The light has thinned, rendering the field a patchwork of leaden grays and ashen lavenders. I squint to make out a human shape, but besides the crow and the occasional winged insect, no other being blights the dimmed landscape.
Did I imagine the voice? Was it my conscience reminding me to be humble? If it was, my conscience has a mighty husky timbre. Rather masculine.
Unless it wasn’t a person but a— “That voice . . . it came from you?”
The crow doesn’t answer, yet I take his silence as a yes.
“How—how are you speaking to me right now?”
“You’ve given me back my voice.”
“I’ve . . .” I lick my lips. “How?”
“By uniting two of my crows.”
Goosebumps coat my collarbone. “This is insane.”
“I take it Bronwen told you little about me.”
“Bronwen told menothingabout you. I thought I was collecting statues, not magical birds that can send visions and speak.” I swallow down my rising pulse. “Your beak doesn’t move, so how are you making noise? Are you—what are those court entertainers called again?—a ventriloquist?”
A ventriloquist?A snort resonates inside my skull.I’m no ventriloquist.
“Then, how?”
I’m speaking inside your mind.
My mouth parts a little, then a lot.
Have I flummoxed you, Ionnh Báeinach?
It’s silly, but I’m not a fan of his term of endearment or being called a Bannock. “I’m not that young, and my last name is Rossi, not Bannock.”
There’s a moment of stillness, scarred only by the churning of the air around Morrgot’s wings.You are Cathal’s daughter, which makes you a Báeinach, but if you prefer to wear a punishing general’s name, then I will abide by your wishes.
My lips pinch. “I prefer to wear my mother’s name.”
There’s a lengthy pause. One that resonates with unspoken words.
“Will all five of your crows do what those two just did?”
Yes.
“And all their names are Morrgot?”
Yes.
“And Lore is your master?”
A beat of silence slips between us and then the word,Yes.
“And this Lore, are we looking for him as well? Is he currently a statue spurting water into the king’s bath?”
The crow doesn’t smile, yet I feel his smile. How? I cannot explain it. Perhaps it’s the slow-churn of citrine ringing his pupils that are fastened to me. Perhaps it’s my imagination.
He’s not spitting water into anyone’s tub, no.
Although I have a thousand and one questions for him, I stockpile them for a time when my mind isn’t reeling from the sound of a man’s voice inside my skull.
