"One Raven Pass?" Horace repeated. "Why One Raven?"
"One raven is sorrow," Will said absently, repeating the old proverb.
Halt nodded. "That's right. The pass is the site of an old battle many years ago. A Scotti army was ambushed in the pass and wiped out to a man. Legend has it that since then, no bird-life will live there. Except for a solitary raven, who appears every year on the anniversary of the battle and whose cries sound like Scotti widows weeping for their men."
"How many years ago did this happen?" Horace asked. Halt shrugged as he rolled up the map and replaced it in his map case.
"Oh, three or four hundred years back, I suppose," he said carelessly.
"And how many years does a raven live?" Horace asked, a small frown furrowing the skin between his eyes. Halt rolled his eyes to heaven, seeing what was coming.
Will tried to step in. "Horace. . . ."
Horace held up a hand to forestall him.
"I mean, it's not as if it's breeding there and this is it's great-great-great-great-grandson raven, is it?" he said. "After all, it's one raven, and one raven can hardly have great-great-great-grandsons on its own, can it?"
"It's a legend, Horace," Halt said deliberately. "It's not meant to be taken literally."
"Still," said Horace doggedly, "why not call it something sensible? Like Battle Pass? Or Ambush Pass?"
Halt regarded him. He loved Horace like a younger brother. Even like a second son, after Will. He admired his skill with a sword and his courage in battle. But sometimes, just sometimes, he felt an overwhelming desire to ram the young warrior's head against a convenient tree.
"You have no sense of drama or symbolism, do you?" he asked.
"Huh?" replied Horace, not quite understanding. Halt looked around for a convenient tree. Luckily for Horace, there were none in sight.
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