The cicada-song shrilled through the quiet but couldn’t drown out the memory: Only a fool waits for the lightning to tell them to find shelter.
She had an oath to keep, somehow. A Birthright to find. Somehow it would be one and the same; somehow it would change Sabor for good. And she wouldn’t manage any of it from the shelter she longed for.
“Save as much as you can,” she said instead. “And find better kings.”
* * *
It was a funny thing; Fie thought she’d known how much she missed Tavin while he’d been gone, yet she kept discovering new ways she’d missed him over the two days it took to reach Jasimir’s procession.
She’d missed the way Tavin laughed with Varlet and Madcap as they taught him an especially scandalous walking song, the twist to his mouth when he dangled a string for Barf, how he looked at her when he said “Yes, chief,” … all that and more.
It wasn’t all sunshine and flower petals—Khoda had taken a sudden turn for the taciturn, and Tavin’s guards curled their lips whenever he slipped his hand into hers, and the two of them couldn’t steal a moment to themselves without snickers about safety. But they’d both dreamed of a day when he could take to the roads at her side, and with every step, that day seemed closer.
When they arrived at the procession, however, matters grew even more complicated.
Master-General Draga had made camp on the banks of the Vine, in what had once been a rolling, groomed pasture that spread like a blanket of green velvet over the lap of a stately Peacock mansion overlooking the river. Now plain canvas tents studded most of that fine lawn; the only comparatively clear patch was a broad stretch along the Vine, which had been staked out for mammoth pens. The great beasts were making the most of their proximity to the river, spraying themselves down in the late afternoon heat and wading up to their bellies in water that seemed to grow considerably muddier for their presence.
“Now, I know it’s been a long moon,” Fie said, tallying up the scores of tents, “but last time I saw the prince, all it took to get him across the country was about a dozen Crows.”
“Mother figured that once Jas resurfaced, Rhusana would make a power grab,” Tavin explained. “So she brought along some, er, light reinforcements. Though, if it were up to me, I’d put my naka on you over an army any day.”
“Looks like we get to test that.” Khoda nodded at the line of Hawks across the flatway.
Tavin glanced a little too long at the other Hawk. Fie had a notion why: Khoda was only a few years older than Tavin, with a fine-cut face, a promising tilt to his smile, and a too-avid concern for Fie’s well-being.
“It should be fine,” Tavin said firmly, pushing forward. “They’re expecting us.”
It was not, in fact, fine.
“You’re allowed in,” the lieutenant said, motioning to Tavin and his guards. “The Crows go elsewhere.”
Tavin frowned. “They’re with me. And their chief has business with the master-general.”
The Hawk lieutenant didn’t seem to find that credible. “The master-general’s orders for the flatway guard are to allow travelers to pass the camp in groups no larger than three. And no one is allowed into the area if they aren’t part of the procession, period.”
Tavin’s face darkened. “I’m sure you were told I’d be returning with a band of Crows.”
“My commander told me you left with guards and the renegade skinwitch.” The lieutenant glanced over his shoulder as riders approached from camp. “No one gave me orders about Crows. They need to move along and stop blocking the road.”
“Fine, I’ll order you: let the Crows in,” Tavin snapped.
The lieutenant drew himself up. “You’ll have to remind me, where does ‘bastard’ fall in the chain of command?”
Fie bristled on Tavin’s behalf. “Think it’s well above ‘dung-sucking dog-lover,’ so I wager he outranks you.”
Corporal Lakima abruptly coughed into her elbow. So did a few of the Hawks on the line. The lieutenant, however, was not amused.
“You’re addressing your betters, bone thief,” he snarled. “I could have you flogged—”
Tavin stepped in front of Fie, eyes burning. “Touch a hair on her head and you’ll lose your hand.”
Behind them, Viimo cackled. “Love this. Keep it up, lads. This’s the most fun I’ve had in weeks.”
“Shove it, turncoat,” Fie called back.
“We’re entering the camp.” Tavin took another step closer to the lieutenant. “With or without your permission.”
“Can we all please stop posturing for one minute,” Fie heard Khoda mutter under his breath.
