It was a great working, their Covenant: a bargain between the first gods and their thousand children, all for the sake of what were meant to be toys. But toys for gods needed the capacity to think, to breathe, to love. Yet that was what made them more than toys. That was what demanded they choose their own way in the world.
That was what the thousand gods had been willing to die for: choice, true free will, in a world they would forge themselves. The Eater of Bones had helped build the Covenant that made it so. And they needed her more than any other god, for she was the god of the sunset and sunrise, of the fire and the ash, of the worms that ate the flesh and made the soil that grew new life.
They called her the Eater of Bones. She was the goddess of rebirth, and she was the last of the gods to die.
* * *
Fie had not expected saltwater.
It flooded her nose, her mouth, her lungs as she gasped and choked. The hymn of the Well of Grace pounded through her bones, harsh, demanding—she would burst from the roaring in her veins—and then—
Sparks.
The well had eaten scores of thousands of bones over the centuries. Time had worn them down to little but dust in the water … but the water had stayed.
So, too, had the bone.
Fie had called for it the moment she sank below the surface.
Now she was drowning in it.
* * *
Before she laid in her grave, the Eater of Bones made sure her children had their Birthright.
The terrible thing about free will was, of course, that anyone could choose to be terrible. And she and her brethren had debated long and hard about how to spare their children from the worst of themselves.
The answer was imperfect, but the best the thousand gods could manage was this: the Covenant already measured every soul it embraced in death, so it could send them to a fitting new life. If, at any point, it found a soul that would only continue to harm others in the life it led, they gave the Covenant the power to intervene and pluck that soul from the world like a ripe grape. They had built the Covenant and its divine apparatus with all the wisdom, all the knowledge of good and evil, all the love the thousand gods could give, and they knew it would not act lightly.
Still … the Eater of Bones was not satisfied.
She wanted better. She wanted more.
And so she gathered her children by her grave, and she gave them the gift of mercy.
Their lot was not an easy one: she had chosen humans who wished a simple life, who valued family born or built, who believed in the dignity of even the lowest creature. Their trade would be the undertakers for wealthy or poor, for lives ended in sickness or violence, for the kind and the cruel.
And the world was bound to be cruel if it could. So she would spare them the cruelty of the Covenant’s plague and grant them a gift with which to barter. They alone had the ability to spare others. They needed but two things: a bone for every Birthright, and twelve among them who would welcome the sinner into their own.
* * *
Fie felt it all: fire, blood, desire, refuge, truth.
Chief among them, though, roared memory. The Birthright of the Owls clung to her, borne on the water, singing to her of the bones at the bottom, kings and beggars and heretics and, before them all: a god.
She saw—she saw—she saw—
* * *
She was reborn just like everyone else, and they called her Huwim, and she walked with her people and carried the dead and spared them from the Covenant’s judgment if she could. She taught all the nation to save their milk teeth, to give them freely each year on the moon before the summer solstice, so that her people could seek the Covenant’s mercy for them.
She was reborn again, and they had begun to forget what it was to be gods, all of them.
By the third life, they called people like her witches.
By the hundredth, they called people like her Crows, for their black robes and the masks they wore if someone called for mercy. They still offered their teeth once a year, and now they called it Crow Moon.
Too many lives had passed when the ones gifted with fire stole her first bones from her grave, claiming the goddess of rebirth could not possibly belong to Crows who served death. They hid her in a well, so deep she would never be found. They called her the Mother of the Dawn. They called themselves Phoenixes.
They called her Ambra when the Covenant sent her among the fire-bearers to set it right. And that was when she began to fail.
She was invincible. She was vicious. She was a conqueror. She reveled in it: the ability to destroy anything she touched, the security in knowing that destruction could never strike back. She called herself a Phoenix, and the other Phoenixes called her the first queen. And when the Covenant sent its plague to collect her, she conquered it too.
Until it became clear that the Covenant would not forget her oath.
She saw crows in her dreams, every night. She saw them in her shadows. She saw them in looking glasses, in glassblack, in even the waters of her beloved lantern-lily pond.
She stayed in her palace, she banned the Merciful Crows from Dumosa. When Crow Moon came, for the first time, the Phoenixes kept their teeth.
And royal habits caught on.
The Covenant tried twice more, sending her as an heir to the throne so she could put it right, then sending her as a distant relative to spare her the temptation of the crown. But it could not be undone; the Phoenixes were fireproof, and they were forgetting what it meant to burn.
By the time the Covenant sent her back to her own, they called her Hellion, and she found it a colder world. Teeth were not given freely; they were kept for payment. Crows were not called to tend to every body, only to those struck with plague. The memory of their Birthright had trickled away with the last of the Phoenix teeth. Payment was scarce, and meager when it came, and so they took to the roads to find work where they could.
Life after life, she failed her oath. She had joined the Crows, but she had no crown to forsake. Life after life, Sabor grew crueler to her own, because it could. Without fire teeth, without the full weight of their Birthright, they had little to offer but a swift death, and little to threaten but mutual destruction.
And then, in a life where she was called Fie, a plague beacon lit over the royal palace and called her home.
