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She was up with the sun, just as she was every morning, and it was the subtle tremor of the clayware on her breakfast table that alerted her to the presence of a stranger. She tensed, watching the freshly-made tea slosh in its cup, and pulled her dressing gown more tightly about her body. She approached the window with caution, having half a mind to snuff out the candle she’d lit to brighten up her small cottage just so that the stranger would go away. But rent was due, and if there was any chance at all that this visitor was a patron – well, she was in no position to refuse.
The hoofbeats of the stranger’s horse drew nearer. She peered through the crack in her shutters silently and appraised her unexpected guest. A man of some means, she presumed, based on the emerald cloak he wore slung around his shoulders. He had a crop of sandy hair (unusual, for the fashion was for men to keep their hair long and tied back, though she supposed she shouldn’t scrutinize, wearing her hair in an unfashionable bob herself) and from what she could see of his skin, his body seemed fairly tanned. His horse gave a shrill whinny as he eased into a halt right outside of her garden gate. She exhaled through her teeth. No use pretending she wasn’t awake now.
“Hullo?” the young man called as he alighted from his horse. Muttering to herself, the witch known as Raven slung her veil over her head, hoping her dressing gown was passably modest for receiving strange men in the small hours of the morning. Her line of work drew enough attention; she hardly needed to give the biddies in the neighboring village anything else to speculate about.
“One moment, my lord,” she called through the window as she slid into her slippers, not pausing to wonder if perhaps this man was not a lord at all. When she wrenched the door open, the man was waiting politely, his hands resting idly at his sides, his leather riding gloves having been removed. A richly-colored cloak and fine leather gloves, Raven mused. If this man was as wealthy as he appeared, her rent could be paid by his patronage alone. She bowed her head demurely, as these sorts of men expected of women like herself, and waited for him to speak.
“Miss,” he said softly by way of greeting. “I am looking for the village wise woman. Do you know her?”
She looked up and found that his inquisitive gaze was as green as his garb. The color was almost shocking. She tore her eyes away as she responded to him. “That would be me, sir.”
The man gave an utterance of surprise. “You?” he asked, regarding her with nothing short of disbelief. “But you are so…” He broke off there, seemingly unable to complete his thought.
“Young?” she supplied. She’d heard it many times before. People expected wise women to be cronelike, matronly. Raven of Azarath was nothing of the sort. She was just shy of twenty-one years, with a shock of dark hair so black it may as well have been blue, and despite her daily digging in the garden, her body was not sore and achy but strong and able. She’d built her reputation in this town from the ground up despite all the scrutiny and general distrust that came along with her age…and her lineage.
“I was going to say beautiful,” the man said with a devilish gleam in his eye, “but young works just as well.” A smirk appeared on his lips, and Raven felt her demeanor cool significantly. It was all the same with these young lords; their sexual appetites were insatiable, and they made it everyone else’s problem. Raven adjusted her veil pointedly and stared back at the swaggering casanova before her.
“Was there some wisdom you sought, Lord…?”
The man cleared his throat. “Logan,” he said, thoroughly chastised. “Garfield Logan. You needn’t call me Lord. Gar is all right,” he said, not unkindly.
Raven shifted, watching him quizzically. “All right,” she agreed. “Gar.”
He brightened at the sound of his name on her lips. His smile, she regretted to admit, was dazzling. “And you are…?”
Raven resisted the urge to grit her teeth. The sooner she could see this transaction along, the better. “I think you know who I am, sir,” she told him. “I think someone sent you here specifically, and I doubt they’d have done so without telling you my name.”
Gar seemed genuinely confused. “I beg your pardon, miss,” he said sincerely. “I was told only that a wise woman lived in a cottage on the Blackfriar Road, and that she might have the answers I seek. I was given no name.”
“I see,” Raven replied. He seemed to be telling the truth, as puzzling as it was. “You are…a traveler, then?”
“Yes,” Gar confirmed. “I am quite a ways from home, miss. So please, you must forgive me the sin of not knowing your name. I assure you, should I learn it now, I shall never forget it.”
