Eyes Of Crow

Advance praise for

JERI SMITH-READY’S

EYES

OF

CROW

“Jeri Smith-Ready’s lyrical prose brings to life unforgettable characters and a poignant story that haunted me long after I finished the novel. She has a remarkable gift for making the reader care about her world and its people. Highly recommended.”

—Catherine Asaro, bestselling and Nebula Award-winning author of The Dawn Star

“Fantasy and romance blend together to create a wonderfully organic novel… . Neither element is predictable, the story woven with a deftness that enhances the power of Smith-Ready’s gentle take-no-prisoners style in both love and war. Eyes of Crow draws the reader in one subtle thread at a time, catching them in a complex, beautiful world they may never want to retreat from.” —C.E. Murphy, author of Urban Shaman

“Eyes of Crow lured me into its clutches by page two. By the end of the first chapter I felt like I was walking around in Jeri Smith-Ready’s world—and had no desire to depart. Ms. Smith-Ready has woven an exquisite tapestry of a world filled with texture and richness. Beware reader! You may never want to return.” —P.C. Cast, bestselling author of Goddess of the Rose

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,

The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear.

—William Butler Yeats

“The Two Trees”

JERI SMITH-READY has been making up stories in her head since she was five, but waited another twenty years—until the night she had her first double espresso–to write them down. Growing up outside Philadelphia, she created an array of imaginary friends with complex relationships and story lines. This project ended when real kids moved into the neighborhood.

Jeri holds a master's degree in environmental policy and lives in Maryland with her husband, two cats and a retired racing greyhound.

For more about her work, life and delusions of grandeur, visit www.jerismithready.com, or e-mail her at [email protected].

Eyes

of

Crow

Jeri Smith-Ready

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Mom, for her faith

Many thanks to my family, for encouraging my love of nature and love of writing.

Much gratitude goes out to my “first readers,” who spied gaffes big and small that I couldn’t see: Danell Andrichak, Catherine Asaro, Sharon Galbraith-Ryer, Cecilia Ready, Terri Prizzi, Tricia Schwaab, and Rob Staeger. Kudos to the hardworking folks behind the scenes at LUNA who helped bring the book to life: Mary-Theresa Hussey, Adam Wilson, Tara Parsons, Karen Valentine, Marleah Stout, Kathleen Oudit, as well as artist Chad Michael Ward of Digital Apocalypse Studios.

Thanks to my phenomenal editor Stacy Boyd, who gave intrepid support and insightful feedback from Day One. This novel wouldn’t exist without her care and vision. My agent, Ginger Clark of Curtis Brown, Ltd., “gets” me like no one else; she’s the best ally an author could ask for.

Thanks most of all to my husband, Christian Ready, for his love and patience, and for answering bizarre questions on seemingly random subjects.

The dog would not die.

Surely he was ill, and had been a puppy before the dawn of Rhia’s earliest memory, more than five winters ago. He lay before the fire with his thick gray head in her lap, staring dully into the flames. She stroked the wiry hair along his side. His flesh felt cold, and she could fit her fingers between the ridges his ribs made in his skin. Even his halting breath smelled stale, like a half-open grave.

All her senses told Rhia that Boreas would not see tomorrow’s sun. And yet …

Her mother Mayra turned from the table and crossed the room, feet whispering over the wolfskin rug. Holding an earthen bowl and a pale green cloth, she knelt beside Rhia.

“This will take away his pain and help him on his journey home.” She showed Rhia the bowl’s contents—a tiny amount of liquid, no more than what the child could cup in her palm. It wasn’t enough.

Mayra covered the bowl with the cloth and began to chant, low and soft, calling upon her Otter Guardian Spirit to augment the medicine. Rhia closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind of fear and grief. The Spirits worked best when those present stayed out of their way.

Through her eyelids Rhia saw a golden light flare, the color of the sun on an autumn afternoon. A swish of liquid and Mayra’s whispered gratitude told her that Otter had hearkened to the plea for help. When the light faded, Rhia opened her eyes and locked her gaze onto the dog’s. Two tears, then another, plopped onto his muzzle.

Mayra dipped the cloth in the half-full bowl to let it soak. They sat listening to the only two sounds in the room—the dog’s labored puffing and the snapping of sparks in the stone fireplace.

Rhia heard the cloth drip into the bowl as her mother squeezed it. The drops must not be wasted, but enough medicine needed to reach the dog’s throat to give him release. Even in his withered old age, Boreas was much larger than Rhia—on his hind legs he could rest his paws on her head. A year ago, while Rhia was recovering from a muscle-wasting illness that sapped all strength from her limbs, Boreas had lent her his sturdy back and legs as a crutch. Now on cold nights like this one, when the wind and the wolves howled in harmony outside these log walls, she would curl up within his furry frame, one forepaw over her shoulder, and sleep warm and safe.