs dripping with honey. Khayme All-Father saw this and grew wroth.

When Rhud saw his Lord through the trees, he averted his eyes. The All-Father's face was filled with a searing light. Though his voice beseeched Rhud, underneath was the threat of thunder. So ruffled was Rhud he fell to the ground when his Lord drew close.

"Rhud," Khayme said. "My loyal servant. Rise, for I have need of words with you."

"Oh, my Lord. I dare not before I have shown you proper regard."

Impatience heaped over anger, Khayme at last said, "What are you doing now?"

"A thousand apologies, my Lord," Rhud mumbled into the dirt. "I was admiring this seedling."

"Get up. Now."

At the crack of thunder overhead, Rhud sank deeper into the dirt. But he spoke at last. What did he whimper out, lips brushing the ground? What did the All-Father have to lean close to hear his servant say? Lies and more lies! The ravens, he told Khayme All-Father. It was the ravens, who had stolen from him. Who had taken from his sacred trees. Who had flown far (for ravens can fly far, indeed). Who after the thrill of their theft faded, left his gifts scattered. Discarded. Strewn across the wastes.

Lies, all of it.

We know. We saw. We watched Rhud on his evening walk. Atop the garden's wall, evening closing day's eye. When he looked out over the wasteland for the first time. Saw a man, a woman, all but bones tottering across the parched lands. Seeing Rhud, and he seeing them toppled the invisible walls of the labyrinth. Just for a moment. Why? No one knows. Perhaps being that close to death dispels all fantasy.

Stricken, Rhud was by their hollow gazes. Ashamed at the plenty all around him. He beckoned, bade them meet at the Eastern Gate. He knew not if they understood him, no. But rush, rush, rush, he did from one tree to the next. Looking for something to ease their want. But it was fast approaching dusk. The garden was asleep, gone fallow with the darkling sky. Waiting for dawn to bloom again. Only the sacred trees still bore fruit. So it was that the All-Father's loyal servant took from his Lord's garden, and so he did. He then pried open the Eastern Gate. He gave what he had to the man and woman. Clear water to drink, and red, red apples, brown nuts and golden honey. As much as they could cradle in their arms. Afraid of what his Lord might do, Rhud made them leave and wept at his cruelty.

You may think, old king, that the All-Father saw through these lies. With sight as clear as a cold, still pool. And you would be mistaken. No, Khayme instead believed his servant. Believed the lies. Did he curse us, did he lay his doom upon us, you may ask. No, he dared not. Even the All-Father knew. We were not then, we are not now his children. Our mothers' mothers' mothers were already here when he arrived. Yes, we were safe, but his garden? His garden he cut. Two equal parts, he left. One he left as a prize for humankind. Far away as the night sky. Close as your beloved's whisper. Always there. You need only climb its low wall. The other? Ah, the other he hung beyond the edge of the Dawning Sea. And it is said he walks there still.

Before Goldenrod could continue, Wolf interrupted by nosing at Kelwas' elbow with a low growl. Through the telling, he had paced in and out of the chamber, stood near the door to stare at Kelwas, until he had lay down in resignation. Every time Kelwas had shifted in his seat, Wolf had raised his head, ears pricked and ready to leap to his feet.

"I think we need to stretch our legs." Kelwas stood with a rueful smile. Already, Wolf was at the door, glancing back at him. Goldenrod looked at Wolf then Kelwas. She seemed about to say something before she agreed. She was still sitting, looking at her key-hand in her lap, when he left.

Wolf padded ahead, stopping on occasion to circle a spot with his nose to the ground. He led Kelwas through the main hall and into older passageways fallen even further into ruin. Tatters of wall hangings drifted in the air like cobwebs, and the accumulated dust rounded every corner. Away from Goldenrod, away from the low rattle of her father's slumbering breath, the silence settled on him like a weight, and made Kelwas yearn to hear the rest of the story. If only to hear a voice keep that silence at bay.

Wolf found a scent, and Kelwas was forced to set aside his woolgathering to follow him. Past a series of doorways blocked shut before entering what seemed to be a smaller version of the chamber they had left Goldenrod sitting, waiting for their return. Through the window slit, a thin ray of silver light gilded the edges of the bedposts, the small table, the tattered rugs. If Kelwas did not know better - coming from the noonday light of the Lord's Chambers - he would have thought it moonslight or starlight. The woods beyond stood black and bare, stark against a blanket of snow.

