Perhaps Bronwen gave him some magical oats that can last him a week? The more I think of it, the more it’d explain his energy. If only I could eat some magical oats . . . or some more berries.
I turn away from Furia toward the crow, who’s taken flight and is circling me again. “Where to, Morrgot?”
The bird takes off, gracefullly soaring through the marbled sky. It strikes me that he, too, probably hasn’t slept, but since I know he’s magical, I’m guessing he doesn’t need sleep.
I trail after him, the cramps in my legs easing as I walk through verdant fields filled with wildflowers and grass as tall as my knees. I plan on collecting bushels of it on my way back. Butterflies as yellow as Flavia Acolti’s room flap around my hands. One even lands on the tip of my nose, eliciting a laugh from me.
Here I imagined Monteluce barren and inhospitable, but it writhes with life and color. Why have purelings painted the environment as so hostile when it’s anything but?
I crane my neck to check on the crow’s direction, find him drawing lazy circles over my head, golden eyes trained on me. “Are we almost at the ravine?”
He soars forward. After another long while, the grass begins to thin and the air to fill with the thunder of streaming water. I slow, keeping my gaze riveted to the orange earth beneath my boots, watching for the imminent drop-off that comes more suddenly than I’ve anticipated.
Morrgot seems to think I’ve missed it because he slams into my body with an astounding amount of force for such a slight bird. I hobble backward, my boot catching on a rock that sends me tumbling onto my ass.Great.Exactly what I needed.
“I’m not blind, Morrgot.” As I wobble back to standing, I add, “But I appreciate you looking out for me.”
My assurance doesn’t stop the crow from hovering close. His every wing beat stirs the hair framing my face. I push a hand through my shoulder-length locks that are so knotted the crow may mistake it for a nest. I decide to worry about it later.
Keeping a full boot’s distance between myself and the edge, I peer downward. I don’t notice the statue immediately, my gaze affixed to the bottom of the gorge, which is so far below, I actually gulp.
If I slip, it’s game over for me. No crows. No crown. No Dante.
Even falling into the stream wouldn’t save me, considering the carpet of boulders protruding from the foaming water. “You better have a backup crow collector, Morrgot, because this is a suicide mission.”
The crow, as per usual, doesn’t make a noise. He merely drifts beside me, observing his skewered twin on the ledge below.
Could I craft a tool to fish out the bird without scaling a rock facade as smooth as the Isolacuorin pontoon?
I could tie stalks of grass together but even if I manage to snare the bird, the weight of its solid body will snap my makeshift rod. Since it can’t hurt to try, I turn away from the gorge to hunt down sturdy stalks.
With hands hardened by blisters, I braid bushels together, then knot each plait until I’ve finagled a satisfyingly thick and long rope.
Morrgot has been watching me in silence. I wonder what’s going on inside his little head, if he deems me a curious two-legged specimen or an ingenious one. After fashioning a loose snare like my neighbors taught me when I was a child and would try crab fishing from the embankment between our houses, I return to the brink of the ravine, crouch, and feed my rope into the void.
“Wish me luck, Morrgot.”
He doesn’t wish me anything. Doesn’t even send me an encouraging vision. Does he already know whether it’ll work? Can he see the future like Bronwen?
It takes me four tries to loop my snare around the crow’s neck. I’m tempted to pump my hand in the air but won’t rejoice or pat myself on the back until the crow darkens the earth beside me.
Barely breathing, I tighten the snare. And then, only then do I start tugging.
Slowly.
Slowly.
The odds of this working are about as good as Phoebus dating a woman, but this is a magical quest and I’m a prophetic crow-seeker, which must—hopefully—increase my odds of success.
When the creature’s torso begins to lift, so does my optimism. If this works, I want a medal.
I put one hand over the other, again and again. The effigy’s talons roll off the rock, and although it’s probably in my mind, the scrape of metal against stone seems to echo across all of Monteluce.
I stop to breathe. In and out. In and out. This is it. The pivotal moment that will decide whether I become queen, a blood splatter at the bottom of a ravine, or Marco’s future prisoner.
Holding my breath, I pull.
The statue lifts.