Raven found herself reddening slightly under the intensity of his gaze. Exactly what you need, you stupid girl. To fall prone to the charms of some self-important rich boy. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, Gar looking on patiently.
“Raven,” she told him finally, offering him a small, reserved smile. “My name is Raven. Please, how may I help you, Gar?”
Gar had the grace to look sheepish. “Miss Raven, I must apologize for taking up so much of your time,” he said, tugging lightly at his shirt collar. “I am looking for a tonic for a most…unusual malady. I know such a tonic exists, but would you believe it? I can only remember some of the ingredients.” He paused here to chuckle good-naturedly. “I had hoped your wisdom might fill in the gaps for me.”
Raven considered him for a moment. “What sort of a malady?”
Gar cast a wary glance over his shoulder. “Erm…”
Raven followed his gaze, her breath quickening involuntarily as she demanded, in a low voice, “Are you being followed?”
“No! No, miss,” he assured her, hands laid out in a placating gesture. Nevertheless, his voice was a whisper when he asked, “Miss Raven, how intimately acquainted are you with curses?”
Raven blinked, watching Gar’s features scramble into a mask of worry. Then, she stepped back to open the door, signaling for Gar to follow. “You’d best come inside,” she told him. He obliged, hurriedly tying his horse’s reins to the fence post before scurrying into the cottage like a man with death hot on his trail. Reassuring, thought Raven.
“Please, sit,” Raven instructed him once inside. He gingerly pulled out one of the chairs at the kitchen table and sat, his hands folded in his lap. So calm for a man who may not have long left to live. Raven shook her head again, then went over to the cupboard to begin rummaging through her supplies. “What is your curse?”
“Sakutia,” Gar said bitterly, watching her examine the contents of first one vial, then another. “Do you know it?”
“Not by name,” Raven admitted. “What does it do?”
“When I was a child, I was on a hunt with my father when I was attacked – bitten – by a beast,” Gar said, his voice wavering slightly. “My parents searched the land high and low for someone who could save me. I was their only son.” Raven paused her search for her mortar and pestle to offer him a sympathetic glance.
“They finally decided to try it themselves,” Gar went on. “They used ancient knowledge. Forbidden knowledge. But look – it worked.” He held up one hand and wriggled his fingers. “Here I am. Alive.”
“But?”
“But.” Gar sighed. “But the antidote made me part beast. It was the only way to fight the illness.” He locked eyes with the witch, delivering the next lines slowly. “And if I don’t take a counteracting tonic every day, I grow closer and closer to succumbing to my second nature.”
“A shapeshifter?” Raven breathed, knuckles whitening.
“I have heard it called many things,” Gar replied. He ran a hand down the length of his face. “In any case – a monster.”
“No,” Raven said firmly, turning fully away from the cupboard to face him. “Not a monster. I see a man before me now. We may be mere strangers, Garfield Logan, but I’ve met many a monster – many an irredeemable blot on creation – and you are not one.”
The smile he gave her was plagued with fatigue. “Yet the day is young.”
“That it is,” Raven agreed. “We have plenty of time to try and sort this. If you know you must have your tonic daily, why is it you find yourself without?”
“You may think me a fool,” Gar began hesitantly, “but I am not so great a fool that I set out on a journey without the tonic. I had more than enough. A few nights ago, though, I was overtaken on the road. The tonic was stolen from me, and the men who took it were so well disguised that I could not even begin to track them down.”
Raven furrowed her brow. “Highwaymen?” she said, puzzled. “But they left you with your finery.” And a pretty penny to pay this bill, she thought hopefully.
Gar was already shaking his head. “These were no regular highwaymen,” he said. “They knew me. They knew what I was.”
“But how do you–?”
“They called me changeling,” Gar interrupted, his bright eyes darkening at the sound of the word. “They rummaged through all my belongings and kept only the tonic. They threatened to return me to Stev–to my father.”
“Your father is a cruel man?” she asked, her lips pursed. “But he saved you. He broke many laws to find the magic that would save your life.”
