“Aye.” Little Witness stood and dusted herself off. “We’re dead gods. And you, you go where you’re called. Come on, that young man needs to speak with you.”
She led Fie to the platform but didn’t get on herself, instead hauling at another lever set into the wall. “Send Gen-Mara up when you get down there. The lever’s by the urn of Pigeon teeth.” The planks shuddered. Fie wondered for a brief moment if Little Witness had decided to kill her off before Fie could strike first. Then the platform began to sink, steady and even.
“Fie.”
Fie looked up. Little Witness stood at the edge of the stairs, watching her go.
“This is a gift,” the dead god said. “Something to remember. You are not what you were.”
Little Witness vanished back the way she’d come before Fie could ask what that was.
When the platform touched down, Wretch and Khoda were waiting, faces drawn. Pa, Varlet, and Bawd all shared their unease, and so did Fie: whatever called for leading a Hawk into Little Witness’s watchtower had to be dire.
“I-I’m sorry,” Khoda stammered, “but we need to get on the road as soon as possible. The queen’s blaming you for the king’s death.”
The worst part wasn’t her surprise, nor was it her fury, though both rushed ice-cold down Fie’s bones. The worst part was that deep down, she’d known it would come to this. Of course Rhusana had found a way to fault a Crow for it.
Still, she asked, “How? There were hundreds of witnesses the night we went to the palace. He never showed his face, not even to watch Jasimir get carted out.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Wretch said with a grim shake of her graying curls. “On Her Majesty’s word … the king died of the Sinner’s Plague.”
CHAPTER THREE
TEETH AND MAGNOLIAS
“We were there when the message-hawk arrived from Dumosa.” Corporal Lakima dragged the back of her hand across her sweat-beaded cheek. Even in the flatway’s blistering midafternoon sunlight, she refused to discard her helm. “Her Majesty says you brought the plague into the palace.”
Fie scowled at the dusty road. The moment Pa had finished with Little Witness, they’d swept up the rest of the Crows and all but bolted for the flatway. He’d been right: with Rhusana trying to blame the Crows, they’d need as many active haven shrines as possible, and Gen-Mara’s was the largest by far.
“What a load of dog shit,” Khoda mumbled, then seemed to recall he was in the presence of his commanding officer. “I mean—beg pardon, corporal. That sounds like … like…”
“Dog shit,” Fie finished helpfully. “You had it the first time. What’d they do with the king’s body?”
“Her Majesty claims his most faithful servants burned him this dawn, then threw themselves on the pyre. She says they needed no Crows.”
Fie gave a harsh laugh, then coughed at a sudden mouthful of road dust. “Solid dung. If he died of the plague the day before yesterday, and they waited to burn him until today, half that palace would be wearing the Sinner’s Brand right now.” The Covenant had made a curious punishment of the Sinner’s Plague: the disease spread fast and far only after its victim died.
“Maybe the Oleander Gentry’s leaders are pushing her,” added Pa. “They must be worried, with the prince so close to the throne.”
Fie tripped, then caught herself. “R-right,” she said hastily, brushing it off. In the rush to clear out of the watchtower, she hadn’t had time to tell Pa of the oath they’d both thought kept, and now she didn’t reckon she had the nerve. “Rhusana just gave towns an excuse to turn us away.”
Lakima glanced over her shoulder, then lowered her voice. “Whatever the reason, she’s also targeting you. The report says to look out for a Crow carrying Phoenix teeth.”
“She’s trying to distract Jas, make him spend time tracking us down,” Fie said, scratching her chin. “Where do you reckon he’s at by now?”
“The last report had the prince’s procession moving down the flatway by the Vine, clearing Lumilar two days ago. If we make haste, we should be able to head due south and intercept them before week’s end.”
Fie mulled it over. Little Witness had said she wouldn’t find the Birthright until her oath was kept. But what would it take to keep it, if not handing the prince to his own aunt? She’d lost her own kin once to keep the oath; what more would it take from her?
What would be enough?
“We get Pa to his shrine,” Fie said. “Then we make for the procession, and if I ask nice, maybe Draga saves me some of the queen’s teeth.”
* * *
They reached Gen-Mara’s temple two mornings later, though Fie didn’t know it.
