Khoda hesitated. For the first time, he seemed uncertain how to answer. “Not … directly. Only one of our agents saw the queen close-up before the king sealed her chambers and ordered her body burned. They found finger-shaped bruises on her throat. Rhusana wouldn’t have been able to overpower a former Hawk like Queen Jasindra. But…”
“Surimir could.” Tavin’s voice rang hollow.
Khoda nodded, grim. “We have no proof. However, it was no secret the king had been visiting Rhusana’s pavilion for moons—”
Khoda cut himself off as Prince Jasimir turned on a heel and walked out of the tent.
“I’ll go after him.” Fie let the Crane tooth fizzle out and tossed it aside, then caught Tavin’s hand a moment. “Can you make sure the band’s squared away?”
He brushed a quick kiss against her cheek. “Yes, chief.”
She sent a warning glare to Khoda and strode out.
Lakima was waiting outside with her three remaining Hawks, looking uneasy as they held a human barrier between the Crows and the rest of the camp, which looked even uneasier for the Crows’ presence. Wretch saw Fie and waved a thumb at the river. “His Highness went that way.”
“Thanks,” Fie called. “Tavin’s going to help you get settled. I’ll be there in a bit.”
A moment later she realized skipping through the Hawk camp by herself was not the greatest notion she’d had all moon. When she turned to Lakima, the corporal was already falling into step behind her as the other guards split off with the band. Fie raised her brows at her.
“You’re being targeted by the queen,” Lakima said blandly, even as she sized up the nearby Hawks. “Anyone could be a threat.”
“Aye,” Fie said, and knew she and Lakima both understood it didn’t take a queen’s influence for that.
They found Jasimir standing by the makeshift mammoth pen, snapping carrots in half and dumping them into a pail as one of the beasts lumbered over. Barf the tabby sat by his side, tail flicking in the grass.She’d had a shine for Jasimir since he’d saved her from a burning cart. Two Hawk guards maintained a respectful distance and a watchful eye; one held up a hand as they approached.
“It’s fine,” Jasimir said wearily. “Give us some room, please.”
Fie had found mimicking the Hawk salute only annoyed them, and so she did just that, and pretended not to relish the guards’ sour looks as she passed.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked once she was close enough to keep her voice low. The Hawks had stepped a few more paces away, but she wouldn’t risk one of them running their mouth.
“What’s there to talk about?” Jasimir threw a fistful of carrottops to the mammoth. Sunset had dyed the clouds above lily orange, turning his gold circlet to a band of clean fire cutting through his dark hair. “Everyone else knew he was a monster. I’m the only fool in the kingdom who ever thought otherwise.”
Fie watched the mammoth gleefully cram carrots into its mouth. “You thought Rhusana killed your mother. You’re probably right. What’s it matter if she made your pa do it instead of soiling her own hands?”
“Because it means some part of him wanted Mother dead,” Jasimir said, bleak. That much was true; a Swan witch could only twist desires, not create them. “And that’s—that’s my father. He’s half of me. He’s the only king I’ve ever known. How am I supposed to believe I’ll be any better on the throne?”
“You can’t,” Fie said immediately. “‘Better’ isn’t what you think you are. Better is what you do.” The mammoth huffed their way, and she threw it another carrottop. “Your father was a monster, aye. But I’d rather either of his sons sit on the throne than anyone else. And Tavin’s spoken for, so that leaves you to take the crown.”
They didn’t speak for a moment, though true silence was thwarted by the rush of the Vine and the clamor of soldiers sparring, mending armor, and throwing gambling shells in the camp at their backs. The mammoth finished its supply of carrottops and pressed closer to the fence, snuffling about the grass for any it might have missed.
“I really thought—” Jas cut himself off as his voice cracked, then cleared his throat and tried again. “I told you I wanted to save him.”
“Aye,” Fie said cautiously.
Jas’s knuckles paled as he gripped the fence. “I thought I could change him. I thought—I thought I could save him—”
Fury and despair shattered over his face. His foot crashed into the pail. It sailed into the mammoth pen, scattering carrot bits into the grass. The mammoth jerked its head back with a whuff, steel charms tinkling on its tusks as the Hawk guards glanced briefly over their shoulders to make sure the only victims were the vegetables. Barf, for her part, simply stopped washing a paw and leapt up on the fence to rub her face on Jasimir’s arm.
