Something cool and damp brushed over Fie’s mouth. Her eyes flew open.
She saw mahogany and teak and linen and red; then everything blurred again.
“Easy,” Tavin said somewhere above her. “Don’t push yourself.”
“Where am I?” She blinked until her vision cleared again.
“A spare room. We’re in the royal quarters.”
The room about her was—strange, she thought. Small for a royal bedroom and worn in a way the palace usually painted over. The walls were soft golden teak, the bedposts lacquered Hawk red, a familiar thick-woven blanket covering the mattress—
The last time she’d seen that blanket, she’d been sharing it with Tavin in Draga’s camp. This was his room, his real room.
She saw a modest collection of weapons neatly racked on the wall, light streaming in from a screened window facing a mossy cliff. Across from her sat a small shelf of scrolls, along with a washbasin and brass mirror beside a dish of what had once been rings, necklaces, and other jewelry before they’d conspired to knot into a solid ball the size of her fist. On the table beside the bed stood a simple brass lamp, a mammoth carved of ebony, an amulet of mammoth ivory with the master-general’s personal seal.
It was like a window into a part of Tavin she couldn’t bear to look at.
It was a room Niemi wasn’t meant to know.
“Sorry,” Tavin said after a moment. He was sitting at the foot of the bed, wringing a rag stained with blood. “Other than the nosebleed, you didn’t have any injuries that I … saw, and I didn’t know where else to take you.”
“This is fine.” She pushed herself up, and he handed her a mug of water. “Thanks. I … don’t know what happened.”
It was half a truth.
Tavin passed her the bloody rag and tapped his chin. “You’ve still got some, er. Would you like me to get a doctor?”
Fie mopped at her face to buy herself a moment. When she surfaced, she had the best answer she could scrounge together: “Allergies,” she blurted out. “It’s just—allergies.”
“I see,” he said, in a way that meant he did not see at all. Then he rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I apologize, I … may have moved … things … a little too fast, earlier.” She gave him a blank look. “In the tomb.”
Fie’s brow furrowed, still groggy. He hadn’t seen the visions of Ambra’s life, had he?
“When we kissed,” Tavin clarified, cheeks darkening. “I-I got a bit carried away.”
“Oh.” Fie shook her head distractedly. “No, I liked it.”
She’d seen Ambra’s life. She hadn’t called the spark from that bone. It had swallowed her whole anyway. Animal bones did that, aye, because they knew no better. Human bones knew to wait, not to offer their gifts or their secrets so freely.
But Ambra’s skull had just drawn her in, like it was part of her.
Tavin’s voice jostled her from her thoughts. “I want you to know,” he said, fumbling for words, “that if you feel like you have to go along with whatever I want, because of who I am—you don’t.”
His fingers were tracing unseen patterns on his wrist, where a glamour hid the scars.
Fie couldn’t stop herself; she reached over and caught his hand. “I know.”
Now, Niemi hissed. Take him. Finish what you started in the tombs. He’ll be ours.
The notion turned Fie’s belly. So did the notion of hearing him say Niemi’s name in the close, shuddering way he’d once breathed hers.
She let go. “I should probably go lie down. In my rooms. For a bit.”
She didn’t want to. She wanted to stay here with him, in a room that felt real. Fie wanted to unroll all his scrolls, look in his mirror, pick out the tangle of jewelry, run her hands over every bit of it until she could find a way to forgive him for selling her Crows to the queen.
But Fie had come to the palace to keep her oaths. So she let Tavin walk her back to the guest quarters, let him leave her with a quick, soft kiss on her cheek, made herself ignore the tension in his shoulders as he left.
She’d expected her room in the guest quarters to be empty. Instead, her door swung open to a chorus of mews.
Fie blinked. Jasimir and Khoda were seated on the ground, trying to wrestle a black-and-white cat into some sort of vest. More cats were lounging about the room, pouncing on carpet fringe, napping on the bed, or grooming an ear. Barf herself rolled on the carpet beside Jasimir, squirming in another of the vests.
Jasimir looked up and grinned, tapping a new-minted badge on his Sparrow uniform. “Cat-master,” he said brightly. Then his grin slipped. “What’s wrong?”
“What happened in the catacombs?” Khoda asked.
Fie sat in one of the overstuffed chairs. A small cat with a tortoiseshell coat immediately leapt onto her lap and curled up. She buried her face in its fur. “I didn’t hear anything. It all made me sick, there were too many bones, I just—” Fie made herself lift her head and take a breath. “In the Tomb of Monarchs, I touched Ambra’s skull.” Khoda tensed. “It wasn’t supposed to—bones aren’t supposed to do aught unless I ask, but it did, it showed me Ambra’s life.”
