“But it doesn’t add up, either.” Fie shook her head. “We’ve still two weeks until the solstice, when a proper Phoenix would be crowned. Jas is sure to make it to the royal palace before then to stake out the throne, and he’s the one bringing the armies. And now half the nation thinks he’s Ambra reborn, sent here to lead us into a new bright age … so since when does Rhusana’s kind pick a fight they know they’ll lose?”
The firelight caught on the knob of scar tissue where Pa’s little finger had once been. He’d lost it in just such a fight. “Aye,” he said. “It doesn’t add up for the queen. But what are you to do about it?”
“What?”
“You’re a Crow chief, leagues and leagues away from Dumosa. What are you to do?”
Fie wrung the parchment in her hands. She knew the words all too well, yet they felt like shackles tonight. “Look after my own.”
Pa squeezed her shoulder and let go. “Let the royals roll their fortune-bones. We’ve no part in their games now, and however their bones land, we’re still chiefs. You’ve your own to look after. And I’ve a shrine to keep.”
Fie flinched. Most of her wanted to hare dead south to Dumosa, to burn as many of her teeth as it took to send Rhusana to the next life, to settle Jas on his throne and set off on her roads with Tavin at her side. And doing just that would mean keeping Pa with her that much longer.
But Pa was right. Crows needed every haven shrine they could get, and no band needed two chiefs. In the Jawbone Gulf waited the watchtower of the dead god Little Witness. The keeper there kept track of every shrine to a dead Crow god, and would know which ones sat empty and unused.
When old Crows could no longer travel the roads, they lived out their days in a haven shrine built on the grave of one of their dead gods. That close to a dead god, any Crow could keep the shrine’s stores of teeth alight, hiding it from other castes. A witch like Pa, though, could make a shrine nigh invincible. No doubt he’d be assigned to one they sore needed.
Fie would deliver him there herself, and then leave him behind her for good.
And from the sound of it, she’d do it while Rhusana seemed certain of her victory. Rhusana, who’d promised the Oleander Gentry they could hunt Crows as they pleased once she reigned. Rhusana, whose mere promise of permission had brought more Oleanders down on Fie’s head in the last three moons than Fie had seen in years. Even after she’d delivered the prince to safety.
“What if it gets worse?” she whispered. “What if I’m not enough to look after them?”
“You’ve six Hawks, Fie,” Pa said pointedly. “Two swords. Thousands of Phoenix teeth to burn your way clear. If aught can get through all that, it won’t be a fight meant for a mortal to win.”
That was the heart of her vexation, Fie reckoned. No Crow band in memory had ever had such protection, and still she didn’t feel her Crows were safe. A storm squatted on their horizon. All she could do was try to keep them out of it.
Two moons ago, she’d stood in front of two empty pyres, Hangdog at her side, fresh off cutting an oath with the crown prince. Jasimir had tried to tell her then that the Crows’ only hope of survival was saving him, and Hangdog had sworn it was all a wash.
Now here she was in front of a pyre yet again, but here Hangdog wasn’t after all. The beacons were telling her the last man between the throne and the Oleanders’ queen had died. But there was naught she could do about it now.
The smell of burning flesh began to drift from the pyre. Fie stepped back again, mouth twisting. A warning yowl made her jump. She turned and found Barf, the gray tabby she’d plucked from the royal palace, sprawled on the ground behind her.
If the cat kenned the dire tidings of dead kings and grim roads, she didn’t show it. Instead she chirped and rolled onto her back, paws tucked neat beneath her chin.
Fie knew that trick too well. Pa, however, crouched to rub Barf’s white belly. The tabby promptly latched onto his arm like a snare. He yanked his hand back as Wretch cackled behind them.