“I couldn’t even save my own mother from him!” Jasimir hissed. “I knew I’d been living with a murderer for the last six years. I didn’t know I’d been living with two.”
Fie had the terrible suspicion that the hazy rules of friendship dictated she ought to hug the prince. She also had the absolute certainty that doing so would only further upset them both.
Instead she stiffly patted him on the back. “Rhusana’s got a baby, aye?”
Jasimir nodded, eyes glittering. “Rhusomir. She barely lets anyone see him.”
“Do you blame him at all for any of this?”
The prince blinked. “He’s two. I was eleven.”
“But you were still a child, aye?” Fie pushed. “And your ma was a warrior and a queen. What were you supposed to do?”
“Anything.” Jasimir looked like he wanted to kick something else. Instead he absently scratched Barf’s ears. “I can’t even say I didn’t see it.”
Fie pursed her lips. “Sometimes … when I call a Peacock tooth or a Hawk tooth, or even sometimes another Phoenix tooth, I get this feeling from it. Depends on the person. Tells me to be quiet, to not make trouble, to look away and move along. It’s always these … these scummers who knew how bad it could be with a bad person under the crown, but they didn’t care as long as the bad royal wasn’t hurting them.” She shrugged. “Sometimes the bad royal would give them aught like a bauble or a sweet talk, keep them addicted to it like poppy-sniffers, and so long as they kept their fine ways and got a chance for another whiff, they’d pretend all was right.”
She flicked a bit of carrot into the mammoth pen. “You were eleven, and all the adults around you were telling you naught was wrong. That’s no fault of yours.”
He nodded, face painfully taut. “There’s … there’s so much to undo.”
“Aye” was all Fie had to say.
He pushed off from the fence. “We should get you back to your band.”
The Hawks peeled from their posts to trail them as they headed back toward Draga’s tent, Barf trotting behind them. “We’re only a day and a half’s march from Dumosa,” he told her. “But of course you and yours are welcome to stay with us as long as you need.”
Fie caught looks from the camp’s soldiers as they passed: curious, befuddled, a few souring as they lingered on her. “Likely we’ll stick with you until you’re seated proper on the throne, but unless you hurry, you’ll want us back on the roads soon as possible. People are trying to burn their own plague-dead.”
He winced. “How bad is it?”
“We had to burn Karostei to ash. Nigh a quarter of the people burned with it.” She shuddered. “And Rhusana made ghasts of the dead, so she won’t be setting the record straight anytime soon.”
Jasimir turned uphill as they passed the master-general’s tent. Not far ahead, she saw Tavin laughing with her Crows as they maneuvered the supply wagon around the tents. Lakima’s Hawks maintained their wall between them and the rest of the camp, and Fie doubted their grim faces were due solely to Khoda’s absence.
Jasimir didn’t miss it, either. “I’ll tell Aunt Draga about Karostei, but she may want to hear it from you. And I’ll tell her your guards could use some
reinforcements.”
* * *
The prince did them one better: once Fie’s Crows were settled to her satisfaction, he personally escorted them to the nearest mess tent and joined them for supper. Fie couldn’t help but remember moons earlier, when he and Tavin had scrambled to wash up before her band could foul the water; she suspected they both were glad those days were behind them.
Tavin excused himself halfway through their meal, and she didn’t see him again until after the sun had gone down. Jasimir had awkwardly pointed out his brother’s tent on their way back to where the Crows had made camp. The warm orange glow of an oil lamp soaked through the canvas walls, Tavin’s shadow a soft, distinct blur against the light. Fie made a mental note to douse the lamp before doing anything she didn’t want to hear crudely recounted by Madcap the next morning.
She glanced back for one more look at her band, who were unrolling their sleeping mats beside the fire. Corporal Lakima stood guard, no more relaxed in a camp full of soldiers than she’d been on the open road. She caught Fie’s eye and gave her a slight nod: all would be well under her watch.