“Why would it show you that?” Jasimir asked, bewildered.
She didn’t want to say it out loud; it was the same as the feeling from the Well of Grace, from Little Witness’s watchtower, the same droning dread. She said it anyway.
“Last moon, I went to the watchtower of Little Witness. The shrine-keeper there is Little Witness reborn, and she remembers everything. She told me the Crows have a Birthright, but it was stolen. That if I wanted to get it back, I had to keep my oath. I thought she meant our oath, Jas. I thought getting you to Draga wasn’t enough, that I had to put you on the throne. But Ambra … Her skull grabbed me, and I saw her—I saw her swear a Covenant oath with Crows, to save her life.”
“But she didn’t keep it,” Khoda finished, quiet. “And now it’s yours.”
Jasimir twisted to look between him and Fie, letting the black-and-white cat in his lap go. “What are you saying?”
“Fie is Ambra reborn. Well, the latest one, that is.” Khoda leaned back, trying to sound casual. “Congratulations. You’re now in on another of those secrets the master-general mentioned. You know, the kind that holds nations together.”
Jasimir and Fie both stared at him.
“The Black Swans keep count of witches, right?” Khoda continued. “When they first started, the numbers didn’t add up. A witch of one caste would die, but we wouldn’t see another witch born to take their place. It took a few decades to figure it out, but every one of them had died of the Sinner’s Plague, and a few years later … a new Crow witch would be registered. Eventually they get sent back, after a life or two with the Crows. But Ambra has stayed. Most of the nation thinks Ambra’s rebirth is supposed to set off an era of peace. It’s already happened”—he did a quick tally on his fingers—“thirteen times, I think? That we know of?”
“You knew this whole time?” Fie asked, numb. “You knew who I really was?”
Khoda pursed his lips and didn’t answer for a moment. “I wasn’t lying when I said we thought Rhusana would target you. But this is part of why. You have every right to be angry with me for keeping it from you, let’s just get that out of the way. But what good would it have done if I told you? What would it change?”
“What would it change?” Jasimir exploded. “It makes her the heir to the fucking throne! The rightful queen of Sabor!”
“No.” Fie pushed herself back into the chair. “I don’t want it. You can’t make me.”
You don’t want to be queen? Niemi demanded. What’s wrong with you?
Khoda was shaking his head. “Even if you did want it, it doesn’t matter. You have to keep your oath.”
The oath … Fie’s belly sank. “Ambra swore to give up her crown and join the Crows. How am I supposed to keep that?”
“You need a crown to give one up,” Jasimir said.
Khoda scowled at him. “It’s not happening.”
Jasimir ran his hands through his hair. “Khoda, you’ve told me for the last week that all the gentry care about is that the crown goes to a descendant of Ambra. Tav, Fie, and I almost died, many times, in order to convince people I might be Ambra reborn. Now we have the real thing, and suddenly it doesn’t matter?”
Khoda didn’t answer.
Fie did for him. “It doesn’t, because I’m a Crow.”
She heard Little Witness’s final words to her: You are not what you were.
She also heard Niemi’s: We could be the queen, you insufferable fool!
“Because you don’t have proof,” Khoda corrected. “How are you going to convince the Peacocks? The Hawks? The rest of Sabor?”
Jasimir’s face went stony. “She can’t be killed by the plague, like Ambra. She can control fire and keep from being burned, like Ambra. That’s all it would take for anyone to believe I was Ambra reborn.”
“You know it’s not that simple,” Khoda snapped, getting to his feet. “And I can’t believe you’re willing to just throw your throne away.”
“It’s not throwing it away!” Jasimir stood as well. “I’ve given everything to make myself the best king I could be for Sabor. Do you think I’d give that up for anything less? But if the Crows have a Birthright and this returns it, it’s not just about Ambra. It’s about helping my people—our people. You can’t tell me that doesn’t give Fie the right to the throne.”
“It’s not just having the right to the throne!” Khoda was angrier than Fie had ever seen him. “It’s being right for the throne!”
“My father abused his power in every way imaginable just to prove he could,” Jasimir hissed, “and your all-knowing Black Swans did nothing to stop him, because you thought he was good enough for the throne.”
Barf climbed onto Fie’s lap and plopped down with seemingly no regard for the fact that her belly was planted on the tortoiseshell’s face. Fie closed her eyes and let her head fall back.
Niemi wouldn’t shut up in Fie’s skull. Her tooth should have burned out hours ago, but somehow it was still alight. Marry the prince, the dead girl sang, take the throne, make us queen!
Fie ripped the tooth from her string and flung it across the room.
“I’m going to scalp the next person who says throne,” she announced, eyes still shut.