“Is there a problem here?” a familiar voice called from behind the lieutenant.
The lieutenant made a face that dissolved like candy floss in water as Prince Jasimir rode up behind him, staring impassively down from the back of a horse.
“No, Your Highness,” the lieutenant said quick. “These Crows were looking for a place to set up camp.”
Jasimir let the silence hang a moment.
When Fie had first met him three moons before, he’d been fussy, naïve, and principled to a fault; if she’d been a thief, she could have emptied his pockets five ways in four heartbeats and convinced him it was for the greater good.
Perhaps it had been the time spent with his aunt, or with Fie, or the loss of his father, but the prince Fie saw now was no longer one painlessly crossed.
“They will be quartered next to me,” Jasimir said, icy calm, “and in the future, I expect my guests to be given significantly less trouble.”
“If Your Highness commands it,” the lieutenant said, looking like his teeth hurt.
Jasimir didn’t break his gaze. “I do.”
The lieutenant signaled the soldiers across the road, who parted to let them pass. Fie felt looks lingering on the back of her neck but said naught, only marched her Crows through.
Prince Jasimir dismounted and passed his reins to one of his own guards, striding over to Fie, a weary smile breaking free. He clasped her briefly on the shoulder, something Fie supposed would further annoy the lieutenant and appreciated accordingly.
“It’s good to—” His face fell as he looked about her band. “Oh no. What happened to your father?”
“He’s fine,” Fie said. “He’s a shrine-keeper now, safe and sound and bored brainless to the end of his days.” Then she connected why he’d noticed. “I’m sorry about the king.”
He shook his head, rueful. “You don’t have to pretend for my sake.”
A steward hurried over before the prince could elaborate. “Your Highness, am I to understand that these … guests will be situated in proximity to your tent?”
“Beside it.” Jasimir waved a hand from the man to Fie. “Fie, this is Burzo, my aunt’s steward. He’ll be assisting us in situating you and your band. Though we can arrange for you to, ah, share quarters with Tav.”
“We can?” Steward Burzo blinked, eyes darting between her and Tavin.
“I’d prefer it, if that’s fine by you, Fie,” Tavin said, still storm-faced. “Apparently there are Hawks who have time to waste hassling Crows. I don’t want any chances taken with their safety here.”
Fie hesitated. The prospect of a little privacy had almost more appeal than it ought to. That didn’t mean she could just leave her band on their own, though.
Lakima caught her eye. “We’ll continue to keep watch.” The rest of Fie’s Hawks nodded, looking nigh as vexed as Tavin.
The steward worried his bottom lip. “Surely the guards on duty will be sufficient.”
“You heard Tavin,” Jasimir said, steely. “No chances.”
“Understood, Your Highness. Ah—if I may.” He brushed a dusty patch off Jasimir’s sleeve. “I’ll see to—”
Something very peculiar happened then, and it happened very fast:
Fie heard the clatter of a spear dropping, saw a blur of leather armor and dark hair, stumbled as it passed between her and Tavin. Then the next thing s
he knew, Khoda was trying to wrench the steward’s arms behind his back.
Burzo twisted swift as an adder, slashing out with a dagger Fie hadn’t seen on him before. Khoda whipped away with ease, then swept the steward’s feet out from beneath him. In a trice he had a knee on Burzo’s back, holding the man facedown in the flatway dust.
“Look.” Khoda forced Burzo’s hand open. Fie crouched beside them, peering down.
On his palm lay a single strand of dark hair—Fie’s, plucked from Jasimir’s sleeve.
Fie sucked in a breath. If delivered to Rhusana, that hair was all it would take for the Swan Queen to bend Fie to her will.
“This man isn’t working for the Hawks,” Khoda said, flicking the hair out of Burzo’s reach.
There was a ring, and the second peculiar thing happened then and there: Tavin had drawn one of his short swords, the point leveled at Khoda’s throat.
“No, he isn’t,” Tavin said, “and neither are you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE CROWN
“They’re called the Black Swans.” Master-General Draga’s voice was calm enough, but she paced about the tent like a tiger pestered by a persistent bloodfly. “Always thought the name was a touch melodramatic. They’re spies.”
