The raven spread its glossy black wings and flew away, unseen, down South Caligard Street, until it came to the crumbling clock tower known to Brysailors as “Old Snaggletooth.” Here it alighted and folded its wings once more. It preened its feathers for a moment, then stopped to resume its normal activity: watching. Waiting.
It was a patient creature, this raven. Time, rather than blood, ran in its veins. Its thoughts were the sand in the hourglass; its feathers, the hands of a clock. Its heart beat once every second, regardless of whether it was resting or flying. It could wait a long time. A very long time. Forever, in fact.
It waited now, patiently, for Seymour de Winter to fall asleep, so that it could meld his mind with those of the remaining Five.
Henry Thomas Mantoux Edmund was slumbering in a tangle of blankets in his room at the inn. Seoc MacInnes and Simon Edmund were both unconscious, huddled like puppies on the floor of their cell. Seoc’s older sister, Fiona MacInnes, had nodded off while reading a book in a drafty chamber in the Castle Carviliet. And a fox-like creature that called itself Raif was snoring gently in its warm burrow. Seymour de Winter was the last of the Six still awake.
All Six would share the same dream tonight.
Yesss, they would indeed. The raven would make sure of that.