Fie returned the nod and slipped into Tavin’s tent.
It wasn’t much more than canvas pitched high enough to stand in, not even bothering to lay a dropcloth over the grass, but Fie saw bits of him in every corner: his sword belts looped through a support to keep them off the ground, a wooden crate with leather armor stacked neat inside, a modest collection of scrolls.
Tavin himself had stretched out on his belly on a tight-woven woolen blanket in the far corner, and by Fie’s guess, it looked cushy enough to be hiding a straw pallet underneath. The oil lamp nearby caught on a scroll unfurled in his hands, one he was frowning at until Fie walked in.
“It’s worse than I remember,” he grumbled, tossing the parchment aside.
She glanced at it and found square what she expected: The Thousand Conquests. “Told you it was awful.”
“It’s all awful.” Tavin propped himself up on his elbows as Fie sat nearby and began to unwind her sandal straps.
Halfway through one foot, a slice of gold caught her eye. She blinked and spotted a circlet like Jasimir’s, only this one was buried—spitefully, she suspected—under a heap of dirty laundry. She let out a cackle and swiped it free. “What is this?”
“Auugh.” He hid his face in the blanket. “Mother said I wasn’t allowed to throw it away.” He emerged again. “I’m probably supposed to wear it again tomorrow … Speaking of awful, the lord of the manor’s coming to have dinner with Mother and Jas tomorrow, and we have to go.”
Fie twisted about to look at him, still holding the circlet. “‘We’?”
“I told her I wouldn’t go if you couldn’t.”
“And that was supposed to get you out of it.” She dropped the circlet on his head. It landed askew, slipping over one ear.
Tavin gave a rueful grin and pulled the circlet off. “Guilty. Mother called my bluff. I shouldn’t have said we have to go; I don’t know if you need to stay with your band. Would you like to join me for dinner with the lord of the manor tomorrow?” He dropped the circlet on Fie’s head, where it sat even worse, sliding to rest just over her brows. Still, he pulled a polished-brass mirror from a nearby crate and handed it to her. “There. Much better.”
Fie tried not to stare at her reflection, at the bar of bright gold striping her forehead.
She tried not to admit how some ancient ache in her bones stirred at the sight. How somewhere deep down, eons away, lives and lives and lives past … some part of her felt whole for wearing a crown.
She tossed her head swift and hard, and the circlet popped off with a mellow ring, rolling to lay in the grass like a snake eating its own tail.
“Too big for me,” Fie said, and she didn’t know that for a truth or a lie. “But likely I can manage dinner.”
Tavin reached up to twist a lock of her hair in his fingers. Then his smile splintered a bit. He ducked his head, patting down the blankets of his bed as he searched for something, and a moment later he surfaced with a pair of sewing shears. “I … have another favor to ask.”
Fie continued unwinding her sandal straps. “If it’s to cut the lawn, you’ll need bigger shears.”
He shook his head. “Will you cut my hair?”
She stopped, letting the leather sandal strap fall to the grass, and cocked her head. “I like your hair.” That was the truth: it had grown out a bit since she’d left Trikovoi, curling about his ears long enough to bury her hands in when she felt like it.
Tavin gave a half shrug, staring at the shears. “Fie … Burzo has been in my mother’s service before I was born. If all it took was a hair for Rhusana to turn him, I don’t want to—I can’t take any chances.”
He’d held up a steady front all evening, teasing Lakima and jesting with Varlet, but the scratch in his voice said this wasn’t just about Burzo.
Fie reached out, turned his chin until he met her eyes. “You’re not the king.”
He swallowed. “That’s not enough.”
And in her bones, Fie knew he was right. She took up the shears. “I’ll need rags and water.”
Once Tavin’s hair lay in damp waves against his skull, she got to work. She’d watched Wretch trim hair short often enough, and usually with no more than the chief’s blade or a shard of broken pottery. Shears made for much quicker work, and it wasn’t long before the rags covering Tavin’s shoulders had darkened with shorn hair.
Something about the silence felt too grim for Fie to abide. “How did you know Khoda for a Swan?”