Fie would not put good odds on that bloodfly; nor did she put good odds on Khoda or Steward Burzo, both bound hand and foot. They knelt on plain, sturdy woven mats in the master-general’s tent before Tavin, Fie, Jasimir, and Draga herself. They’d offered surprisingly little resistance to being hustled straight to Draga; Khoda had just seemed resigned, and the steward utterly baffled.
Khoda straightened up now, looking almost indignant as he jerked his chin at the steward. “He’s not one of ours. And we prefer to be called specialists.”
“Specialists in infiltrating other castes, gathering key intelligence, and reporting back to their spymaster, the monarch, and myself.” Draga folded her arms, coming to a halt beside a rack of spears. “Spies. I understand you’re trained in identifying potential threats. What do you call a Swan agent embedded with one of Rhusana’s prime targets?”
“An asset,” Khoda said shortly. “I can assure you, the Black Swans have absolutely no desire to see Rhusana on the throne. If I were on her side, she’d already have Fie’s hair.”
“That’s a fair point,” Jasimir allowed.
Fie wasn’t sure any of it was a fair point. A whole moon, a whole moon Khoda had been spying on her and her band. The notion made her skin crawl. Aye, he’d run off Oleanders, he’d kept watch, he’d played the part of a Hawk all too well. None of it meant a damn if he’d done it to buy his way into her graces.
Tavin shook his head as he moved about the tent, lighting lamps with a fingertip against the waning daylight. “We can’t trust anything he says until it’s verified by a Crane witch.”
“No need to wait.” Fie pushed a witch-tooth free from her string with perhaps more enthusiasm than was appropriate. Any Crane tooth could spot lies from him; a witch-tooth could force him to speak plain truth.
Fie rolled the molar between her palms and looked to the master-general. “Who first?”
As Khoda opened his mouth to protest, Draga tapped the crown of his head. He slumped over in a healer’s sleep. “Steward Burzo.”
The tooth-spark snapped to attention at Fie’s call, a stringent old magistrate with little patience for criminals and even less for liars. “How long have you been working for the queen?”
Burzo blinked up at her, and the truth slipped out of him far more easily than she expected: “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know how long or you didn’t know you were working for her?” Jasimir asked.
“I didn’t know I was working for her,” Burzo answered.
Tavin seized his shirt and yanked him close. “You tried to take Fie’s hair. You tried to kill her guard. Who do you think you were working for?”
“I don’t know,” Burzo sputtered.
Fie set a hand on Tavin’s arm and shook her head. “He’s telling the truth.”
The master-general waited until her son let the steward go. “Burzo. Why did you do all that?”
“I…” The tooth-spark gave a hitch, like a net tugging on a bewildered fish. Burzo’s open face said as much, his mouth pursing as he searched for words. “I … wanted to.”
Fie and Draga traded glances, and the master-general tapped Burzo on the back of the skull. He wilted into a healer’s sleep as well.
“First the skin monsters, now this.” Draga rubbed a thumb between her brows, scowling at the ground. “The Swans have always been cagey about the extent of their witches’ powers, but … Rhusana knew when to push Burzo into taking Fie’s hair. There’s a chance that she can see what he sees or hear what he hears. We’ll keep him under watch until Rhusana’s dealt with.”
Fie rolled the tooth a little too hard against her thumb. Spies in her band, spies in Jas’s camp, and no knowing what secrets they’d stolen. If one more spy popped out of the woodwork, she was going to skip the questions and go straight to cutting throats.
When Khoda was dragged out of his sleep, he took in the unconscious huddle of Steward Burzo, then smirked at the rest of the tent. “I bet that was frustrating.”
Tavin looked ready to haul him about by the collar, too, but Draga held up a hand, face impassive as she stared down at Khoda. “What makes you say that?”
Khoda’s smile didn’t waver as he cocked his head. “I’m going to make a few guesses here, and you’ll tell me if I’m off the mark. Burzo didn’t know how long he was under Rhusana’s control. He didn’t know he was under her control, period. He also didn’t know what he wanted Fie’s hair for, only that he wanted to take it.” His gaze swept across all their faces. “Save your breath. I can tell I’m three for three.”
