“Then the sinner becomes a Crow and joins their band,” Tavin added. “Like me.”
Pain and relief flickered in Draga’s remaining eye.
“Aye.” Fie nodded. “So twelve Crows need to believe that you’re worth saving, worth bringing into our own. And then you walk our roads.” She twined her fingers with Tavin’s. “I’m teaching the way of it to the chiefs here, and they’ll pass it along to every chief across Sabor.”
Draga sat up. “The order for soldiers to aid Crows is still in effect. Obviously, we’re going to see a shift in attitude toward the Crows, since even the worst wretches in Sabor might find their life depends on it. But the Oleander Gentry didn’t die with Rhusana, and I’m positive that even now, there are still arbiters refusing to light beacons, so I’ll be leaving that order in effect until the roads are safe for Crows.” She gave a crooked smile. “We’ll see how long that takes.”
“What about the supply of Phoenix teeth?” the Crane magistrate asked. “Not to be indelicate, but it seems likely to … diminish.”
“The Well of Grace was a god-grave,” Fie answered. “Technically, mine. It’s the resting place of the Eater of Bones, the goddess of rebirth, and every time I went near it, all the teeth I thought I burned out came back good as new. I’m the only chief it happens for. So twice a year, on the solstices, I’ll gather chiefs in Dumosa to see to their teeth.”
“And I’m not going to let the Phoenixes die out.” Jasimir shook his head. “The Phoenix priests were barred from having children in the past so the line of succession wouldn’t get murky. We also only allowed marriage and adoption into the caste if someone was joining the immediate royal family. I’m rescinding both of those rules.”
“But the line of succession…” Lady Dengor started.
“Yes, about that.” Jasimir clasped his hands before him. He looked nervous. He looked immovable. “The fact is, we made Rhusana. My father made her, his father made her, and Ambra made her. We made a nation where the only way to be safe and happy was to wrap yourself in money and power and fire, and the only way to reach that was by stepping on everyone you thought beneath you. We made a society where the monarchs could ignore the suffering of their people because it was nothing but an inconvenience, and we punished those who used their position to speak out.”
Lady Dengor ran a finger over her carved ebony knuckles.
Jasimir continued, “Now the Covenant has spoken out. The plague in the palace started with my father, and that’s where it ends.” He drew a piece of parchment from a pocket and unfolded it. It was already signed and sealed. “Today, I am ordering each of you to return to your castes and choose three among you who know your troubles and your strengths. How you choose them, I leave up to you and your people. I will be doing the same.”
Tavin inhaled sharp at Fie’s side.
Jasimir stood. The parchment shook in his hands. “This decree forfeits my claim to the Saborian throne in favor of a governing council. It takes effect a little under a year from now, on the next summer solstice. My reign will only last long enough to establish the council, the limits of its authority, and the rules by which it governs. I’m sure you all have questions, and some of you may be thinking it’s a fool’s way out. I’m afraid it’s already signed. As for the questions…” He smiled. “We have a year. Let’s get to work.”
The gold circlet in his hair caught the morning light. For a moment, Fie would have sworn it burned like fire.
* * *
The Sunrise Pavilion was the eye of a small storm for the next hour, but eventually it dwindled to Tavin, Fie, Jasimir, and Khoda, who had kept his distance and fussed with Mango-Jasifur until the orange tomcat hid under a bench.
When it was just the four of them, Khoda trudged over, distinctly avoiding Jasimir’s gaze. “Officially,” he said, “you are the only survivor in the royal family. Not counting Tavin, since … Crow.” He shrugged. “Unofficially, you should know Rhusomir survived. I’ve been ordered to take him to be raised on Yimesei with the rest of the Swans. It doesn’t seem like he’s a witch, and he’s too young to remember much.”
“You’re going back to the Black Swans, then,” Jasimir said, just stiff enough for Fie to hear a cramp in his voice.
“Oh, I’m almost certainly going to be cast out for”—Khoda waved a hand at the swaths of charred rubble—“all this. Probably for the best.”
Jasimir straightened, startled. “You want to leave them?”
Khoda didn’t answer a moment, throat working. “You were right, you know. Both you and Fie. We helped a monster like Surimir stay in power, and we let everyone else pay the price. And they said it was all to do the best for Sabor, but if that was the best, I don’t want any part of it.” He finally looked Jasimir in the eye, as if he had more to say, then bowed. “Take care of yourself, Your Majesty.”
