The bough trembled as Tavin shifted, uneasy.
Fie sucked in a breath and pushed at the campfire with every ounce of command the dead Phoenix princess had in her. For a moment it held, relentless, roaring its fury—and then collapsed. The flames huffed out, the logs cooling to black. Even the coals darkened to a sullen gray.
She let the breath go. The Phoenix tooth simmered yet, its spark far from expired. Be quiet, Fie ordered, smoke still threading her fingers as she returned to the Sparrow witch-tooth.
The boys began to vanish again. There was a scrape to her left as Jasimir adjusted his perch. Then a startled curse—a flash of steel—
The prince’s dagger slid free from its scabbard and landed on the branch below them, a swaying silhouette, ready to drop and betray them at the slightest breeze.
And as the camp flooded with mottled torchlight, Fie saw Jasimir hadn’t wrapped the gilded, jewel-scabbed, gods-damned hilt in rag after all.
“Can you make it disappear?” Tavin whispered.
Fie pushed the Sparrow tooth’s range beyond their branch, but near the dagger, her bones buzzed a warning. She wasn’t about to foul their cover by straining too far.
“No,” she wheezed. The dagger would have to stay as it was. And they’d have to pray the thousand dead gods would, for once, be kind.
The Oleander Gentry circled below, sending tremors up through the branches as they mangled the turf where she’d lain just moments earlier. They were as the coils of an enormous, pale serpent, white sweat frothing from their horses’ flanks, white chalk dusting hands and manes and bridles, undyed veils and cloaks hiding their faces. Only the torch-flame burned hues into their edges.
Fie’s breath glued in her lungs, her heart pounding faster. The Phoenix tooth sizzled on its string. Its surly princess lingered yet. And the princess said she should give the Oleander Gentry a taste of fire.
Steady. Steady. Fie was no princess, she was a chief. She’d never have the luxury of a faint heart again.
Their leader slowed and halted his mount, his silvery sandpine mask turning from the campfire ashes to the forlorn wagon. “Is this it?”
“That’s their cart.” Fie thought she recognized the voice of the Crane arbiter from the village they’d just left. There looked to be near two dozen others, one of the largest Oleander parties Fie’d seen yet, with sabers and clubs and hand-scythes strapped at their sides, even a bronze-tipped Hawk spear.
The leader dismounted. Unlike the others’ mismatched cloaks, his pale silk robe looked tailor-made for nights riding after Crows. Only Peacocks had coin and time alike to waste so. He held one immaculate hand over the darkened coals. “Still warm.”
A thousand obscenities galloped through Fie’s head. It seemed the dead gods were not in a kind mood after all.
“So’s the pyre.” Another man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “But warm means it burned down mayhap hours ago. Wet or sandy means it was put out in a hurry.”
The leader’s sneer carried through his mask. “Thank you, Inspector, we’ve all seen fires before. But there’s no reason they’d simply abandon their cart.”
“They’re damned animals, they don’t need a reason.” No mistaking the Crane arbiter now, even under a layer of white paint and another of coarse-woven veil. She swung down from her horse and stalked over to the wagon to peer inside an open panel. After a moment she tore a strip from her veil and reached in.
“Well?” demanded the lordly Oleander.
The Crane held up Pa’s pincers, wrapped in her rag. “It’s them all right.” She spat at the ashes and slammed the panel shut, casting the pincers aside. “The wagon’s still full of their trash. They have to be hiding nearby.”
Fie dug her fingers into the bark.
Give them fire, the dead princess urged. Give them fear.
Fie could burn Sabor down from mountain to coast if she wanted to. Her and that bag of Phoenix teeth.
“That fire’s been dying since sundown,” the other Oleander man protested. “They must’ve set the pyre and run, they knew we’d come—”
“Don’t be absurd.” The genteel Oleander ran an idle finger over his mask, pacing slow about the camp. “These are Crows. They’re as dull as they are lazy.”
Heat simmered in Fie’s throat, in her belly, in her spine. Teach them to burn.
Smoke trickled through her fingers.
Then the Oleander lord snatched a torch from a rider and strode to the edge of camp, staring out into the dark forest.