“This is why I hate spies,” Draga muttered into her hands. She turned to the rest of the tent, eyes lingering on Fie. “Before we go any further, you all need to understand that whatever you hear does not leave this tent. The Black Swans don’t deal in gossip; they deal in the kind of secrets that hold nations together. If you can’t keep those secrets, leave.”
“Unless you’re her.” Khoda nodded at Fie. “You definitely need her.”
Draga looked sore tempted to knock him out again. “Let’s get on with it. What do you know about Rhusana?”
“Not as much as I’d like,” Khoda answered, eyes on Fie and her Crane witch-tooth. For some, the truth was a knot to unwind; for others, a thorn to ease out. Fie hadn’t drawn truth from someone like Khoda before: what ought to have been stone-solid was instead slippery as an eel and thrice as hard to pin down. That made it all the harder to believe she was getting the whole truth.
“What does that mean?” Fie prodded.
“We haven’t been able to get anyone embedded close enough to her to provide hard information. If we could, the king would still be alive.”
Fie heard Jasimir suck in a breath behind her.
“The Black Swans believe in keeping the nation stable and whole,” Khoda continued, “and in preserving the rightful order. Only Phoenixes are trained to rule the kingdom, and the kingdom will only accept Ambra’s blood for a ruler. By birth and by competence, Rhusana is unfit for the throne, and we will do everything we can to keep her off it.”
Draga resumed pacing, arms folded. “At least we agree there.”
“Why were you following Fie?” Tavin asked, stony.
Khoda shrugged. His truth shifted and slid about, impossible for Fie to force to direct words. “I was already at Trikovoi, and we thought Rhusana might strike at her to distract the prince. Clearly we were right.”
“What do you know of the queen’s powers?” Jasimir asked, rubbing his chin.
“We know nothing,” Khoda answered. “We think she’s a witch. According to Swan records, her father was a Vulture, but the Swan rituals should have guaranteed she’d be born a Swan. A similar ritual should have guaranteed she’d lose her Birth
right when she married into the Phoenix caste. We suspect she learned how to thwart those rituals from her mother. And if she was born a witch, with a dual Birthright like Prince Tavin”—it was Tavin’s turn to make a noise, albeit one of disgust at the word prince—“then she’d have a Swan’s ability to manipulate people and a Vulture’s command over skin.”
“So you get the skin-ghasts,” Fie concluded. They’d known for nigh two moons that the ghasts were Rhusana’s work, yet there was something dreadful in knowing how. “And no one notices her because you already have all three Swan witches. Not the most outlandish theory.”
Khoda nodded. “By our count, there should be seventy-eight Vulture witches at all times, one for each of their dead gods. According to our sources, only seventy-seven are accounted for.”
“Is it even possible?” Jasimir asked. “The dead gods founded their own castes. Can they be reborn into a different one?”
The Black Swan’s glance flicked for the briefest moment to Fie before darting away again. He said evenly, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Fie caught her breath. It didn’t have to mean aught; maybe he’d just looked her way to gauge her focus on the tooth.
Still, Little Witness’s words echoed back to her: You are not what you were.
Whatever Khoda knew about that, she could pry out of him later, without Draga and the lordlings for an audience.
“Doesn’t matter how she got her powers, just that she’ll keep using them,” Fie said. “So where does she foul up? What are her weaknesses?”
Khoda gave an impatient sigh. “Again, we don’t have anyone close to her, so it’s hard to say. From what we’ve observed … she jumps to easy answers, and she’s prone to underestimating people she thinks beneath her. King Surimir never would have handed you Phoenix teeth.”
“Do you think she murdered my father?” Jasimir’s voice frayed at the very edges.
This time, the truth cut straight from Khoda, unflinching. “I absolutely do. But as with your mother, there’s no proof.”
Draga straightened at the mention of her sister. “You believe she assassinated Jasindra?”
The Faithless Hawk Page 10