“That was my real father,” Gar explained, sounding exhausted. “Steven is…he and his wife found me. I am their so–their ward.” He turned to stare at the cracked window. “It’s a long story. And you’re a busy woman, I take it.”
Raven sat down across from him, laying out an assortment of dried herbs on the table. “We have time,” she told him. “If you want to share,” she added. She gestured to the herbs in front of them. “But first, do any of these look familiar?”
___
The good news was that Gar was able to identify far more of the ingredients of the tonic than Raven had dared to hope. The bad news was that she would have to experiment with likely concoctions to find the right mix, and some of the known ingredients were in small supply. Raven scribbled possible combinations in her journal as Gar – at her behest – regaled her with the story of his upbringing. It had been a ploy to distract him – there was scarcely a more troublesome thing than a client who couldn’t stop wringing their hands long enough to let her think – but she found that the story of Gar’s life was too interesting to allow her to focus properly on her work.
“And so I wasn’t leaving forever,” Gar was saying, as though he needed to absolve himself to her. “Steve can be overbearing at times. A bit tough on me. I simply needed some time to…to clear my head. To find myself.”
“But instead you found trouble,” Raven murmured thoughtfully.
“And that trouble led me to the homestead of a beautiful magus, so perhaps it isn’t all bad,” Gar said with a cloying smile. Raven cleared her throat and shifted in her seat at this. Perhaps this hadn’t been wise of her. She didn’t find Gar threatening in the least – and besides, even if he did try anything, she had plants in her cupboard that could take down a person thrice his size in two seconds flat – but she hoped she hadn’t given him the wrong idea by inviting him inside.
Gar seemed to pick up on her anxiety. He leaned back in his own chair, creating more distance between them. “And what about you?” he asked. “I’ve passed…what, an hour in your house by now? And you could write a book about me and I know scarcely anything about you!”
Raven couldn’t resist the smile that burgeoned on her lips. “I wouldn’t write a book about you,” she told him matter-of-factly.
“If I do the gentlemanly thing and pretend not to be wounded by that, will you try and be a little less mysterious?” Gar teased, drinking up the last of the now-cold tea Raven had poured him.
Raven regarded him for a moment, then laid down her quill and began stretching her fingers. “All right,” she agreed quietly. “It may be time for a break anyway.”
“Quite. You’ve been working yourself to the bone over this.” Gar eyed her ink-stained hands with mild concern. His own fingers twitched, as if they thought to reach out and envelop hers.
“I would do the same for any paying customer,” Raven said quickly. Best to put any thoughts of camaraderie out of his mind. Then what are you doing divulging information to him? her inner voice hissed. Quickly, before she could talk herself out of it, she met Gar’s eyes. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” Gar said enthusiastically, leaning forward like an eager schoolboy.
Raven gave a slight grimace. “That’s not a very good place to start.”
“Well,” Gar hummed, “where are you from?”
Raven nodded as if she had expected the question. “I’m from here. Or at least my mother was.”
“Was?”
“She’s dead now,” Raven revealed, fussing over the frayed edge of one of her journal pages.
“Ah,” Gar said softly. She didn’t have to look up to know his eyes were the picture of sympathy. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes, me too,” Raven said.
Gar cleared his throat. “And your father?”
“He’s alive,” Raven said darkly. “But he’s not a good man.”
“Well, we both know about that, then,” Gar replied conspiratorially.
“No,” Raven said, “my father isn’t like your father. He isn’t just…stubborn, or impulsive, or reckless. He’s…evil.” She swallowed thickly, hardly daring to look Gar in the face. “And everyone here knows it.”
Gar tilted his head. “I see,” he said in a measured tone.
“His name is Trigon,” she told him, though he hadn’t pressed. “He is a statesman, and he is known throughout the kingdom as a very violent man. He holds human life in such low regard.” She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the trepidation in the faces of the villagers when she first arrived in town. “And I am known as Trigon’s daughter. The daughter of pure evil. He sponsors my activities here – for the most part. I am expected to pay my own tenancy and make my own way, but at least he allows me some semblance of freedom instead of keeping me locked away somewhere.”
