“What about Swan?” I ask, stepping over a thorny plant that threatens to jab me. Braizen shifts his arm in the rudimentary sling we constructed from supple branches and vines, then protests loudly.

“Swan? Surely you jest!”

“You’ve made fun of every name I’ve offered! You’re too hard to please!”

He shakes the long stick he carries in his free hand into the air. “On the contrary, my dear! I’m quite easy to please. But your nicknames are atrocious. Swan? Woodpecker? Cuckoo?”

“I thought that one was fitting!”

He stops walking and squints a warning. “Easy, Sparrow,” he says.

“Fine, fine. Let’s see… What other kinds of birds are there? Hmm…” I tap a finger to my chin and scan the sky, though I know I won’t see any here. “What about Raven?”

“Raven?!”

I grunt at his displeasure and roll my eyes. “Maybe I should just call you a parrot since you repeat everything I say!”

“It’s just that…Well, a nickname should be personal! What do I have in common with a raven? If you can name three things, I’ll gladly accept the name.”

“I don’t know anything about ravens,” I say and admit defeat.

“Well, that’s your first mistake,” he sighs, shaking his stick at me. “Ravens are incredible. Did you know that they can imitate humans? Once in the aviary….”

“Shh,” I push my finger to my lips.

He immediately falls silent and follows my gaze.

A cottage sits nestled in the trees. The path that leads to it is overgrown, and its door is little more than rotting wood. Perhaps it’s abandoned; maybe it’s filled with deserted food and clothes. I glance at Braizen, and he nods. We weave our way between the trees.

I pray to The Lady that we find tonics and elixirs inside to help Braizen. He’s making a valiant effort, but I know he’s in great pain. The sweat on his forehead and bags beneath his eyes give him away. His usually tanned skin is turning pale. He needs more than his jokes to succor his wounds. Both the physical and internal ones. We approach slowly, and once at the door, I press up against it to peer through a small hole. I don’t see much. Turning to him, I whisper.

“On three?”

He nods, then lifts his stick like a sword. I mouth, “One, two… Three!!!”

The door catches and scrapes loudly against the stone threshold, and then we’re inside. The interior spills over with knick-knacks. At least a hundred jars of jam cram the shelves, and piles of dried herbs lie across a large, wooden table. I walk closer and touch their brittle leaves. They’ve been dried out for years, it seems.