She knew in her bones that when Pa had sent her over the bridge, when Tavin had cast himself into the ravine, neither of them had done it to settle for Oleanders riding only by night.
Maybe in a year, or two, or five, Jasimir would sit on the throne, and he’d craft some law to banish the Oleanders, and the Hunting Castes and the Splendid Castes could call it good enough. And the Oleanders would carry on like always, the Crows would die like always, and like always, the law would not weep for Crows.
Somewhere beyond the window, in the chill of Marovar night, a Hawk at watch began to hum.
Enough.
She could make use of her time finding a way out of this damn stone maze for when the Hawks’ charity inevitably ran dry. She rolled from her bed, reached for her sandals, then thought of the nail scratches she’d left in the stone floor and pulled on sheepskin slippers instead.
Fie kept one blanket wrapped about her shoulders as she slipped into the hallway, away from the nagging hymn. Oil lamps marked the turns in the corridor, and more windows let in whispers of the first night of Crow Moon.
For a moment she stilled. Crow Moon. The final moon of the Saborian year.
All across Sabor, Crows would be gathered at one of their greater shrines—in Little Witness’s watchtower, the groves of Gen-Mara, the ruined temple of Dena Wrathful. If not there, then any haven shrine. If they couldn’t find a shrine, they would find a crossroads. There would be ceremonies: new witches hailed, new chiefs declared, an empty pyre for faces newly missing. Wedding vows for those who wanted to swear them. Bands cobbled together from stragglers and survivors.
A proper Crow would be with her people tonight. A properchief-to-be would line up with the other trainees, wearing wreaths of magnolias, and wait. One by one, the old chiefs would cut their own strings of teeth, tie them round the throats of the new, and hand off their broken blades. Magnolia crowns would be cast to the pyre, and then…
Then, if Fie were a proper Crow still, she would have been a true chief.
A watch-hymn drifted through the window. Fie fled.
A Sparrow tooth slipped her past the guards tossing shells at hall’s end. The farther she went, the more she lost herself in the craft of Trikovoi, mammoth ivory rails wrought in angular pattern-knots, a fine-carved snow lion grasping a bundle of lit juniper incense in its marble jaws, mahogany columns and rafters carved for purpose, not pomp.
Tavin had only said his mother rode mammoths in the Marovar, not which fortress she rode for. Was that why he’d been so adamant to come to Trikovoi—he’d hoped to find her here? Had she been watching, waiting when Fie and the prince staggered into the road, only to find no sign of her son?
Or was she asleep in some other cold stone fortress, unaware that Tavin lived only as long as Tatterhelm allowed?
Fie’s gut knotted. She ought to be claiming her own from the skinwitches. She ought to be burning her magnolia crown on a pyre. She ought to be able to stop thinking of Tavin, even for a moment.
Instead, she hunted for her way out.
Then, as she passed the entrance of another grand hall, something snagged her eye: a figure that belonged behind ranks of soldiers.
She let the Sparrow tooth go and slid into the hall. Jasimir glanced up and raised his eyebrows at her, unsurprised.
“How did you get past the guards?” Fie whispered as she walked over.
“Practice.” Jasimir shrugged. “Sometimes I’d need to attend a state dinner or the like, but we’d get wind of some potential threat. Tav took my place, but I usually snuck out anyway. Mother only caught me the first few times.”
He gave a strained smile, and with a start, Fie saw what had drawn him into this hall: a fine painting over his shoulder. Two women, nigh identical in their armor, their flinty stares, even the hands resting on their saber hilts. Twin Talons.
Fie stepped closer, studying the portrait. After a moment she pointed to the figure on the right. “That’s your mother?”
He nodded.
She could see it, now that she’d met Draga. Jasindra’s dark eyes sparked nearer to gray than gold, like Jasimir’s; Draga’s nose arched in a way neither her sister’s nor her nephew’s did; all three shared a narrow jaw and lanky build. But Jasimir’s sharp-cut mouth and broad cheekbones had come from the king to be sure.
Something curled in the back of Fie’s skull, like she hunted a word she’d forgot. She frowned.
“I think Mother would have liked you,” Jasimir said.
Fie’s frown went taut. “Cousin, I don’t think her road and mine ever could have crossed unless she caught the plague.”
His face fell a little. “I… I suppose that’s true.”
Fie stepped back, looking about the hall. More portraits hung on the walls: simple, familiar, lavish, stern. Dynasties of Hawks. Most, oddly, had a cat somewhere in the painting—a ball of striped fur on a background balcony, a shadow on a wall, a pair of eyes in the grass. A small tabby sat betwixt Draga and Jasindra, the picture of fluffy disdain. “Why the cats?”
“Legend says a Markahn helped Ambra tame the first tiger she rode to war. Cats are something like a patron of the clan.” Jasimir grimaced.“There’s a reason Rhusana wanted to pay you with a stray tabby for taking two dead Markahns.”
