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’tcureit, 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.”
“Then the sinner becomes a Crow and joins their band,” Tavin added. “Like me.”
Pain and relief flickered in Draga’s remaining eye.