He stopped dead beneath their tree. Beneath the prince’s trembling dagger.
The spark in the Phoenix tooth fell silent.
“They’re filth,” the lord said loud, thrusting his torch out into the night. He meant to taunt them, shake them from their cover. If Hangdog had stayed, that might have worked. “You hear me? FILTH.”
The plain, hard wooden face turned this way and that, scanning the trees. Torchlight oozed around the blade above.
Light puckered over the dagger’s jeweled hilt as it rocked on the bough. One end dipped. Fie’s eyes darted from the man to the dagger and back. Dead gods be kind.
“They’re the true plague of Sabor!” the man screamed behind his mask. “They extort us for our hard-earned property, then steal our children, our spouses, even our prince!”
The dagger slid a finger-width, then tipped swiftly back the other way. One branch above, the prince sucked in a breath.
“The gods weep for every breath we allow a Crow to take! And there will be no peace, no purity, until this blight is purged from our land!”
With a flash, the dagger slid off the branch.
Three things happened at once:
The Oleander lord turned on his heel.
Fie poured every ounce of her strength into the Sparrow tooth clenched in her fist.
And the dagger vanished in midair.
There was a tiny thud, and a razor-thin line where the point of the unseen blade jabbed into the dirt. The Oleander stopped, back to them.
Fie’s skull pounded, the camp swimming in her sight. Every bone rattled and whined. A copper tang singed her throat. Too far, she’d stretched the tooth-spark too far—but she couldn’t let go, not now—
The Oleander lord strolled over to the wagon.
“‘Feed the Crows,’” he drawled, disgusted. “Better to starve the damned leeches.”
With a flick of the wrist, he dropped his torch on the wagon’s top.
Fie cringed, her grip on the branch going white-knuckled as she fought to stay upright. Flames spread like a blanket over the dry wagon wood. If they were lucky, someone in the trees had smuggled out a stash of food. If not, they were in for a lean few days. Even a sack of rice …
A horrible thought near felled her from the tree then and there. No, there had been such a commotion before they took to the trees, for sure—
Her heart sank as a confused mew pierced the night.
Barf was still in the wagon’s hold. And the Crane arbiter had shut the way out.
The Oleander lord walked away.
“What now?” asked the Crane.
He mounted his horse and turned to the trees. “We wait.”
Flames began to lick down the wagon’s sides. Another cry rose from inside, unmistakable. The Crane hesitated, stretched a hand out toward the side panel, then jerked back at the heat. After a moment she, too, mounted her horse.
Another plaintive mewl wound around the camp.
The ghost of Pa’s voice scratched across her skull: You have to keep your eyes open.
Fie fought down vomit as her bones screamed, holding on to the Sparrow witch-tooth, holding her own panic back even harder, clinging to the only truth that mattered: she had to see Pa’s oath through. She had to keep the prince safe. She had to look after her own.
Tears burned salt tracks down her face.
Look after your own.
Blood trickled from her nose.
Look after your own.
The
Oleanders waited.
Look after your own.
Barf’s wailing rose, desperate, fearful. Flames streaked higher into the dark.
Something seized Fie’s elbow. She near fell off the branch.
“The tooth,” Jasimir muttered in her ear. “Give me the tooth.”
“Wh—”
“Will it still work if I’m holding it?”
“Aye, but—” Her whisper faded, another wave of dizziness splitting her sight.
The prince’s hand found hers. He pried the Sparrow witch-tooth loose. “Don’t let them see me.”
And before she could say another word, he slid down her robe-rope and dropped from the tree.
Tavin reappeared at her side for a split second as the Sparrow witch-tooth strained to cover them all. Then, mercifully, Pa kindled a third tooth. The Hawk didn’t vanish, but Fie found her eyes glazing right over him. Pa must’ve felt Fie’s own Sparrow tooth drop.
Even better, Tavin hadn’t yet kenned that Jasimir was gone. Instead, his hand settled on Fie’s shoulder. Whether he meant to comfort or restrain her, she couldn’t say.
Fie twisted the witch-tooth’s spark so she alone could see the prince. To his credit, he had landed with scarce a sound; his mother had trained him well before she died. Not a single Oleander looked his way, still hunting the dark for any sign of Crows.
