Fie hefted her teeth, about to swing the bag over her shoulder, and paused. Her eyes traced the web of gossamer hairs spun about the room.
Fortune had brought her this far. And it wasn’t just so she could take what was hers.
In the end, she left one thing: a single tooth, sitting on the bed in the middle of a heap of parchment squares cleared from every shelf. Fie had even made herself empty the skin jars into the pile.
As she padded quickly to the open doorway, gold fire spilled outfrom the molar. By the time she reached the end of the hall, the moonlight at her back had blushed rosy.
There was no canvas drape over this exit, but the faint orange glow showed a sliding screen. Fie called on her Sparrow witch-tooth again to wipe her from sight. No lantern-light filtered through the screen, but that didn’t mean the room was empty.
She eased the screen aside, and moonlight lit her way again, this time from a whorl of skylights that cut the shape of the sun into the domed golden ceiling. The chamber itself was practically a wheel of gold, sprays of carved and gilded plumage coiling from every arch, every bedpost, every column and only interrupted by graceful blades of carved golden fire. It didn’t feel like a bedroom. It felt like a shrine. And if it adjoined the dead queen’s chambers, Fie had a strong notion who that shrine was for.
But unlike the queen’s room, this one was occupied. A figure lay in an achingly familiar sprawl on the gold-draped bed.
The king had slept just fine in this temple to his own divinity, and now it seemed Tavin would too.
There was something awful about his sleeping face, something that froze her feet to the cool, moon-washed tiles. She’d loved it once, waking up first so she could see the heart of him beneath all his flash and charm, perfect peace without guile.
Somewhere in Sabor, Oleander Gentry were riding down Crows this very night. Somewhere, another child was dying of plague as their village argued over beacons. And in Pa’s shrine, their rations were dwindling, and they were one more day closer to starvation.
Fie hated the peace in Tavin’s face now, near as much as she hated the part of her that didn’t. The part of her that still lit up at his touch and his smile and his laugh, the part that yet starved for him—the part of her that had mercy for a bastard boy.
She hated it, hated him, hated herself so much, the dreadful garish room swam with tears. She could remind herself of how he’d betrayed her, the death he’d signed her people to, and still part of her would do anything to lie in that foul golden bed with him.
She wanted to cut that part of her out, let it burn with the dead queen’s room, just to end the agony she craved.
And since she couldn’t cut herself free, she would cut out the next best thing.
Fie drew the Hawk sword.
Her slippers skimmed the tiles without a sound. She took care not to let her shadow fall over his face as she ghosted closer to the bed, moonlight dripping along the glistening steel.
Return it.
Was Lakima even still alive? Or had he signed her death warrant, too? Tears spilled down her face, hot and furious and horrified with the weight of the blade in her hand.
Stop, that soft, broken part of her wept as she raised the Hawk sword,don’t—you can still love him, you can leave him be—
And the coldest part of her whispered back:Not if I want to live.
Once, she’d thought she could be like the girls she saw in the sparks of teeth. Fiewantedto be like them, beaming at the attention of a lover, laughing at their follies, making space in even the hardest of hearts for ballads and sweet poetry and the unspoken oath in the touch of a hand.
Now she knew the bitter truth: that softness came at a price she would not pay. And she would not forgive Tavin for trying to make her pay it.
He’d made her feel safe; he’d madeonlyher feel safe. He’d been willing to give up all the Crows for it.
And that was not enough.
He didn’t stir as the shadow of the blade fell under his chin.
Fie supposed she ought to say something clever and vicious, but there was nothing clever about cutting a boy’s throat in his sleep, and her viciousness had no words. His Peacock glamour had been called off for the night, so it wasn’t even Jasimir’s face below her but Tavin’s own, every scar and bump and mark that she knew by heart, no Owl tooth required.
Pa would tell her not to drag it out.
She couldn’t make herself lay the edge to skin. The blade hovered less than a finger over his throat. The sight horrified her.
Fie whipped fury through her veins, but grief answered instead. She’dwantedto walk the rest of her roads with him. She’d wanted more. And Little Witness had told her she was right for wanting it, but how could she be, when this was where it led?
End it, her frost-cold self said.He dies now, or he dies by Rhusana’s hand. What you want is already dead.
