No.
“Are you saying the diviner has riches of her own buried somewhere in Rax?”
No.
“Then where, do tell, will the gold come from?”
From me.
“Youhave gold?”
Why is this so shocking?
“Because you’re a bird! How can a bird possess coin? Did your master give it to you?”
No one gave me a thing, Fallon.Morrgot’s eyes gleam darkly against the pitch-black sky, as though maddened I’ve relegated all he is to his physical nature.I earned every coin of my wealth through lucrative treaties and hard work.
I snort. I cannot help it. I’m picturing Morrgot tapping on doors with his beak, rolled parchments clamped between his talons. And then, more ludicrous still, I imagine him dragging a plow through a field. “Are you telling me that you used your built-in iron extremities to amass wealth in honest ways?”
You got me. Thanks to my arsenal of Crow powers, I’ve managed to loot, eavesdrop, and murder to my heart and people’s content.A beat of silence.How else could a bird commandeer so much loyalty?
The stories Headmistress Alice recounted may have been spoken by crow-fearing Fae, but all stories are based on fact, and the fact is, Morrgot’s a dangerous creature. One who can murder in the blink of an eye.
The memory of the two sprites floods my throat with bile. I swallow hard to slide it back down.
You should be terrified of me, Behach Éan.
Beyockeen? I stifle my curiosity because I don’t care for malicious nicknames, and I cannot imagine the awful-sounding words meaning anything kind after our inimical exchange.
“Tell me, Morrgot, will you be halving me like those sprites once I’ve freed your five crows?”
He answers without hesitation.I’ll have no more use for you.
Either he truly is the most detestable being, or his sense of humor needs work. “Some would say having a queen in your corner would be useful.”
Depends whose queen she is.
I frown, for if he’s heard the prophecy, then he’s aware I’ll be Dante’s. Oh Gods, does he think I’ll be Marco’s?
Before I can set him straight, he distances himself from me until he’s no more distinguishable from the firmament than the water from the sky. Not only is this crow sensitive, but his temper is worse than Sybille’s around her blood cycle.
Although the wind ruffles the boughs of the conifers dotting the field, the abounding silence swells to the point where I stop and whirl on myself to locate Morrgot. I begin to believe he’s abandoned me to this mountain, which embitters my already tart mood. What if I’m advancing toward a cliff? Sybille mentioned Monteluce was full of them.
“Unless you have more candidates with an immunity to iron and obsidian who don’t mind having their kingdom’s army chasing after them,” I hiss, “you may want to tell me whether I’m going in the right direction.”
These mountains are in your blood, Fallon.
Do I correct him and explain that genetics don’t work that way? I decide to skirt another battle of words and focus my dwindling energy on hunting the abundant obscurity for the crow.
Since his voice echoed inside my mind, I’ve no direction to follow. He could be perched on the mountain summit hundreds of meters over my head. Unless he can’t broadcast as far as he can hear?
“How much farther, Morrgot?”
My answer comes in the form of a whinny, as though Morrgot pawned the answer off on Furia.
Unless Furia is whinnying in distress . . .
I’m not yet familiar with equine sounds.
