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."Here's your money, half-orc."Orrag raised his eyebrow and looked at Whitlock.He took the bag and opening it, peering within to eye the coins.Whitlock turned to the rough wood door leading outside.The wind still rattled the boards of the granary's roof, but he had no intention of spending the night in the same structure as a brigand with orc blood.The storm had been fierce but mercifully short.Opening the door, he looked at Melann.She came with him, but glanced back at Orrag."Thank you, sir," she told him, "and may Chauntea be with you." Orrag didn't speak as they left, but his face contorted as if the priest’s parting words were a curse and not a blessing.Chapter FourRavens are liars.Though most people don't believe animals to be part of the struggle between good and evil, no one, including the Ravenwitch, ever asked the ravens.Of course, even if she did ask, she probably wouldn't get a truthful answer.The Ravenwitch knew her creatures enjoyed falsehood for its own sake and maliciously sought to trick and fool other creatures- and each other-whenever they could.They laughed at the misery and confusion of others and relished the infliction of pain and the letting of blood.The Ravenwitch spoke to her feathered servants at length, in their own language, asking them the location of Yrrin.She quickly tired of their silly half truths and used her power over them-master to familiar.Yrrin had been gone for at least half the day and she needed him."Yrrin is gone," one raven said."Yes, my dear," the Ravenwitch replied, "I know that.I need to know where he has gone." "Away," another raven cawed.Her hair, as smooth and dark as a moonless night reached to her waist and almost seemed like part of her long black dress.A cape covered in black feathers trailed behind her along the wooden floor of he tree home.All around her were dozens of ravensThe birds perched on every nook and ledge they could find, hopped across the floor, and flew about her head.She enjoyed, as always, their grace and beauty as they flew, but today she needed information, and she needed it quickly.The Ravenwitch didn't smile at her servants' antics this day.Dark eyes slowly began to smolder like kindling at the beginning of a dangerous fire.Her thin, graceful lips drew tight as she raised a graceful, milky white hand.A raven lit there and looked at her with eyes almost as black as her own."Where is Yrrin, my friend?" she asked the raven coolly."Flown away," the raven replied, "gone to join King Azoun for tea!"Without warning, yellow, soundless flames surrounded the raven and the witch's hand.The bird's wings rose up in surprise and pain, but it couldn't leave her hand.The other ravens in the room took to the air, agitated and excited.Each black, round eye focused on its pain-wracked comrade.Raven thought held little room for compassion but a good deal for intimidation by example.Observe the misfortunes of others closely, lest they befall you-that was the way of the raven."I am sorry, friend, but I have no interest in your little games this day," she whispered to the raven."He went outside," the raven said with a quivering beak."He never returned from fetching water from the river!"The flame stopped.Neither the raven nor her hand showed any sign of burns.The raven flew off, its flight wobbly and erratic, but it was unharmed.The ravens echoed choruses of apologies and pleas of forgiveness from the Ravenwitch, but she dismissed them with a gesture."I know you cannot help your natures, my friends," she said, crossing to the staircase."It is a terrible thing for a creature to deny its true nature."The Ravenwitch lived in a tree.This particular tree, however, stretched its branches much higher than those around it-more than almost any natural tree.The massive trunk stood like a tower in the middle of the forest, yet as big as it was, the hollow space within, where the witch lived with her familiars, was even larger than one might expect.Despite the room inside, the tree lived and in fact flourished with the presence and care of the witch and her familiars.The Ravenwitch flowed down wooden stairs that had never known a nail, saw, or even a chisel, her long hair and dress trailing behind her like a wake
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