Gar narrowed his eyes. “And what does he get in return?”
Raven smiled humorlessly. “He thinks I am working on creating a poison. A disease with no cure, which can wipe out entire populations if need be.”
“Can such a thing exist?” Gar wondered.
Raven shrugged, her shoulders limp. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I would never want to play a role in creating something like that. But I fear that if I don’t do this for him eventually, someone else will, and I’ll…I’ll have done nothing to stop it.”
“Your hesitation says enough,” Gar said firmly. “Refusing to cooperate with his plans is your own way of fighting back.”
“Yes, I hope so,” Raven said, sounding unconvinced.
Gar lifted one of the vials from the table, holding it up to the dimly filtered light to examine it. “How is it that you came to know so much about healing and magic?” he asked her. “I can’t imagine this father of yours had any interest in nurturing your talents.”
“I was raised in a convent, actually,” Raven answered, instinctively reaching out to receive the vial from his hands. She tried not to tremble when his fingers brushed hers in passing. “At Azarath.”
Gar nodded solemnly. “I know the one.”
Raven quirked an eyebrow. “Really?”
Gar grinned. “No,” he admitted. “Forgive me. I’ve always been a bit of a jester.”
“Your wit is unrivaled,” Raven said drily, but there was a tinge of humor in her tone. “When my mother died, the Azarathians interceded and took custody of me. No one likes Trigon, but the Azarathians least of all. They are a peace-loving people. And they knew that if I was left in Trigon’s care, he would taint me before I even had a chance to learn otherwise.” She exhaled sharply. “They raised me in the convent, and Trigon sent men after me a few times, but I suppose eventually he just resigned himself to waiting. While I lived in the convent he didn’t have to pay to keep me alive, and he knew he could come reclaim me as his rightful daughter eventually. I lived in fear of that day.”
Gar was frowning. “I’m sorry to hear you weren’t given a true childhood.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Raven said softly. Her veil had slipped, and she gingerly moved away some of the hair that had fallen into her face. “I had time to run and play. I learned to read and write, which is more than can be said for many girls in this kingdom. I loved being outdoors and I learned to garden and forage, and how to make food and medicine from even the roughest materials. Most importantly, I suppose, I learned about goodness at the convent. I learned how to control the unbridled rage I had inherited from my father. There was always the weight of knowing I would someday fall back under his power, but at the very least, I learned I was capable of something better.” She found Gar’s gaze. “I intend to do as much good as I can before he breaks me.”
“Who’s to say you’ll be broken at all?” Gar asked in a gentle tone. “I’ve only known you for a short while, Miss Raven, but you seem very strong-willed to me.”
“You’re very kind, sir, but it’s in my blood,” Raven said, her voice hard. She strained against a growing lump in her throat. “I was always destined to follow in my father’s footsteps. It’s the only reason I was born. I have brothers, too – they are Trigon’s true heirs. But he needed more than just an heir. What he needed more than anything was a pawn, someone entirely expendable to help him push his plans along.” She realized she’d been absently crushing a dried flower in her palm and released it abruptly, watching its withered remains fall to the table. “And that is me. That is what I will become.”
“And what if you ran?” Gar said in a quiet voice.
Raven fixed him with a stare, laughing bitterly. “He would find me,” she explained as though he were a simple child. “He would hunt me down and drag me back. Probably torture me. The end.”
Gar winced at her brusqueness, but pressed on anyway. “You could escape,” he insisted. “If you made a solid plan – if you played your cards right – you could have a different life. All you would need would be provisions and a few well-placed allies.”
“Allies?” Raven echoed, amused despite herself. She leaned back in her chair to examine her guest, arms folded across her torso. “And where does one find those? You’ve heard me say I am the daughter of evil incarnate. To be sure, the village people tolerate me, so long as I know my place and stay in it. But to sanction me? To help me rebel?” She snorted. “So I ask you – who would have me?”
“I know someone,” Gar said, a glint of hope in his too-green eyes.
