The raven chose that moment to try a furtive sidle toward the butter. Traithe batted it aside without ceremony. Through its outraged croak and the breeze fanned up by its wing beats, he said, ‘Has no one ever thought to school you to understand your birth-given gift of light?’ Touched on a life-long source of bitterness, Lysaer spoke fast to keep from hitting something. ‘No one considered it necessary.’ The raven retreated to the top of the door jamb and alit on a gargoyle crownpiece. ‘Ah.’ Traithe set his chin on his fist. ‘For a prince in direct line for a crown, such judgement was probably
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