The Phantom Queen Awakes Read Online Free PDF

the villagers who had gathered around to look at the fallen
raven.
    “That will do us no good,” said the
miller.
    “We have only the songs,” said Una, whom Maire
did not like.
    “They will do no good either,” muttered
Sorcha, whom Maire did like. “The Raven Queen weakens.”
    Maire listened for the hiss that should have
followed those words, but heard nothing.
    “You might try praying there,” Maire said,
waving towards the chapel. “If the Raven Queen―” she said the name
coolly, but no one stopped her “―has lost all power, there’s a
magic there that might protect you.”
    “Or it might be she needs their
blood.”
    “Blood to restore the ravens.”
    “Blood to restore her sight.”
    “Blood to restore her flight.”
    “Three deaths she’s had, three and three more
she needs,” crooned another.
    Maire’s hands whitened around her walking
stick.
    “Might be,” she said. “Might be. And I’ll be
going to find out.”
    “And how will you see?”
    Maire smiled. “I won’t need to. I’ll
feel.”
    “And how do we know you will have the
strength?”
    Maire held up her bag. “I have her wings,” she
said.
     
    ****
     
    She ignored the hisses of the village women as
she left, along with the well meant prayers of the monk who called
out to her as she left; bag over one shoulder, a stout staff in her
left hand, tracing out the old road from the village that passed by
the mound.
    In truth, it could hardly be called a road,
that path, though it led to other places; other villages, even
fabled cities and towns that Maire had never visited, but had heard
of from the few travelers and monks that entered their village in
search of bread or other goods. She did not think of those cities
now as she used her staff to push her way along the
path.
    It had been a true road once, she’d heard, and
then the ravens had come, not dying. Her hands whitened again, and
she thought of the two babies still in the village, the other small
children playing in the fields.
    She felt the first drops of rain touch her
face; felt an odd tug to her left, then her right, then her left
again.
    She took three deep breaths, turned about
three times and followed the pull, feeling her feet walk up a
mound―
    ―and then felt the earth slide away beneath
her, felt herself falling, falling, wrapped in sudden chill, almost
thinking that she heard the feathers screaming...
     
    ****
     
    She awoke in the cold and the utter
stillness.
    She did not move for a long moment. This was
wrong, she thought; the underworld was supposed to be filled with
whispers, with music. She remembered the tales of the shadows that
pulled men into the mounds for dancing, of the little red capped
creatures that promised wealth and beauty to women.
    No tale had mentioned silence. Or the cold.
For a moment, she heard the voices of the village woman ― the
ravens are dead . She shook herself, and reached behind her for
the sack of feathers. She pulled one out and stroked it.
    She thought she felt a faint touch of cold
wind.
    Sitting here would do no good. She raised
herself up, adjusted the bag around her shoulders, and stepped out
into the darkness, clutching the feather.
     
    ****
     
    As she walked, she sometimes thought she heard
half whispers, or half snatches of songs, hushed before she could
catch a word. She was certain, however, that the cold kept
deepening. She had brought with her a cloak of double woven wool,
but it did little against the chill.
    The path ― and it was a path, marked with
rough walls on each side, which to her fingers sometimes felt like
stone, and sometimes had the slippery feel of what might have been
bone ― followed, she could feel, a slow downward spiral. After what
seemed hours of walking, she wondered if she was heading in the
right direction, if perhaps she should head towards the top of the
mound. She paused, turned around on the path, and stepped
forward―
    ―only to feel herself heading down
again.
    She reversed