Raven scowled, straightening in her seat. “If you think you are the first overgrown boy to waltz into my cottage assuming that entry to my home means entry to my bed, you are sorely mistaken, my lord,” she spat at him.
But Gar was already fending the words off with a frantic gesture, his expression incredulous. “You mistake me, miss!” he cried in earnest. “Here!”
Gar reached into his doublet, retrieving an intricately folded piece of parchment and unbinding it on the table for Raven to view. Warily, she leaned forward, taking the paper between her fingers. On it was a crudely drawn sketch of a trio – two men and a woman. Raven’s eyes narrowed as she studied it.
“That’s Princess Koriand’r,” she said, indicating the tall, curly-haired woman at the center of the page. The princess from the faraway kingdom of Tamaran had been the talk of the town even in Raven’s remote village when she was sold by her own sister into slavery. Raven wasn't aware she'd been freed.
Gar nodded. “That’s right,” he said. He pointed to the dark-haired man in a mask beside the princess. “And this man calls himself Nightwing. No one knows his true identity, though many suspect he hails from Gotham.” He slid his finger to the other side of the page, indicating a dark-skinned man missing an arm and a leg, apparently wearing some sort of wooden device to supplement each. “And this,” Gar said slowly, leaning closer to her, “is Victor Stone. The most talented inventor the world has yet known. I met him last season at the market in Lamumba.”
“Why are you showing me this?” Raven asked, sliding the paper back across the table to him.
Gar held the paper up, tapping it with one finger for effect. “This is your way out.”
Raven cocked her head to the side, unconvinced. “A poorly conceived drawing of a group of mysterious figures?”
Now it was Gar’s turn to scowl. “I did my best,” he muttered. “This is why I was leaving home, you see? I was going to find them.” He lowered the paper, looking at her searchingly. “They were going to be my escape. They could be yours, too.”
Raven shook her head, suddenly overcome by fatigue. “I am expected to take travel advice from a man who got himself ransacked?” she said wearily.
“A minor bump in the road,” came Gar’s reply. “Miss Raven, these people – they all come from notable families; or, they were in the employ of notable families. And do you know what they are doing now?” When she did not answer, he continued, “They are heroes. Vigilantes. They have turned their backs on extravagant wealth to advocate for the poorest of the poor. They champion the rights of misfits. They can offer us protection.”
“Why would they protect me?” Raven said. “I’m just a village witch. Hardly a princess or a renowned inventor or…whatever that masked one does.”
“You said it yourself,” Gar said with a shrug. “Your father is a powerful man. And a wicked one.”
“And that is supposed to recommend me to them?”
“That is supposed to show that you are different,” Gar urged, pressing his palms flat into the table. “You are an agent of change, just like the rest of them. Your father is wealthy and evil and you – you wish to be good. You are good.” Boldly, he took her hand. “Come, Raven,” he said breathlessly. “I know we are perfect strangers, but I cannot bear to leave you here knowing what a wretched fate awaits you.”
Raven withdrew her hand from his grasp, turning to survey her small cottage, the simple shelter of everything she owned. Her eyes landed on her straw mattress, beneath which she knew sat a satchel of coins, separate from her regular income, which she continually amassed and hoarded though she scarcely knew why.
Well go, child, the voice of her childhood caretaker seemed to entreat her. What have you got to lose?
Raven sat for a moment, watching the wax drip from the candle on her windowsill, and considered. She thought of the life she'd been given, the one she'd been told to expect. She thought of all the deaths she could die, all the places she could take her last breath.
And she decided that perhaps one path was more promising than the rest.
We can leave in the morning,” she told Gar, taking up her quill. “I shall need the rest of today to finish formulating your tonic.”
And this joyful stranger — this person whom she’d nearly turned away that same morning — there he sat beaming at her as though she had painted the heavens by hand, practically radiating his relief.
“The tonic…is more a cloak for my abnormalities than a cure,” he admitted to her, glancing back down at the drawing between them. “And who is to say? Perhaps I shall not need it where we are going.”