The Faithless Hawk - Margaret Owen Page 0,14

white blossoms strung like pearls in their branches. Darts of pale sunlight broke through only with significant effort, and even then a faint mist seemed to weigh them down. Thick vines ran over the ground and tangled about the trunks like a drunkard’s plait, weaving about strange, almost wartlike knots clustered against the bark. No, not knots—clay urns the same dusty dun as the vines. Some were big as barrels, some no bigger than fists, like the jars of teeth at the head of the road; great masses of Peacock teeth, Pigeon, Sparrow, even a few stashes of gem-precious teeth from Sparrow and Pigeon witches. All sat silent. Waiting.

Pa took one step into the grove, then another. The answering echo didn’t sound like a bell to Fie now so much as a song, a chorus, a sigh of pure joy, one that reverberated in the jars, catching like sparks on tinder. Every step forward sent another pulse through the trees, through the vines, through the roots, through the teeth, until Fie’s very bones felt as if they’d shake loose.

Pa came to a halt, and the roar swelled and burst like a dam, like a drowning man breaking the surface. Whispers seemed to well up from the vines, then settle, seeping back into the moss below. And then, finally, Fie felt it: the familiar, welcome hum of a haven shrine beneath her feet. The one that said so long as she stayed on this ground, she and hers were safe.

Pa was staring up at the rustling magnolias. Twin lines of tears cut clean tracks down his face. He looked at Fie, wide-eyed.

“I—” His voice broke, bewildered. “I’m … home.”

Her own eyes burned and spilled over. She stumbled to him, all her fear and fury crashing down as she threw her arms around him, holding on for dear life, for as long as she could.

The groves knew Pa, even in this life. They welcomed him.

He was home, and terribly, he was home without her.

* * *

They found the remains of the last keeper curled on a sleeping pallet in the temple proper.

The old Crow had died in his sleep, and it seemed no chiefs had sought out the shrine for a week or so. Or perhaps they’d simply not been able to find the shrine without a keeper to make the dead god’s grave buzz in their bones.

There was more than enough firewood in the temple’s viatik stash, and Fie set the rest of the band about stacking the pyre while she and Pa surveyed the temple itself. Like most Crow shrines, it was simple; unlike most Crow shrines, it was big. It seemed to be a relic of the days before Crows were run off the roads, its stone walls simple and many, its statue of Gen-Mara near as tall as the great magnolias. The temple roofs themselves had been formed by vines woven with more deliberation than those around the trees, forming broad, tight-knit mats that would funnel rain into wash barrels. More investigation turned up a meticulously tended vegetable patch, a spring of clean water, and even a penned-up goat that seemed to resent Pa’s presence on principle.

The groves seemed to have teeth aplenty, even if most were hidden away in knots of vines. Pa made Fie pull a few handfuls from the temple’s supply anyway, and in return she left handfuls of Phoenix teeth. Pa had carried them before; she trusted him to ration them out properly. The viatik stash itself was far from overflowing, but it would last Pa alone a fortnight or so, and other bands were now sure to pass through and give more. Nonetheless, Fie hadn’t gone to the trouble of dragging their supply wagon this far just to leave Pa scraping by.

Pa helped her unload water skins, sacks of millet and dried beans, strips of dried bison. Then he stood by, brows raised, as she went back for extra cloaks, sandal nails, and spare sleeping mats.

And when Fie spent five minutes digging through the cart for another bundle of dried fruit, he walked over and leaned against its side, giving her a rueful smile. “Fie.”

“They’re here somewhere.” She shoved aside a roll of oilcloth, then frowned and held it out. “Do you need oilcloth?”

“Fie.” Pa gently pushed the roll back to her. “I don’t need oilcloth.”

“You sure? The rainy season—”

“It’s no use putting it off,” Pa said, not unkind. “The roads wait for no one.”

Fie suddenly became very fixated on restoring the oilcloth

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