When Pa was chief, he’d never had a call to take the band to a dormant shrine, and in her short time as chief, neither had Fie. Every shrine she’d been to had buzzed and sang in her bones the moment she drew near, but all of them had had a keeper living on the grounds, keeping the teeth awake.
It wasn’t halfway to noon when Pa slowed, caught at Fie’s shoulder, and squinted up at a hill. From the flatway, all Fie could see were the crests of trees all but sagging with heavy deep-green leaves.
“There ought to be a roughway around here,” he said. Something had shifted in his weathered face, as if he weren’t wholly in this world. It reminded her too much of Little Witness.
Fie whistled a halt order. She didn’t see the entrance to a roughway, but that didn’t mean one wasn’t there. Like the watchtower, Gen-Mara’s shrine was too dear to risk just any old scummer stumbling in. “Bawd, Madcap, help us look.”
She could have saved them the trouble of poking about; Pa was the one to find it a few minutes later. He’d paused at a dense thicket of parasol ferns, brow furrowed, then set a hand on a gnarled magnolia tree. A moment later Fie felt the sparks of Peacock teeth shift and shiver. Enough of the parasol ferns vanished to expose a smooth, worn dirt road. Another magnolia tree marked the other side of the path, and now Fie saw a clay jar clinging to each, held tight against the trunk by knots of vines. Both hummed with the song of Peacock glamours.
Corporal Lakima motioned for her soldiers and said, “If anyone asks, we’re taking a … How long will you be?”
Pa shrugged. “I’ve been here once, years ago. I’d say an hour, two to be generous.”
“… A late breakfast, then.” Lakima started toward the road. She stopped to look back at Pa. “This is the last I’ll see you, isn’t it?”
“Most likely,” he said, and tapped his right fist to his mouth and held it out. It was a gesture for greeting colleagues, but also for the parting of friends.
When Lakima’s Hawks had first fallen in with Fie’s band, it took a full week for them to share the same supply wagon with the Crows. She’d kenned why; on its face, it was fear of the plague only Crows survived, but deeper still, it was fear of something else. She’d seen this dance before, in all the ways Tavin and Jasimir had blundered two moons ago, but still, it had stung.
Now, on the fourth day of Phoenix moon, Corporal Lakima kissed her knuckles and clasped Pa’s hand without hesitation.
“Fortune’s favor to you, Cur,” Lakima said. “Enjoy your rest.”
“I’ll try.” Pa let go. “Keep my girl safe, aye?”
Lakima gave him a nod weighted with meaning. “Yes, chief.”
Pa led them down the roughway for, as Fie tried not to dwell on, the final time. The road wound deeper into the forest, sloping just so slightly upward. Fie felt no hum other than the jars of teeth they’d left behind, but the farther they went, the thicker the tree trunks grew and the broader the leaves, until nearly all she saw was green. A faint, clean, lemony perfume began threading the air—and soon she felt a peculiar sort of shudder with every one of Pa’s footfalls, like a note struck on a distant bell. She knew the simmer of a haven shrine, but this—this was different.
Then, finally, they reached the groves.
Towering magnolias spread as far as Fie could see, near tall as the watchtow
er, waxy white blossoms strung like pearls in their branches. Darts of pale sunlight broke through only with significant effort, and even then a faint mist seemed to weigh them down. Thick vines ran over the ground and tangled about the trunks like a drunkard’s plait, weaving about strange, almost wartlike knots clustered against the bark. No, not knots—clay urns the same dusty dun as the vines. Some were big as barrels, some no bigger than fists, like the jars of teeth at the head of the road; great masses of Peacock teeth, Pigeon, Sparrow, even a few stashes of gem-precious teeth from Sparrow and Pigeon witches. All sat silent. Waiting.
Pa took one step into the grove, then another. The answering echo didn’t sound like a bell to Fie now so much as a song, a chorus, a sigh of pure joy, one that reverberated in the jars, catching like sparks on tinder. Every step forward sent another pulse through the trees, through the vines, through the roots, through the teeth, until Fie’s very bones felt as if they’d shake loose.