“When he pushed me aside, I … felt it,” Tavin explained. “The Hawk witch-finders trained me to read caste in the blood, in case any assassins tried disguising themselves.” He blew out a breath. “Not that it was good for much. He’s been spying on you since before I arrived, and I didn’t notice a thing until today.”
Fie raised an eyebrow he couldn’t see. There was something both tiresome and delicious about what sounded like jealousy from Tavin. “Reckon that’s all that bothered you?” she prodded, tugging another lock between her fingers.
To her surprise, he answered swift and blunt: “The guard on the road. I don’t care that he was a … How did you put it?”
“Dung-sucking dog-lover?”
He gave an exaggerated dreamy sigh. “You have such a way with words. I’m used to people like him. But I can’t stop wondering, how many of them are Hawks?”
“Plenty. But you saw it yourself—he backed down when Jas showed up. They care about the lad at the top, and if he fancies Crows, they’ll learn to do it, too.”
Whatever Tavin had to say to that, he kept to himself, and Fie was more than willing to distract herself with running her fingers through his hair. She’d cut near all of it down no higher than a knuckle-width when he asked, “Do you feel safe here?”
Fie fumbled the shears.
She had the protection of a prince and a master-general, two swords, a bag of teeth. Yet not a dozen paces away, even in the middle of scores of the kingdom’s finest warriors, Corporal Lakima still kept watch over Fie’s band.
“Safe enough,” she lied.
The last curl fell to Tavin’s shoulder with a decisive snip. She bundled the rags off his shoulders, taking care not to let any hair fall loose. “There. Done. We’ll throw this in the river tomorrow.”
Tavin twisted about on his knees, and when she looked up, she wasn’t quite sure who she saw. It wasn’t just that his hair no longer softened the harsher lines of his jaw; it was his face. Even when things had been at their most dire on the road, even when she’d nigh killed herself burning too many teeth or he’d good as killed himself letting the Vultures take him, he’d kept the faintest embers of a grin or a jest, like letting them go cold meant some kind of surrender.
She couldn’t see any ghost of laughter in him now.
“Fie.” He cradled her face in his hands. “I—I will never let anything happen to you. No matter what. You know th
at, don’t you?”
Fie didn’t know why the notion made her eyes burn, why it stole the words from her burning throat. Then she thought of Pa, tears streaming down his face as he said in wonder, I’m … home.
She reached to douse the lamp, voice cracking. “I know.”
As he drew her to him, she whispered the most terrible truth she knew against the pulse of his neck: “I feel safe with you.”
It wasn’t that he watched her back, put her at ease, or made her soft in ways she both reveled in and despised. Fuss as she might, she loved him for those and more.
The terrible part was one they both knew and neither could say into the dark: he made her feel safe, and that was not enough.
* * *
A quarter hour into the dinner with Lord Geramir, Fie had learned three facts about the man.
First, he was wholly, predictably insufferable, shoveling praise onto the prince and the master-general like dung into flower beds, yet curling his lips at Fie and Tavin as if they were the ones who reeked.
Second, he was deeply insecure, boasting of his expensive Dovecraft robes, his unmatched vineyards, how often the regional governor invited him to dine in his grand fortress in Zarodei.
And third: judging from the way he couldn’t stop staring at Fie, he was terrified of her.
Not that she was doing much to soothe his nerves, staring right back at him, jaw clenched, as he dithered, “We’ll all just be so relieved when this … unpleasantness blows over.”
Fie was weighing how much longer she could abide the company of the Peacock lord. Draga had promised she wouldn’t even need to say aught, just enjoy a fine dinner with Tavin, and like a fool, Fie had believed her. Instead she’d had to leave her swords and teeth in Tavin’s tent, don a laughably large tunic of Draga’s, and pretend she didn’t want to drown Geramir in the soup course.
“I’m sure His Highness will remember your hospitality,” Draga said crisply, not even blinking as a serving boy set a plate of fine greens and plum-drenched beef before her. The master-general had apparently insisted Lord Geramir come to them if he wanted the prince’s ear, and he had not arrived empty-handed, bringing a host of his own Sparrow servants and platter after gleaming platter of Hassuran delicacies.
The Faithless Hawk Page 11
