The Raven Tower

by Ann Leckie

The office of Raven’s Lease offered many privileges and a share (along with the Council of the Directions) in the rule of Iraden, as well as the rule of Ard Vusktia across the strait. But there was a price: two days after the death of the Raven’s Instrument—the bird embodying the god that called itself the Raven—the person occupying the Lease’s office must die, a voluntary sacrifice for the god. Shortly thereafter, while the next Instrument of the Raven lay in its egg, the next Lease would be secured and pledged. This was a process that took several days. A raven’s egg, even one inhabited by a god (or at least this god), takes nearly a month to hatch, but matters are nearly always arranged so that there is still plenty of time to be sure things happen as they ought, to be sure the Lease dies as he promised, and to be sure there is a new Lease ready to take his place before the next Instrument hatches.

To be the Lease was a tremendous honor, though not, you can perhaps understand, one that was much fought for. The ambitious generally aimed at the Council of Directions, or Motherhood in the Silent, positions that would grant one a good deal of power and influence without such a limited life span. Leases’ Heirs were generally born and raised to it—as Mawat was—and despite their privilege and ostensible power, had very few options should they refuse to step up to the bench.

I had not wanted to be buried in ice, and so I had not been. Thinking back, I had not wanted to be buried in the seafloor, covered over with layer after layer of drifting sediment, and so I had not been. I had willed, and I had acted, so very subtly that I myself had not realized I was doing it.

The person was a priest of her people. She had been taught by her predecessor, and her predecessor by her own predecessor, and so on for generations, to look for the presence of gods. Any unusual animal (an all-white reindeer, a particularly large eagle, a by then rarely spotted mammoth) or particularly striking natural feature might be the sign of a god’s presence. Once a priest had noticed or heard tell of such a thing, they would confront the animal or object, if possible, and speak a series of predetermined words paired with specific actions, and make a series of set offerings. They would repeat this over a series of years, or even generations, passing the details of the procedure down to their successor, until eventually the god responded, or the priest’s regular travels stopped bringing them into the vicinity of the possible divine presence. This priest knew to be patient. She knew from experience, hers and her predecessors’, that it could take a very long time to teach language to a god.

In response, the council, with the agreement of the Raven’s Lease, ordered the construction of permanent camps along the southern border. Or, more accurately, provided resources for the construction of banks and ditches around camps that had already become more or less permanent. After all, though of course the forest and the Raven both would prevent any real trouble coming from the south, gods are, as a rule, more easily able to help those who have already made their own efforts. And the Raven himself had agreed that stronger fortifications would be useful to him.

This was possible in theory; it is of course entirely possible to make some such statement regarding an object, the bones of gods or not—to make an object a godspoken thing. And a god’s words must be true. If they are not true already, that god’s power must change the world—or try.

There are some actions beyond the power of even the most powerful gods, and one of them is to say something happened that did not, or to say something did not happen that did.

“Is a god a friend of the prince?” You looked at him with disbelief. “He’s the heir to the Lease.” “Yes, yes.” The Xulahn waved your protest away. “And here in Vastai one god is ruling, but always gods are.” Still standing beside the table, the interpreter said, in Tel, “And ravens are assholes. But don’t say that. You can’t say that here without starting trouble.” The Xulahn said, as though the interpreter had not spoken, “A god that is small now is maybe not small forever, with the right friends.”

Still, it was that agreement over driftwood, and that coalition, that drew me into Ard Vusktia’s war against the Raven of Iraden.

“Things change,” I said. “Sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, but things always change. The ocean rises and falls. Mountains thrust upward and are ground down again. The war between Ard Vusktia and Vastai will end one way or another. The Raven of Iraden will be defeated or he will be victorious. I have no doubt the specific outcome is of great concern to any number of people. I do not doubt that it matters to you, though I am convinced that its importance to you is entirely a matter of your having made it so yourself. But I am a stone on a hillside. I have been one since before Ard Vusktia existed. Before humans existed. Why should that change because one god rather than another lays claim to some water?”