Pa came to a halt, and the roar swelled and burst like a dam, like a drowning man breaking the surface. Whispers seemed to well up from the vines, then settle, seeping back into the moss below. And then, finally, Fie felt it: the familiar, welcome hum of a haven shrine beneath her feet. The one that said so long as she stayed on this ground, she and hers were safe.
Pa was staring up at the rustling magnolias. Twin lines of tears cut clean tracks down his face. He looked at Fie, wide-eyed.
“I—” His voice broke, bewildered. “I’m … home.”
Her own eyes burned and spilled over. She stumbled to him, all her fear and fury crashing down as she threw her arms around him, holding on for dear life, for as long as she could.
The groves knew Pa, even in this life. They welcomed him.
He was home, and terribly, he was home without her.
* * *
They found the remains of the last keeper curled on a sleeping pallet in the temple proper.
The old Crow had died in his sleep, and it seemed no chiefs had sought out the shrine for a week or so. Or perhaps they’d simply not been able to find the shrine without a keeper to make the dead god’s grave buzz in their bones.
There was more than enough firewood in the temple’s viatik stash, and Fie set the rest of the band about stacking the pyre while she and Pa surveyed the temple itself. Like most Crow shrines, it was simple; unlike most Crow shrines, it was big. It seemed to be a relic of the days before Crows were run off the roads, its stone walls simple and many, its statue of Gen-Mara near as tall as the great magnolias. The temple roofs themselves had been formed by vines woven with more deliberation than those around the trees, forming broad, tight-knit mats that would funnel rain into wash barrels. More investigation turned up a meticulously tended vegetable patch, a spring of clean water, and even a penned-up goat that seemed to resent Pa’s presence on principle.
The groves seemed to have teeth aplenty, even if most were hidden away in knots of vines. Pa made Fie pull a few handfuls from the temple’s supply anyway, and in return she left handfuls of Phoenix teeth. Pa had carried them before; she trusted him to ration them out properly. The viatik stash itself was far from overflowing, but it would last Pa alone a fortnight or so, and other bands were now sure to pass through and give more. Nonetheless, Fie hadn’t gone to the trouble of dragging their supply wagon this far just to leave Pa scraping by.
Pa helped her unload water skins, sacks of millet and dried beans, strips of dried bison. Then he stood by, brows raised, as she went back for extra cloaks, sandal nails, and spare sleeping mats.
And when Fie spent five minutes digging through the cart for another bundle of dried fruit, he walked over and leaned against its side, giving her a rueful smile. “Fie.”
“They’re here somewhere.” She shoved aside a roll of oilcloth, then frowned and held it out. “Do you need oilcloth?”
“Fie.” Pa gently pushed the roll back to her. “I don’t need oilcloth.”
“You sure? The rainy season—”
“It’s no use putting it off,” Pa said, not unkind. “The roads wait for no one.”
Fie suddenly became very fixated on restoring the oilcloth to its proper place in the cart.
“You’ve been spooked since Little Witness called you up.” Pa climbed into the cart to sit beside Fie. “What’s amiss, girl? What did she have to say?”
Scores of answers came to mind once more: That Fie was something she wasn’t. That she had failed, again and again and again. That she hadn’t kept their oath after all.
That if she couldn’t, he would pay the price.
Fie couldn’t say any of that to Pa, though, not moments before she left him alone in this empty home. A fragment of the truth would have to do. “She asked for Phoenix teeth.”
“Did you give them?”
“Aye.” Fie’s mouth twisted. “Didn’t like it, though.”
Pa leaned back on a sack of rice. “Doesn’t matter if you like it. The doing’s what counts.”
“Is it enough?”
Pa shot her the look she’d seen a thousand times. He kenned the question beneath her question. “Never doubt it, Fie. Look at all you’ve done for us in the last two moons. It’s enough. You’re enough.”
She found her damned eyes welling up once more. Pa slung an arm round her shoulders and pulled her close.
“I’d never leave while you needed me,” he told her, “but you’ve gone and grown into a proper chief. And if you find you need me yet, I’ll be here.”
Fie wanted to say she’d always need him. Between the sniffles and the boiling lump in her throat, it came out as a squeaky croak, and she reckoned he knew anyway.
