I pull my shoulders back and stick a hand on my hip. “What’s wrong with me being the one?”
He jams his hand through his sun-stroked hair, dislodging a bramble or two. Unlike me, though, he mustn’t have charged through the flesh-grater shrub because his skin bears no cuts. “That sob story you fed me about your great-grandmother and Commander Dargento. Was there any truth to it?”
“Silviusisafter me, but theseeking out my great-grandmotherpart was a fabrication.” I feed my foot into the stirrup and hoist myself up like the knights from Mamma’s books. Thanks to my pants, the process is swift and easy. “I was told not to speak to anyone about the prophecy. If I’d known . . . Why didn’t you tell me Antoni was in on”—I draw a circle in the air to encompass the crow, which is, oddly enough, nowhere to be seen—“everything?”
Bronwen hands me the reins. “Thank you for escorting Fallon across the canal, Antoni. You will be greatly rewarded for your valor and loyalty.”
Is she evading my question because Antoni hasn’t been informed ofeverything?
“Funny you should speak of loyalty, considering where Fallon’s lies.”
Bronwen turns her unnerving stare toward him. “What are you trying to say, Antoni?”
“That perhaps she’s not the best person to entrust with gathering the king’s crows.”
So he does know everything . . .
“Fate picked her. Make your peace with it and go play your part.” Bronwen’s tone was never sweet, but now, it’s downright brittle.
“Fallon is smitten with Dante Regio. You really think she—” Antoni’s head jerks back, and he peers into the darkness that stirs above our heads.
The crow has returned from gods only know where crows go.
“Lore,” he breathes.
“Not so much a legend after all.” I thread my fingers through Furia’s long mane, stroking the gleaming ebony coat beneath, waiting on Bronwen to give me my orders. Perhaps they’ll be to follow the crow, who seems to know where to go.
“How”—Antoni swallows—“how is he free?”
He?Is the crow male or did Antoni use the pronoun like he could’ve used any other pronoun?
“Fallon liberated him.”
I guess it is ahim.
Bronwen’s head is tilted, and her eyes set on the heavens. Can she see the crow or is she sensing his presence?
“Why would a Regio-devotee agree to collect Lore’s crows?” Antoni watches it land on the thatched roof of what I imagine is Bronwen’s home. “And again,how? Obsidian is noxious to—”
“Devotee?” My fingers glide out of Furia’s mane and settle on the saddle’s pommel. How can Antoni liken me to some senseless zealot? I’ve got plenty of sense. “I may appreciate Dante, but I’venoappreciation for Marco, which iswhy, Antoni, I’ve agreed to collect these legendary crows.”
“You do realize that dethroning Marco Regio won’t win you any brownie points with his brother, right?”
I’m guessing Bronwen hasn’t told him the part of the prophecy where I become queen. I suppose he’ll find out soon enough. “Dante and his brother don’t have the best relationship. He’ll see reason.”
“Tà,Mórrgaht.” Bronwen nods, pallid gaze fastened to the space the crow occupies.
Morrgot? Is that the creature’s name?
Apparently, I’ve asked my question out loud because Antoni says, “Creature?”
“The crow.” When his eyebrows stay knitted, I add, “The mythical, winged thingamajig perched up there. Is Morrgot his name?”
“Thingamajig?”
Is he daft? “Oh my Gods, Antoni. What is wrong with you? Why do you keep repeating everything I say?”
Although Antoni’s mouth opens, Bronwen speaks first. “Yes. Mórrgahtis his name.”