Barf’s mews climbed to a frantic howl.
Jasimir plucked his dagger from the ground, and the Sparrow tooth’s range shrank even farther. Relief near brought tears to Fie’s eyes.
The prince’s bare feet were useful after all; he left nary a track as he picked a path across patches of moss and grass. But closer to the wagon, there was only open dirt. And two Oleanders idled nearby, their horses’ eyes rolling at Barf’s shrieks.
Fie studied Jasimir’s options from above: He could try to weave round the Oleanders. Or he could inch across the dirt and chance the horses startling at his scent. Both would take precious time.
Barf went quiet.
Prince Jasimir stiffened, then smacked one of the horses on the rump.
The horse whinnied and reared, its rider swearing. Jasimir darted across the dirt, ducking flying hooves, and rounded the wagon until it stood betwixt himself and the Oleanders. Fie had to allow that he’d been clever there: from that angle, the riders couldn’t see the side panel crack open.
Jasimir’s arm vanished into the flames, then reappeared with a fist around the scruff of Barf’s neck. He yanked her out swift and stepped back from the fire. Barf wriggled and buried her face in the crook of his arm.
And not a single soul had witnessed it save Fie.
“Get your beast under control,” the Peacock lord barked.
The rider who’d near been bucked off patted his horse’s neck. “Apologies, m’lord. She’ll settle once we’re away from the fire.”
Another man gave a shout, waving his torch to the road. “Tracks over here. Nail-marks on ’em, like their sandals. Headed south.”
The Oleander lord stared at the burning wagon. Jasimir took another step back. Sparrow witch-tooth or no, he wasn’t accustomed to going unnoticed. But the sandpine mask only turned to the road and then back to the camp.
“YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED,” he thundered, loud enough that Fie flinched. “LONG REIGN THE WHITE PHOENIX.”
Tavin’s fingers tightened on her shoulder again. This time she knew it had naught to do with her.
The Oleander Gentry spooled from the clearing like a weft of burning wool, all white and dust and flame.
Once the hoofbeats sank from earshot, Pa let his own Sparrow teeth go and whistled the all-clear signal. Crows rained from the trees, flocking to put out the burning wagon.
“I’m sorry about your cat,” Tavin said, and let her go.
Fie smirked up at him, a little jump-drunk from swinging betwixt fear and relief. “Well, I’m not.”
She cut her Sparrow witch-tooth free, and Tavin’s eyes flashed with panic as he realized the prince was gone. Then a muffled cheer rose from the Crows below, drawing his attention to where Jasimir stood, still cradling the groggy tabby.
“His idea,” Fie said, smug. “Royal command, even. Can’t disobey that.”
Tavin studied the prince for a long, long moment, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Then he crouched to better look Fie in the eye, face inches from hers.
“Jas is a good person.” His voice was a dangerous breed of quiet. “He’s going to be a good king. Better than the one we have. And by every dead god, I will do whatever it takes for him to sit on that throne.” His eyes narrowed. “I would have been sorry about your cat. But you would have been sorrier if anything had happened to my king.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Call it what you want. But you’re going to be a chief, and he”—Tavin jabbed a finger at the prince—“is the Crows’ only hope at not reliving this night, every night, for the rest of what will consequently be a very short life.”
He was right.
She gave him her coldest, nastiest smile anyway.
“Joke’s on you, bastard boy: they’re all short lives. Wager I’ve spent more nights ready to die for my kin than you’ve spent rolling palace girls.”
Something haunted shot through the razor hum of his anger. She hadn’t dug for a nerve this time but she’d rattled one all the same. He tilted back, his stare dropping to her mouth, and when he found words after a long moment, all he said was “You’re bleeding.”
Her nose. Fie tasted salt and copper tracks flaking on her lips. She scrubbed them away with a sleeve. “It doesn’t matter.”
Tavin nodded, still oddly off-balance, but a heartbeat later, humor glossed over his face once more.
“As for how I spend my nights … you might win that wager, you know.” Tavin rolled off the branch, effortless, dangling from his fingertips as he flashed that damned grin up at her. “If you’re counting only the girls.”