You have heard the old wisdom not to follow a fox trail, for it may lead you to live in the cramped wet under a log. Your eyes would become convinced your new abode was a luxurious mansion with grand halls stretching out all around you. The warm down-filled quilt you cover yourself with revealing itself to be a slimy blanket of leaves come dawn. And those grand feasts laid out before you are. . . well, you know the rest.

But - you may say - that's what happens when you follow a fox, not a wolf! Yes, Wolf was as his name suggests, not a fox. Did not your papehs ever warn you of the dangers of following a wolf? For wolves, if they catch wind of a strong enough scent, may follow it the way volgatyr Anadoldir followed one of Sirzei's silver threads out of the Land of Sorrowful Mists, past the tattered edges of this world to stride elsewhere for a time. Where? you may ask, but none - not even the very wise - know. None but the wolves themselves. So if your want of an answer is that dire, then you should remember to ask the next wolf you meet.

After lowering his nose here and there in the chamber, Wolf raised a leg against the far corner.

Kelwas was about to scold him but there, in the pale, dim light, his words evaporated, rising in curls from his slack lips. The woods seen through the narrow window were bare, black limbs cutting stark lines across the snow-covered ground. He remembered what Goldenrod had said: when he laid a curse on my brothers, he also worked a more subtle curse on me - I needed to see them again. And khazam-shud there she was, kneeling as if in prayer with her hands clasped and elbows on the window ledge. Outside, a raven fluttered, batting its wings against the stone, claws scrabbling for purchase. But the stonework was flush against the wall, and the gap too narrow for much more than its beak. So, first the raven dropped a crust of bread into Goldenrod's waiting hands and flew off again into the impossible winter beyond.

When it returned, it brought in its beak a slender and rusted iron key. It fluttered at the window once again, and pushed it through. Goldenrod lurched forward with both hands open to catch it before it clattered to the flagstones. Kelwas guessed the raven had stolen the key in the same manner they will often make off with this or that bauble.

Brushing up next to him, Wolf seemed to see it as well. He let out a low whine Kelwas felt against his leg more than he heard. He reached down and patted at the thick fur, as much to comfort himself as Wolf. When Goldenrod, tears like veins of silver down her cheeks, slipped her hand out of the window to a raucous chorus and much flapping of wings, Kelwas turned away. He knew what happened next and did not want to see Goldenrod's brothers transform the flesh and bone of her hand into a new key. With Wolf following, he left and wished he could not hear the little gasping cries echoing all around him.

After a long time, he made his way back to the Lord's Chamber where Goldenrod's smile welcomed him back. He sat, and when she asked if he was ready to hear the rest of the story, he mumbled his agreement without meeting her gaze, afraid she might see what he had seen in that dim chamber. Embarrassed he had witnessed an old pain she might have wanted kept to herself still haunted this place. Goldenrod smiled at Wolf, who ignored her and paced along the bed, nose raised. When he lay down to watch the doorway with a sigh, Goldenrod continued the story.

Know that patience was something the king had long ago stopped cultivating. So when the raven told him a story instead of repaying his gifts with a simple answer he became more and more irked. When it became clear the raven had reached the end, the king almost scoffed.

"A wondrous tale, no doubt, but will you ask the Tziren of Night for a boon on my behalf or not?"

"Bloody it is, and painful what you ask."

"If that is what it must be," the king said in way of agreement.

At this, the old raven flew at the king and his flock followed, a frenzy of feathers and wings and sharp beaks like cold iron stabbing and stabbing and stabbing. Each struck at the old king's breast, only stopping when each had darkened their beaks with his heart's blood. Then, all but the old raven launched themselves up and up and up until the western winds caught them and carried them like a black cloud.

The old raven croaked out an old spell he'd been taught as a fledgling - one for binding bones and straightening broken feathers - over the old king before following his flock. For a long time, the old king lay there upon the flagstones, staring into an empty sky, able to see the Gates of Night with his waking eyes.

A day and a night and another day passed before the old king once more rose from the cold, cold stones. A pang shot through his chest, but it was faint and blood no longer flowed from his breast. He hobbled his way back through the halls of his court, their emptiness filled with the echoes of his footfalls. There he ate what crumbs he could find and rested to regain his strength.

Week piled upon week without the ravens returning. The snows deepened until the far hills bristled with trees as bare and leafless as spears, and frost settled like lace over river and leaf and lake. Before long, he heard horns in the distance and hurried up narrow stairs to see which son had at last answered him. You can imagine the old king's dismay when all three sons marched forth out the trees, followed by hundreds of soldiers. The stitched birds on their banners seemed to flap and soar as they snapped in the wind. 

