Read Mercedes Lackey - Anthology for Free Online

wind stirred the
ashes, and as the black flakes lifted into the air so did the ravens, a swirl
of bird shapes, black and bright, mounting the morning sky.
     
                 Note:
For those who are interested in learning more about ravens, I recommend the
following.
                 Bernd Heinrich, Ravens in Winter, N.Y.: Vintage, 1989
                 Lawrence Kilham, The American Crow and the Common Raven, Texas A&M University Press, 1989
                 Candace
Savage, Bird Brains, San Francisco : Sierra Club, 1995
                
     
     

A QUESTION OF FAITH
     
     
           by Josepha Sherman
     
                 Josepha
Sherman is a fantasy writer and folklorist whose latest novels are Star Trek:
Vulcan's Forge and Son of Darkness. Her most recent folklore volume is Merlin's
Kin: World Tales of the Hero Magicians. Her short fiction has appeared in
numerous anthologies, including Battle Magic, Dinosaur Fantastic, and The
Shimmering Door. She lives in Riverdale , New York .
     
     
                 ARIKAN,
travel-worn and weary, stopped on the narrow way between the cliffs to catch
his breath. It had been a long journey, and he was no longer a boy to go
tearing along. And ... it had been a long while since he'd been here. Far too long.
                 On
either side, the jagged gray walls towered over him, with the bright blue
desert sky high overhead and the heat of the new day filtering down through the
fading chill of the night. Ahead, Arikan thought with a sudden surge of joy so
strong that it astonished him, lay the village of the
Eagle Spirit People.
                 His people.
                 No
doubt, Arikan thought, starting forward again, the lookouts somewhere up on
those cliffs had already spotted him. And, presumably, since there'd been no
attack, they had recognized him first as not of the Owl Spirit People, the enemy,
then as one of their own.
                 They
would recognize him, would they not? Arikan's mouth quirked
up in a wry grin. Maybe not, at that. He had,
after all, spent a long time out there in the desert, years alone, seeking a
vision, seeking any sign of ...
                 Of
some reason to still have faith. To still believe in
something. Arikan couldn't trace the exact moment when he had lost
belief, only that it had slipped away from him, leaving him empty.
                 Ridiculous for a man grown to be hunting a vision. No wonder
he'd seen and felt absolutely nothing. Save fatigue. And thirst. And utter
boredom.
                 But
the desert's privation had changed him, given him a lean, spare body and a face
sharpened by its lack of any extra flesh. His hair was long and ragged, his reddish-tan skin burned a darker brown. A wild thing, he, no doubt about it. Unlikely, Arikan
thought wryly, that any would recognize him.
                 Ah,
but there lay the village, the skin lodges of the People spread out in the
so-familiar jumble, and Arikan's grin became a true smile. He hurried forward.
At least there was this in which to believe, the village and those within it. His people. His home.
                
                 A
child playing in the dirt saw him first, and let out a shriek that brought
everyone running. Arikan found himself facing a wall of warriors with drawn
bows, their eyes so wild with alarm that he said hastily, "I am Arikan!
You know me, Karik, and you, Lathai—I can't have changed that much!"
                 The
warriors stirred, moving aside to let a lean old figure pass: Wenketh, Arikan
realized. The shaman's hair had turned pure white, and his face held more lines
than before, but he stood as proud and straight-backed as ever.
                 "This
is Arikan," was all he said, then turned away as
though no longer concerned. As the bows were lowered, Wenketh called over his
shoulder to