Reunion

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Chapter One

The sky overhead was black as a raven's wing, but the stars were already fading, and the horizon glowed through the lifting fog with the promise of a late summer's morn.

A boy of sixteen such summers trundled his wheelbarrow along a stony, rutted path. His tattered woolen tunic and leggings were scarcely enough to keep the morning chill at bay. To his left was a dense, shadowed forest. To his right, a steep, jagged cliff dropped away to a rocky, wave-battered shore.

This land was called Britain by some, Wales by others, but the boy, who was called Corwin, didn't consider himself a vassal of any kingdom. It was the year four hundred and twenty-five, but Corwin wasn't a cleric who kept track of the calendar. On this day, he was a simple beachcomber and hoped that was all anyone who saw him would think of him. For there was a price on his head, and his best hope was to avoid recognition.

Corwin's wheelbarrow sounded too loud to his ears in the predawn stillness. He wished he had thought to muffle the wheels with straw. The only other sounds were the roar of the waves below and the cries of the seagulls above. Those and a certain cawing raven that circled high over Corwin's head, a black shadow against the blacker sky, making raucous noise as if to mock him.

The raven was called Nag, and in Corwin's opinion it was an appropriate name -- nagging seemed to be all that the annoying bird ever did. It had belonged to his old mentor, Fenwyck, and now that Fenwyck was gone, the bird followed Corwin. But it wouldn't take food from Corwin's hand, and it never rested on his shoulder. It was almost as though the raven blamed Corwin for his mentor's death.

At last, through the mist, Corwin saw what he was looking for -- a lone, ancient, twisted and weathered cypress tree standing at the edge of the cliff. Its bent branches extended out over the precipice like an aged widow reaching for a love lost at sea. Some called it a “witch tree,” and there were many stories of how it had once been a sorceress enchanted by some god or demon. Corwin just thought of it as a lucky break. He had more practical uses for the tree than stories.

He stopped his wheelbarrow by the withered roots, as he had for many mornings in a row now, and pulled out of the barrow a long length of rope, a leather sack, and a wooden pulley. Corwin easily shimmied up the tree's twisted trunk and crawled out onto the thickest branch to hang the block pulley, avoiding looking down at the drop to the sharp rocks below. He threaded the rope through the wheel of the pulley and slithered back down the tree, holding both ends of the line.

Back on the ground, Corwin tied one end of the rope securely to the wheelbarrow. Then he kicked it off the cliff. As it swung out into the air, Corwin carefully let the rope slip through his callused hands, lowering the barrow down to the shore.

Now came the hard part. Corwin tied the end of the rope he still held around his waist and began the dangerous climb down the cliff face. The rocks were slick with dew and damp and sea spray. There had been a storm the night before, which made his footing treacherous, but his spirits hopeful. Storm waves always brought more shells and other treasures to the shore. In the past, he had found such wonders as a wooden shoe, hollow balls of green and blue glass, a carved flute of whalebone, and a very strange hairy nut that contained white meat and water. And for every ten buckets of shells Corwin gathered, the old blind button-maker Henwyneb would pay him a penny.

My life has certainly become lowly, Corwin thought, as his hand nearly lost its grip on a slippery rock. He had known better times. How he and Fenwyck, the only guardian Corwin had ever known, used to dazzle the crowds at the county fairs. Fenwyck styled himself a sorcerer and illusionist, and the pennies flowed in amazement at his tricks. Of course, some of the pennies would flow from their unknowing owners' pockets and purses as Fenwyck and Corwin walked among the crowd. There had been more than a bit of thief in Fenwyck's conniving nature, and that had proved his undoing.

If only you hadn't seen that little silver chalice in the castle, Corwin thought. Fenwyck, why'd you have to get yourself killed over a pretty bauble and turn me into a hunted man? But because Fenwyck had saved Corwin's life, in the end, Corwin felt more guilt and sorrow than anger.

It isn't like I haven't known worse times, as well, he reminded himself, as he just barely stopped a sliding fall by grabbing a root that stuck out from the cliff. Corwin's earliest memories were of wandering alone in the woods. He'd managed -- his senses had kept him out of the worst danger, and he'd grown up strong. He'd manage again, somehow.

At last, Corwin reached the bottom of the cliff. He untied the rope from his waist and untied the other end from the wheelbarrow. There was enough sand between the rocks that he was able to maneuver the barrow along without much trouble. With a now much-practiced eye, Corwin scanned the shore, looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that wasn't driftwood, sand, or stone.

Unfortunately, the storm didn't seem to have brought him any special treasures this morning. But there were plenty of shells, and Corwin dutifully filled the leather sack. He also picked up mussels and put them in his pockets so that he might have a meal later in the day. Nag, the raven, helped himself to some shellfish on the sand, as well as whatever unlucky fish had washed ashore.

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Excerpted from Reunion by Kara Dalkey
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.