A raven croaked from the lintel of the door. Gils yelped, his knees buckling as he threw his hands over his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut until he saw dancing sparks. The black wings beat the air just above his head.
thump-whirr, thump-whirr.
Like a heavy cloak snapping in the wind.
He hated the black ones. They were too loud.No he did not hate it,hate was such a strong word.
He liked them less.
Their eyes were like bits of polished coal that saw too much. His brother, the Brave, had once told him ravens could talk. Gils had saved his pennies, counting them every night under his cot, copper after copper , until he bought a bird of his own from a mummers' market in Yarzat.
ùHe had wanted it to say his name.
But the bird only ever said one word. Meek. Meek. Meek.
Gils knew why. He had seen his brother standing by the cage when he thought Gils was away, feeding the beast bits of suet and cracked corn, whispering to it.