Rushing across his courtyard, breath pluming behind him like a tattered pennant, the old king climbed the Dove Tower to watch his sons' armies approach. With mounting dread, he listened to commands shouted up and down the lines to set up camp.

Once tents had been raised, and the campfires kindled, crackling merrily, the king's sons rode to within hailing distance of the gatehouse. Arkhezhi, the eldest, took the lead on his dusty palfrey, with his brothers Iobhan and Mareshka flanking him on their horses. After their heralds sounded their horns, they made it clear to the old king his sons had come not to help him in his conquest of death. His heart flared with anger and he interrupted the herald, pointing at Arkhezhi.

"In your grasping, my son, in your defiance to my will, you would allow death to triumph!"

"Allow? Do you hear yourself, Father? How are we to prevent death?"

"And you were ever so boastful of being a renowned hunter."

"Very well, my liege - what hounds should we set after him? What steeds can we spur on to run Old Gaunt down?" What lance, its point clattering against his bony chest might draw lifesblood?"

"How predictable. Shall I string your bow for you, as well?"

"I could say the same of you, Father. Ever clutching your throne so tightly not I, nor my brothers, had a chance to rule--"

"Rule?" The old king scoffed. "None of you ever did anything to deserve it!"

"As the old story warns, 'Woe to the Prince, for he is slain upon the very hour the king dies,' Father. It is as measured as the turning of the moons above and the march of the seasons below."

"A king does not merely accept what is; no, he shapes things to his will," the old king said. "This is why you cannot rule."

"As you wish," Arkhezhi said, turning his mount. "Goodbye, Father."

At Arkhezhi's signal, archers rose from their hiding places and loosed a volley. As the arrows flew sunward, time grew sluggish enough for the old king to realize two things. The first was that for all his efforts, he had spoken his last words. The second was to notice that the shadows cast upon the far wall had resolved into a very tall and impossibly old man. Hollow eyes fixed upon the old king, he raised a bony hand, one bloodless finger extended and -- 

--And the chamber was filled with a cacophony of caws and screams and cries of Lesha! Lesha! and black-feathered wings flapping, flapping around them and all about them until they perched awkwardly on Goldenrod's head, shoulders, arms.

Her brothers had come home at last.

From their perches, each raven pushed against the others for their sister's attention. They stretched their necks towards her, nuzzling against her neck, and nibbling at her hand when she took too long stroking and preening another's feathers. When at last it was that brother's turn, he would croak open-beaked and milky-eyed with pleasure. Kelwas moved to comfort Wolf, who had leapt to his feet at the commotion. He hummed a low tune only for Wolf's ears, easing his hackles back down.

When one brother after another tapped the corner of Goldenrod's mouth with their glossy beak, she said, "save it for Father." Shooing them, she gestured towards the bed, where the old Lord had awakened. Eyes like pale ice that has never known melt followed the ravens as they hopped across his bed to perch on the tall headboard. The first brother pried open his father's lips to feed him like a fledgling. Finished, he let another raven take his place, and so on until every brother except Khrikhor had taken his turn feeding their father. With each feeding, the old Lord became more present, the edges of him becoming less diffuse as if traced with fresh ink. Kelwas was certain that the bed creaked under a weight that had not been there until now.

This continued, increasing so that by the time the last brother had fed his father the old Lord was suffused with a light felt but not seen. It spread outwards from his frail body to wreathe each raven until they seemed favorable stars shining down upon him.

"Father." Goldenrod fell to her knees at the foot of his bed. "My Lord, please. Take back thy words uttered in anger, take back the venom of thy curse. Thy daughter, thy humble servant beseeches of thee on behalf of my brothers. Let us be reunited once more."

Though he seemed more alive than before, the old Lord closed his eyes again, and did not move his mouth. Instead, each brother opened his beak to utter one word after another, until between them all, they patched together their father's response to Goldenrod.

Ah, Iralessa my daughter. How I wish I had the strength to do thy bidding, to see thy smile once again. I am but a memory of my former glory still haunting these halls. If thou could but wring water from stone, perhaps. . . perhaps. . .

"Father," Goldenrod said, her voice ragged with tears, "My Lord, please. I beg of thee."

"I," said one of her brothers in his raven's voice.

"Hath," continued another.

"Spoken," croaked out little Krikhor with his head bowed, the feathers of his nape fluffed.

With that last word, the light that had set the hairs on Kelwas' arms to dance retreated. Back, back so that the ravens lost their unseen crowns and the old Lord lay on his bed, dull and lifeless as a spent fire. Not dead, for his chest rose and fell, and his breath whistled between his lips, but no longer as alive as he had been moments before.