Pa let her cry her eyes dry, then scooted out of the cart and held out his hand. “Come, you’ve a prince waiting on you. And didn’t you tell that Hawk lad you’d walk his way?”
“Told him Crows go where we’re called,” Fie mumbled, blowing her nose on a bit of rag. “It’s different. Keeps Tavin on his toes.”
“Aye. Mind you, sometimes the call doesn’t always sound like one.” Pa helped her down. “And if I’ve one thing to pass on before I see you next, it’s this, Fie: we can’t always wait for a call.”
* * *
It felt wrong being on the road with Wretch, Madcap, Bawd, Varlet, but no Pa. The band had lost Crows before, but those were losses to Oleanders, to sickness, to hunger.
She’d never lost a Crow to time. And none of them were Pa.
Wretch in particular kept close to Fie once they set south on the flatway, and Madcap tactfully eschewed their standard vulgar walking songs to hum something sweet and forlorn under their breath. Lakima too asked no questions, only answering the marching order with a quiet “Yes, chief.”
About an hour past noon, a thread of yellow smoke from a league-marker beacon caught Fie’s eye. A town was calling for mercy and offering her one as well, a distraction from thoughts of Birthrights, Covenant oaths, and other things she’d left behind. She cleared her throat. “Look alive, all. We’ve a job on our hands.”
A chorus of ayes echoed behind her. Yet not half an hour later, a twinge of frustration wound through her gut as the beacon went out. “Never mind,” she called. “Someone must have beat us to it.”
Fie couldn’t help mulling over the Crow Birthright as they kept walking on. It was a puzzle she couldn’t quite fit together: a power they were all born with, yet even now was somehow beyond reach. Moreover, every witch had a stronger, more potent form of their caste’s Birthright, like how Owls all had near-perfect memories, but their witches could steal memories right out of one’s head.
So if Crow witches could draw Birthrights from bone … what power did ordinary Crows have?
And why would it need a kept oath to be found again?
An hour closer to sundown, Fie was dislodged from her puzzling when she saw a blue beacon light farther south, then a green beacon behind them to the north. Her lips pursed. When a town needed mercy, they lit a beacon that burned black smoke. Then the nearest leagu
e-marker posts lit beacons in purple, and then the ones that saw purple lit blue, and so on through green, yellow, orange, and red, calling for any band of Crows within seven leagues. The beacons were supposed to go out only when Crows passed the marker on the way to answer a call.
Yet Fie could have sworn this trail of beacons had gone out earlier, only to light back up again.
And sure enough, as she watched, the smoke went out, leaving a short, baffling blue curl in the sky. She whistled the halt order, watching the treetops. Not five minutes later, it lit back up again.
“Why is it doing that?” Khoda asked, spear twirling slow in his hands.
Fie chewed at the inside of her cheek. Tavin had once suggested the Crows could be lured into a trap using plague beacons; Fie had disputed it, saying any town that did so would roll shells with the Crows forsaking that town’s next beacon. They’d both been right.
She didn’t want to be right this time.
“Something’s fouled up for sure,” Fie said slowly. “I don’t fancy walking us into danger … but I don’t fancy shirking beacons, either.”
Silence crusted over the flatway until Bawd broke it. “Better us than another band, aye? We’ve Hawks, fire teeth, and the most fearsome chief on the roads.”
That got a round of chuckles and ayes. “We’ll go where you lead us, chief,” Varlet added. “You’ve the steadiest head of us all. Besides, can’t be worse than marching with Vultures.”
Half of her steadied at their faith in her.
Half of her wondered if they’d keep that faith, knowing she’d still an oath unkept.
Fie shoved that miserable half down and set her hands on her hips. “Then we keep a sharp eye and be ready to clear out fast if we need to.”
“Or clear out ghasts if we need to,” Varlet said under his breath. His sister punched him in the arm.
Yet they didn’t make it to the blue smoke beacon before trouble found them. Fie heard the shouts first, menacing and gleeful and all too familiar. She picked up the pace. As they rounded the road bend, she found the source: three Crane lads were riding circles about another band of Crows. A small crowd of Sparrow and Pigeon laborers made a loose human fence just clear of the horses’ way.
The Faithless Hawk Page 4