Jasimir didn’t say a word as Khoda strode from the pavilion.
Fie seized Jasimir by the sleeve. “Tell. Me. Everything.”
His cheeks darkened. He clapped his hands over them, cringing. “It was just—when you sent me to go find Barf in the guest quarters, I was trying to get her out from under the bed, and then Khoda showed up because he thought someone should save the cats, and we were both scared out of our minds, and. Things. Happened.”
Fie looked at Tavin. Tavin looked at her. Then he looked at Jasimir. “On a scale of one to window seat—”
Jasimir shoved him.
Fie thought of Wretch’s parting words to her when she’d left Pa’s shrine: Just because the lad loves you doesn’t mean he does right. It was easier to forgive Tavin than Khoda, and easier never meant easy … but it might yet be managed.
“You still have to hold Sabor together for a year, you know,” she said. “You could probably use a spymaster.”
Jasimir let out a long breath. “I probably could. Especially since … neither of you can stay, can you?”
Fie shook her head. “It’ll be a hard year. Those outbreaks will have wiped out whole crops, herds … I don’t know if we can put the land to rights like we did here. It might be just the grave, and even here, it needed to burn.”
“And I’m a Crow now,” Tavin said. “There’s something about that, isn’t there? Going where I’m called?”
Jasimir cracked a smile at that. “Then I’ll call you both back when I need you.”
Fie returned his smile. “And we won’t always wait for a call. Though we’ve a lot of ash to harvest first.”
Jasimir pulled the circlet off his head, staring at it a moment, and sighed. “It always should have been the palace. That was supposed to be the price. But I suppose this means we have something to rise from, right?”
“Aye,” Fie said.
Jasimir handed her the golden circlet. “Here. Just to make it official. Fie, Ambra Reborn, Oath-Cutter, the Crow Who Feared No Crown … I give you mine. Do with it what you will.”
The crown sat in her hands a moment, and it felt like fire.
But she had teeth for that. And she’d seen what fire left in its wake.
“Doesn’t fit me anyway,” Fie said, and handed it back.
Somewhere, the last crow lingering on the ruins of the palace took to the sky.
* * *
The chief was taking too long to say her goodbyes.
Her band waited for her anyway, with a company of six Hawks, seven new-made Crows, and enough Phoenix teeth to last her until the next solstice, or so she hoped. Fie had made sure each chief carried enough not just for themselves, but to leave in shrines and pass more to the chiefs they taught to deal true mercy.
She might have organized a discreet raid into the ruins of the catacombs to be sure there were enough Phoenix bones to go around. What Ambra’s skull thought of it all, it kept to itself.
The first time Fie had left the palace, it had been with a trophy of Phoenix teeth, two dead lordlings in tow, and a gray tabby in her arms.
This time she left with the boy she loved, the kin who wou
ld carry her, and a friend with a crown to lose and an oath to keep. The cat, of course, had only conceded to ride in the cart.
From the top of Dumosa, she could see trails of smoke all the way to the horizon. It would be a hard year, full of ash, but full of hope.
Tavin reached for her. “Ready?”
“Aye.” Fie took his hand, took a breath, whistled the marching order.
Together they led her Crows from the ruins of the palace, to the road that would lead them on. Fie did not look back.
She knew her own way home.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost: I would like to acknowledge everyone who read the acknowledgments in The Merciful Crow, saw the joke I made to my dear friend Megan, and became immediately and irreversibly consumed with dread re: Tavin’s fate. I’d be lying if I said your reactions didn’t add about five years to my life. Please don’t try to reclaim them; I’m afraid they’re non-refundable.
Tiff: Oh my god they were NOT kidding about Book 2! Damn my hubris! Thank you for being the voice of reason and keeping me from going Full Greek Tragedy when I was ready to call it a good run and go seal myself in a cave. I do regret to inform you that I am probably never eating oysters again (and by “never” I mean not without a truly formidable quantity of gin).
I would also like to commission a statue of my agent Victoria for dealing with a screaming, terrified baby, and also her newborn child. If anyone deserves a cat-master badge in this town, it’s you (and of course, Deputy Lee). One day I will send you an email that will clock in below 2.7 Tolstoys, I promise.