* * *
Fie saw the nights they gathered teeth in Crow Moon. She saw Ambra on her tiger, laying waste to her foes. She saw twelve Crows holding twelve teeth, standing over a figure condemned with the Sinner’s Brand.
She saw what had been, she saw what could be, she had the bones of a dead god on her tongue, she had all her lives in her skull, she had the weight of Tavin dragging them to the bottom of the Well of Grace—to the bottom of her own grave—
She was the Eater of Bones. Mercy was her gift.
Covenant be damned, she was going to give it.
She didn’t have twelve Crows; she had herself. She didn’t have twelve teeth, but the dust of thousands of bones. And she had a boy who had told her it was enough.
Fie called the sparks from the water.
It was like calling the Money Dance at the gates, but so much worse: the answer was a cacophony, a primal scream that felt like it would tear her apart. Twelve songs from a thousand throats ripped through her skull. Fie couldn’t help but scream back, clutching her head—a metallic tang soured the water in her mouth, she was bleeding—Tavin slipped from her—
She’d promised him she wouldn’t let go. She’d come here to keep her oaths.
She let the sparks go, anchored her hand in Tavin’s as they sank, and called what she knew by heart: the bones of the Crows. One by one she worked in the Common Castes, the sweet hum of Sparrow refuge, the fluty wind of the Gulls. Then the Hunting Castes, plaintive Owl memory, fierce and steady Hawk blood, piercing Crane truth. One by one the Splendid Castes joined, elegant and full of grace.
Finally, with her lungs burning, with the weight of the well crushing in o
n all sides, she called for fire.
The song of twelve teeth rang so bright, so pure, she thought for sure it would kill her; she saw her lives all laid out like The Thousand Conquests, she heard a voice like an old friend.
What do you want, Fie?
With twelve teeth, one heart, and the boy she loved in her arms, she answered:
“Mercy.”
* * *
When they spoke of the night the palace burned, there were many tales.
Some had been pulled from withering buildings, others carried in the throes of the plague and laid out below the amber-pods. Some claimed to have fought by the master-general’s side, while others mumbled and looked away when asked where they had stood in the Hall of the Dawn.
One thing alone stayed the same: how the fire started.
Littler fires had broken out in the garden, left by a prince, a bastard, a Crow, and a king making their way across the palace grounds, but they had burned out swift enough.
The true fire began when the Well of Grace exploded. Or it caved. Or it collapsed into the catacombs below. The story wavered there, but one and all, every survivor saw the same thing:
A fire and a flood, burning with all the light and color in the world, sweeping over the palace. The skin-ghasts simply melted away, there and then gone. Everyone caught in the fire tide heard something different: their mother’s favorite song, the parting words of a lover, the jest of a friend, the oath of a brother.
When the flood passed, it left the fire in its wake. It let those still inside the palace walls pass without harm and instead feasted on the bones of a kingdom. Every plague-gutted, rot-stained building burned, every bit of gold, every shrine to a dead king, every pavilion, every spire.
And in the gardens, the sinners waiting for their mercy pushed themselves up, marveling at the Sinner’s Brand scoured away, the plague banished from their bones. In moments they would learn there was a price to pay.
In the years to come, they would learn it was a kinder world to pay it in.
* * *
Fie woke in the rubble, arms still wrapped round Tavin. She saw naught of the Sinner’s Brand on him; his chest rose and fell without rattling.
She’d done it.
She’d found the Birthright of the Crows. She’d found her own grave. She’d claimed him from the plague.
She didn’t want to wake him just yet. She wanted a moment to breathe in the peace, she wanted the beauty of it to last.
Instead, metal claws dug into her scalp and dragged her up. Fie let out a startled shriek.
“You filthy little bitch,” Rhusana hissed.
Fie could see the burning, crumpled wreck of the royal quarters; the veranda had tilted over, and while Rhusana had survived the fall, it had not been as easy on her as being whisked from the Hall of the Dawn by an escort of ghasts. She’d clawed her way over on hands and knees, her stolen crown gone, her hair straggling from its six braids. Her dress was shedding feathers like a split pillow, mottled red with scratches and scrapes from the collapse.
She kept her grip on Fie’s hair but dug the claws of her other hand into Fie’s throat, pushing them both up to their knees.
“I think you want to die,” Rhusana cooed, teeth bared, dragging so hard on Fie’s hair that it brought tears to her eyes. “The world doesn’t need another bone thief, does it?”
Fie stared at her. Then she laughed.
She shoved her hand in Rhusana’s face. The queen let out a startled, ungainly yelp and tried to push Fie off. Instead, Fie seized a fistful of fat, fraying braid and slammed the Swan Queen’s head against the rubble.
A bloody tooth fell from Rhusana’s mouth.
Fie seized it. The queen went still, her bones no longer hers to command.
Pa had told her things worked different on his own grave. The well was little more than a slide of shattered stone and glassblack, but it was still hers.
“I’m the Eater of Bones,” she told her. “And you’re in my home.”
She found the spark of Birthright in Rhusana’s bones, swatted the memories away like flies; she already knew what had made the queen, and she had no need to roll in it.