But let me tell you what I saw before I fell to earth! I saw two rocks collide, so far away from this world that it might seem no more than a bright speck, and one of those rocks might have passed silently by this world on yet another long trip around the sun, and yet because of that collision thousands of years ago and so very far away, it tumbled to earth instead. And I thought to myself that if I knew enough, if I had enough pieces of that puzzle, I could see what will happen and when, across those unspeakable distances, across those many thousands of years. Things change—you and I are both old enough to know it. But not all changes are inconsequential to us.” “Perhaps not,” I agreed. “But consequential for us is not the same as bad for us. And even if it were, even bad conditions pass eventually.” “We gods are usually long-lived enough to see that happen,” the Myriad agreed.

“The question is not,” said the Myriad, “whether distant events will affect us. This is not truly a question—they can, and have and will. Nor is the question how we will be affected. One can make any number of careful and informed guesses, but until events occur any predictions are subject to error, to the extent that one’s information, or one’s understanding, may be incomplete.” “I daresay one’s information and even understanding are bound to be incomplete,” I remarked. “The universe being so wide, and containing so much.” “Yes,” agreed the Myriad. “The relevant question here, it seems to me, is not any of those things. It is, rather, Do you care?”

Perhaps the length of one’s life was not important—except in the way it is to so many living beings, desperate to avoid death. Perhaps, long or short, it mattered how one spent that time. Perhaps, though change was inevitable, the specifics of that change might be something one could manipulate. Perhaps one could not prevent change entirely, but one could try to guide events so that things would be better, if not for you, then for some future being or beings whose welfare mattered to you.

They had been sent for. They would not otherwise have left Ard Vusktia. There was no history of twin sacrifice in Ard Vusktia. Though it wasn’t that the gods of Ard Vusktia (or the gods of the north for that matter) had never taken human lives as offerings. On the contrary. But human sacrifice there had never taken that particular form. So I suppose Ard Vusktia was more comfortable for them. But also, no boat would take them across the strait without a token from the Lease authorizing their crossing, despite the fact that any Iradeni might cross without such a token. This sort of thing may be why they grew up to be the sort of people that they were.

“No doubt,” I agreed, and did not argue further. But neither did I change my plans. The Myriad was a good friend, and a wise one. But I can be very stubborn.

“Well, you’ve always told us it was important to take initiative.” Oskel’s voice. Petulant. “You said yourself that if he wouldn’t be convinced, he was going to have to be dealt with somehow.” Okim’s voice, now. “And he wasn’t going to be convinced. Insolent, self-important…” “It just made sense to get him out of the way.” Oskel cut him off. “Not that you’ve done a very good job of that.” Hibal. “Well, I’d think you’d thank us.” Okim again. “He hasn’t come out of his room since they carried him into it. He must be more badly off than he seemed at first. Sometimes a blow to the head will do that.” He sounded satisfied at the thought. “He deserves whatever he gets. He broke my nose!” “And stabbed me,” put in Oskel. “But he’s not important. It’s Mawat who’s the problem. And we can’t just knife Mawat in an alley.” “Much as we’d like to sometimes,” put in Okim. “Well, apparently you couldn’t knife Eolo in an alley either,” said Hibal. “We didn’t know he’d be so quick,” said Oskel.

All things pass. Human life is brief. Even if the people in Ard Vusktia on that day had been allowed to live long and peaceful lives, they would all of them be dead by now. What is the difference? Why should I care if one or another human dies sooner rather than later? Or violently rather than peacefully? I don’t know. What I do know is that none of my four attendants were among those killed the day that Ard Vusktia fell to the Raven. For various reasons, I am fairly certain that while I lay outside the city wall, insensible, they escaped the wooden marchers and the human solders and did as I had bidden them, and fled to safety in the north.

“Sir,” he said as you pulled him along, “how can there be sickness in the water? The forest protects us from sickness.” He did not add, There’s only the forest between us and the Tel. “I don’t know,” you said. And then, when you were nearly to the door of the tower, he asked, “How do you keep from crying?” He’d begun weeping again. “I don’t always,” you admitted. “Sometimes you can’t.” “Oh,” said the boy.