Thank you so much to the marketing and sales teams at Mac Kids for all your work effectively firing this duology, and me, out of a confetti cannon. You’ve taken me to places I never thought I’d see, and graciously allowed me to exceed my per diem for terrible puns.
An enormous thank-you to all the booksellers, bloggers, and bookish folks who have championed this duology, too. I started making a list of everyone I could think of and descended into my own immediate and irreversible dread that I would forget someone, so. Everyone who has taken time to set up displays, write up shelf talkers, send me lovely reviews, send me fanart and edits, and made my debut that much better: In the words of Parks and Rec, you have done nothing wrong in your entire life, and I know this, and I love you. Your support has meant the world, especially to this ball of anxiety with a weird-ass teeth book.
I’m pretty sure I owe a lot of people drinks, but particularly my fellow authors. From the veterans who have been there with boosts, advice, and blurbs (lookin’ at you, Claire, Tessa, Natalie, Shaun, the residents of Deadline City), to my fellow Pitch Wars 2015 classmates (Jen, Mike, Jamie, Sheena, Rebecca), and particularly the long list of people who have patiently let me unhinge my jaw to yarf publishing angst. This includes but is not limited to: Hanna, Elle, Duncan, Ash, Carrie, Linsey, Adib, Laura, Jamie, Julia, Katy, Claribel, Alex, and the kraken-bound: Tara, Kate, Anne-Marie, Emma, Faith, and Chandra. I think I’m forgetting someone. I know I’m forgetting someone. If I’m forgetting you, know that it’s going to haunt me to my dying day.
To my friends blissfully outside of publishing: Thank you for not being in publishing. (That’s only like 50% joking.) You all keep doing things like having beautiful children and buying houses and paying taxes, none of which I understand. Thank you for reminding me of what matters outside of my navel-gazing. (But I work in my PJs and talk to my houseplants, so in the grand scheme of things, who’s really winning here?)
To my family: Look, in the time since I wrote my last acknowledgments, you’ve survived like five wildfires. Let’s keep that energy going.
And finally, I would like to acknowledge my two cats. They still are no help whatsoever, but they’ve been along for the ride, so here’s to my boys—and to everyone else who’s gone with me down this road.
About the Author
Margaret Owen was born and raised at the end of the Oregon Trail and has worked in everything from thrift stores to presidential campaigns. The common thread between every job can be summed up as: lessons were learned. She now spends her days writing and negotiating a long-term hostage situation with her two monstrous cats. In her free time, she enjoys exploring ill-advised travel destinations and raising money for social justice nonprofits through her illustrations. She resides in Seattle, Washington. You can find her on Twitter @what_eats_owls. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraphs
Part One: Kings and Outcasts
Chapter One. The Thousand Conquests
Chapter Two. Stolen
Chapter Three. Teeth and Magnolias
Chapter Four. Enough
Chapter Five. The Ash Harvest
Chapter Six. The Covenant Sees
Chapter Seven. Safe and Sound
Chapter Eight. The Crown
Chapter Nine. Never
Part Two: Lovers and Foes
Chapter Ten. The Messenger
Chapter Eleven. Good Luck
Chapter Twelve. From Our Ashes
Chapter Thirteen. Lady Sakar
Chapter Fourteen. A Prison Fit for a King
Chapter Fifteen. The Silk Crown
Chapter Sixteen. A Show of Strength
Chapter Seventeen. The Bloodless War
Chapter Eighteen. Playing the Fool
Chapter Nineteen. Real Enough
Part Three: Conquerors and Thieves
Chapter Twenty. The Heir
Chapter Twenty-One. Red Lanterns
Chapter Twenty-Two. Deputy Cat-Master
Chapter Twenty-Three. Patience
Chapter Twenty-Four. Crows in the Garden
Chapter Twenty-Five. Faithless
Chapter Twenty-Six. The Setting Sun
Chapter Twenty-Seven. The Floodgates
Chapter Twenty-Eight. The Well
Chapter Twenty-Nine. Mercy
Chapter Thirty. Ash to Rise
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Text copyright © 2020 by Margaret Owen
Map copyright © 2020 by Virginia Allyn
Henry Holt and Company, Publishers since 1866
Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC
120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271
fiercereads.com
All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019949488
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First hardcover edition 2020
eBook edition 2020
eISBN 9781250191953
The Faithless Hawk Page 34