She saw unseen strings like hair, and each one conjured a face, a name, a desire: Her attendants, who wanted to feel special among the Sparrows. Her personal guards, who wanted to prove themselves. Her Peacocks, who wanted to believe their fortunes could rise with hers.
Fie snapped each string, one by one.
“No,” Rhusana said when the Peacocks were cut free. “Stop,” she said when the attendants’ tie to her broke.
Fie found one that led to Rhusomir. He wanted her to love him, and she kept it that way.
“Please,” Rhusana said.
But through the Swan’s own Birthright, Fie could tell: all she wanted was to avoid paying for what she’d done.
She severed the queen’s hold on her son.
Then she found what she’d been looking for, as the white tiger picked its way down the rubble toward them. Rhusana’s tether held it better than any leash. She could feel the hunger in its belly.
It was a beast; it wanted blood. And the queen no longer commanded its teeth.
Fie yanked out a strand of Rhusana’s hair and took a step back, then another, the queen’s own tooth still simmering in her fist. “I think you want to stay down,” she told her.
And then she cut the tiger free.
A hand brushed her back, unsteady. She turned and found Tavin swaying on his feet.
“Let’s go,” she said, and slung his arm around her once more.
The queen’s screams followed them down the rubble and ended perhaps sooner than they ought. Tavin only looked back once, winced, and shook his head.
“That’s over” was all he said.
They half slid, half stumbled out of the wreckage and onto the solid ground of the gardens, and Fie discovered her knees had chosen that moment to give out. She toppled to the ground, taking Tavin with her, and the grass was green and cool beneath her cheek, the palace was burning around them, she could hear shouts of confusion and joy beyond the scorched hedges, and they were alive, and it was enough.
Tavin touched a stinging gash on her face. “Let’s take care of that,” he mumbled, then frowned when nothing happened. “What … why…?”
Fie grinned at him and hoped this would be the last time the night found tears in her eyes.
She found a Hawk tooth and pressed it into his palm, closing her hand over his as the spark stirred—not at her touch, but his.
Then Fie pulled him close and whispered, “Welcome to our roads.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
ASH TO RISE
The sun rose, and set, and rose, this time on a palace’s ashes.
When it did, it found Fie with the lantern-lilies. It had been a grueling day and a half; after the collapse of the Well of Grace, she and Tavin had been carried to the gardens with the rest of the new-made Crows. When they’d woken in the new day, there was little time to do aught but find the dead, tend to the living, and burn what needed to burn.
In the evening, she and Tavin had made time for themselves, retreating to the waterfall and the pool where the lantern-lilies still spilled, untouched by plague. They told each other what needed to be told, and spoke without words when they could find no more.
But when the sunrise came, they rose with it, for Crows went where they were called.
Jasimir had summoned them to the remains of the Sunrise Pavilion. It had once been a lovely thing, pale blue enamel, lavender tiles, gold trim; now it was a ring of charred, stumpy columns and scorched marble benches. He was waiting for them there, Patpat perched regally on the bench beside him.
So were ten others. Fie saw Viimo cackling as Barf tried to lure her into petting her belly; Khoda was absently petting Mango (or Jasifur—Fie wasn’t sure of the outcome of that debate). Draga was not petting cats but instead comparing her eye patch and arm brace to the carved-ebony hand of the new Lady Dengor, who
had inherited her brother’s title but thankfully not his attitude. Yula was speaking with an elderly Pigeon man in a gray-striped robe, and though Fie did not recognize the Dove in fine-wrought silver, the Gull sea captain, the Crane magistrate, or the Owl scholar, she knew Jasimir would have chosen them with care.
Jasimir’s tired face brightened when she and Tavin arrived. A gold circlet shone against his hair, no doubt at Draga’s insistence, for without it he could have been another Sparrow, still wearing the simple linen uniform of the servants. Fie couldn’t help but notice it was missing the cloth-of-gold sash.
“There you are,” Jasimir said, loud enough to muster attention from the rest of the pavilion. “Let’s get started. There’s a lot to do.”
He pointed to the bench beside him. Tavin and Fie traded looks, then took their places next to the last prince of Sabor. Fie reckoned that made them at least as important as the cat on his other side.
Out of the corner of her eye, Fie saw Yula begin passing around a basket of sweet rolls. How she’d managed to procure those in the wreckage of a palace was beyond Fie.
Jasimir cleared his throat. “First we need to talk about the plague. Fie, what happens now?”
She blinked at him, having just stuffed the better part of a roll in her mouth. Viimo brayed a laugh.
“Take your time,” Jasimir said, trying to keep a straight face.
Fie swallowed and shoved the basket of rolls his way. “So. Here’s how it is. We Crows have had a Birthright all along, but we haven’t been able to use it proper. It’s mercy, aye? That’s our Birthright. The Sinner’s Plague can’t touch us any more than fire can touch you. And it’s not mercy for us alone. Well, not exactly.” She frowned. “We can’t cure it, not like sniffles. But if we think a sinner’s worth saving … we can make them one of us. To do it, we need a bone from each caste, a Crow to hold each one, and a chief to call the song.”
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