He dropped. The branch sprang back and near flung Fie off. She swore and flailed for a handhold.
Tavin landed and gallantly stretched out his arms. “Let go, I’ll catch you!”
“Get scummed,” she spat, and made her own way out of the tree.
By the time Fie touched ground, Jasimir had gone to work fishing out any goods that could be salvaged from the still-burning wagon, ducking his head with embarrassment as Wretch and Madcap lauded each rescue.
Tavin in turn had commandeered the cat. He shook his head when Fie stalked over, frowning at Barf’s bloodied paw.
“Give me a bit,” he muttered, distracted. “Looks worse than it is. At least, now it does. She tried scratching her way out.”
Fie watched a torn toepad slowly knit together and swallowed her spite. Perhaps the Hawk witch had some usefulness to him yet. For all his pompous nonsense, the prince had proven as much for himself.
And from the drawn look on Jasimir’s soot-streaked face, he’d learned the fear of strangers in the night after all.
But one Crow still hadn’t returned from the dark. Fie thumbed a certain Crow tooth in her string, worry gumming in her belly. The milk tooth gave off a sullen but welcome simmer, kin to the one knotted beside it. One tooth from Pa, one tooth from Hangdog, both burning bright in her mind. Crow teeth had no Birthright to conjure, but they carried a spark if their owner yet lived. Either Hangdog hadn’t crossed the Oleanders yet, or they’d passed him by.
Half a weight lifted from her shoulders. The rest stayed as she and the other Crows bundled up their meager surviving supplies into makeshift packs.
Then, at last, the light of the still-burning wagon carved Hangdog from the dark of the road, fake feet coiled around one shoulder, eyes hollow. A long scratch left red trails across one cheekbone, the only wound Fie could spy.
“Did you see them?” Pa asked.
Hangdog blinked, then nodded. After a moment he cleared his throat. “Rode by.”
“How far?”
Hangdog didn’t answer, eyes on the fire.<
br />
When he’d first come to their band five years ago, he’d not spoken for nigh two moons. Another Crow chief had found him the dawn after an Oleander raid, the only survivor. That chief wouldn’t repeat what she’d seen in the ruined camp, aside from a silent scrap of a witch-boy still clutching a fistful of spent Sparrow teeth. But she did let one thing slip: what had happened to Hangdog’s kin, what Hangdog had witnessed that night … it was all in full sight of the finest Peacock manor in the region.
“Far,” Hangdog said after a heavy silence. Another dark bead welled in his bloody scratch. “They won’t be back.”
Tavin shifted the cat to tap his own cheek. “I can fix your f—”
“No.” Hangdog sat by Fie, setting his false feet in the dirt beside them.
Fie glanced back to the Hawk. He raised his eyebrows at her. She ignored him and returned to the heap of supplies.
“Did you hear?” she asked Hangdog under her breath, knotting a bit of twine in one corner of the grass mat she was fashioning into a pack. “The riders. They said our days were numbered. They said—”
“‘Long reign the queen.’” Hangdog tried to help her fold the pallet over its contents, but it slipped from his shaking hands. “Aye. I heard.”
“The lordlings spoke true,” she whispered. “The queen—”
“I know.” Hangdog swore under his breath as he fumbled the mat again.
Fie hadn’t seen him this shaken in years. Ever, perhaps. She couldn’t blame him. The threat was real. They’d been sold to the Oleander Gentry for a throne.
And if she couldn’t get the prince to his allies, every Crow in Sabor would pay the price.
This road had trapped her, trapped Pa, trapped them all in the way only roads could—no going back now. For her ma, for her kin, she would walk it to the end.
Or, part of her whispered into the night, she was bound to die trying.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TWELVE SHELLS
Pa kept more Pigeon teeth than they could ever hope to use. After all, teeth were the easiest and cheapest viatik at hand, and city folk of any caste seldom parted with anything valuable without a knife in their face to encourage them. With the Birthright of luck, Pigeon teeth could bend fortune in the smallest ways: a timely look to catch a pickpocket, a spare three-naka coin in the gutter, a solid guess on six out of twelve gambling shells.
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