A black streak shot down from the bow of an elm. The wings arched to cushion himself as he settled in the grass. With three sharp snaps of his beak, he snatched up three fat snails, cracked their shells like beechnuts, and tipped back his head to guzzle the contents. Tultharian country wasn’t all bad. The snails were juicer. Didn’t rain all fecking summer. The yellow elms arched over the rutted road like lacy parasols, dappling the bare dirt with cool green shade and wavering sundrops.
It was a matter of finding her.
Well, no, it was never a matter of finding anyone. It was a matter of catching them in private and in a situation where they wouldn't be interrupted and weren't so vulnerable that they would shriek or throw things or go off in a panic to tell the villagers that a giant demon-raven had appeared in front of them and whispered vile prophecies with the tongue of a man, or whatever the hell they thought was happening.
Not like that had ever actually happened, though, the raven mused. The wanker, who with one minor blink had taken the whole thing in stride. The quiet lady, who had been forewarned. The big guy, so lost in his own interior landscape that one more apparition barely made a difference. Still, there was always a first time.
When hoofbeats clapped from the bend in the road, he fluttered back to his branch, retrieved a beribboned letter, and took off like a streak of black ink behind them. He knew who it was, of course. He always knew the delivery.
Trailing along behind a speeding carriage was not as simple as it seemed. Then it was a matter of waiting for them to stop, then making sure the stop wasn't a piss-break because there was no hope of engendering good will when you caught a lady with her skirts hiked up. But no one paid particular notice to a raven on the wing, even when it was clearly following a carriage like a small dark cloud of trouble, even when it lighted on the gable like a bad omen. About the closest he came to trouble was taking cover behind a chimney-pot as they went into the inn, since Glenn of all people might be watching the sky (though hiding ended up feeling a bit more like a betrayal than the raven was comfortable admitting).
By then it was near-dark anyway. He settled in to wait. Hopefully they weren't sharing a room--not for risk of seeing anything he shouldn't, but because the queen had specifically requested to be told if they were and he didn't want to have anything to report. Unfortunately, the windows were the sort with shutters. And no outer sills. He'd just have to take the risk.
A dozen or so smoky black fingers threaded their way through the wooden slats, gathering themselves into a knot on the opposite side. A letter manifested, seemingly out of thin air, and plopped to the floor.
"Shit," the cloud muttered, then solidified further into the distinct shape of a large bird. "Ah, shit again, didn't mean to swear--"
And then there was an embarrassed raven, quite substantial, very real, balanced on the windowledge. And a letter, rich with wax seals and red ribbon, upon the floor. The raven spoke as quickly as he could: "A message for Genevieve Tolleson; listen, please don't panic, I come in peace, I know Glenn."
Not that knowing Glenn made it any more likely to be welcomed.