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"As I was walking all alone,

I heard twa corbies making a moan;

The ane unto the t'other say-o,

'Where shall we gang and dine to-day-o?'"

Twa corbies. That's what he had said that night when she spoke of the two ravens behind him.

The talk and laughter of the crowded hall faded into silence. There was nothing but the bard's song, and by the pricking of the tender skin of her neck, Deirdre recognized the presence of strong magic in the room. How could they not feel it? she thought, looking at the laughing faces around her. But they did not.

"In behint yon auld fail dyke,

I wot there lies a new slain knight;

Naebody kens that he lies there-o,

But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair-o."

What did it mean? Alistair had gone dead pale and his eyes were wide as he listened to the tale unfold. He looks like a man hearing his own fate told, Deirdre thought. Then she shivered, knowing she had hit upon the truth.

"His hound is to the hunting gane,

His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,

His lady's ta'en another mate-o,

So we may mak our dinner sweet-o."

Deirdre listened with growing horror as the birds went on discussing the dead knight, planning how they might make use of him.

"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,

And I'll pike out his bonny gray een;

Wi' ae lock o' his golden hair-o

We'll theek our nest when it grows bare-o."

She glanced at Alistair, at the wide gray eyes and golden hair, and before she knew it she was across the room, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. His fingers gripped hers hard, but he didn't take his eyes from the bard as the tale reached its mournful end.

"Mony a one for him makes moan,

But nane shall ken where he is gone;

O'er his white bones, when they we bare-o,

The wind shall blow for evermair-o."

The song ended and the bard stopped his fingers on the harp.

"The twa corbies?" she asked, her voice sounding shrill to her own ears. "Are they with you still?"

He glanced at her, surprised, and with a rueful smile unloosed his grip upon her hand. "Aye, they are. And now we both ken why."

"Nay," she whispered. "It means naught, 'tis just a song—"

"Just a song?" he repeated with a lift of one brow. "Music has its own magic, lady."