She heard Jasimir stomp toward the door. He paused before opening it.
“If being a Phoenix was all that made my father right to rule Sabor,” he said, tired and furious, “and being a Crow makes Fie wrong, then I don’t even know what we’re doing here.”
“If you’re leaving to go sulk, cat-master, don’t slam the door,” Khoda sighed.
Jasimir did not slam the door. Somehow it still sounded angry.
“It’s not just that you’re a Crow,” Khoda said after a moment.
Fie cracked an eye open to give him a look of disbelief. “Please. Continue telling me how I’m unfit to rule.”
Khoda put his hands on his hips. “Fine. Let’s say we have a heat wave, early spring, and the Marovar glaciers dump snowmelt into the Lash. The Hassura Plains flood, and Lumilar loses a fifth of the crops they’ve sown and a quarter of their cattle herds. How do you keep the city from starving?”
“Tell the lady-governor of the realm to pay them,” Fie said with a shrug. “Have you seen her mansion? She can afford it.”
“Oh no, she didn’t like how you phrased the order!” Khoda threw up his hands. “She’s saying she doesn’t have the resources, and your appropriations council won’t approve the expense of direct aid, either! What do you do?”
“Have them all executed,” Fie said darkly.
Khoda scowled. “Joke all you like, but this is exactly what I mean. Surimir wasn’t good enough for the throne, but he was trained to keep the nation running and the Hawks and Peacocks happy. I don’t have to tell you leadership isn’t for amateurs. If Jasimir tried to run your band, even now, do you think he’d manage?”
Fie hmphed. Khoda had a point. But … “I’ve always been in this for the Crows, Khoda. Maybe you’re all right about us after all. Maybe I’m still with the Crows because the gods really did make us to be a punishment, and Ambra fouled up so grand that I’m still paying for it. But we had a Birthright. I hate this palace, I hate these people, and I bet whatever the crown looks like, I’ll hate it, too. But if taking it gets us our Birthright back, there is nothing you can say or do to stop me.”
He gave her a long look. Both of them knew that if it came time to test it, it would not end well. But Fie didn’t care; things rarely ended well for Crows without someone wrenching them the right way.
The door rattled on its hinges, then opened. Yula entered with a cart of cleaning goods, finger pressed to her lips until the door closed behind her. “Apologies,” she said under her breath, and hurriedly shoved aside the cleaning supplies. “We had to clean out the sick rooms, they’re needed. Here, your things.” She unloaded a few sacks of spare servant uniforms, base gowns for Fie to glamour, and Khoda’s own stash of varying disguises. Then she paused, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
“What’s wrong?” asked Khoda.
Yula turned to Fie. “Will … will you come look at them? The patients, that is. There’s three.”
Fie’s face dropped. “Is it the plague?”
Yula worried her bottom lip more before answering. “We don’t know.”
That sat strange. The plague usually made itself known within hours. Fie reached for one of the Sparrow uniforms. “Aye, I’ll take a look.”
Once she’d changed, she and Yula hurried across the palace grounds, Khoda staying behind in case Jasimir returned.
Caws ruffled the garden as they strode through, black wings rustling in the topiaries. Fie stopped counting the crows once she passed a dozen.
Something was drawing them to the palace. She didn’t know if she wanted to find out what.
Three Sparrow servants were waiting for them in the sick rooms, two women and a man sweating in the stifling room—yet they wore the long-sleeved tunics of winter uniforms, and gloves over those. Fie’s nose wrinkled. She didn’t smell the telltale plague-stink, but they also didn’t look like sinners to her, eyes still bright and alert, no pallor, no rash of Sinner’s Brand on their faces.
“I brought the Crow,” Yula whispered. “You can show her.”
They traded looks. The man stripped off a glove and rolled up his sleeve. Fie came closer.
She saw it, faint but clear enough: the Sinner’s Brand carved whorls down his arm, all the way to his fingertips. It was the same distinct pattern she’d seen on Niemi before cutting her throat, but nowhere near as dark, and Niemi’s had only been a few hours old.
“How long?” Fie asked.
“One day,” one woman answered.
“Since the solstice,” the other said.
The man swallowed. “Five. Five days.”
Her brow furrowed. She looked up at him. “Any fever?” He shook his head. “Spewing? Coughing blood?” He shook his head after each. Fie took a step back and turned to the women. “And you? Only the Sinner’s Brand, too?”
“Yes.”
Fie stared at the man’s arm again, utterly flummoxed. The Covenant did not send the Sinner’s Plague with equal speed, to be sure. Pa had suggested once that it seemed to linger on those who had great wrongs to atone for, making them feel every weeping sore, every bit of their lungs giving way. Others it took swift, usually when it had spread from an unburnt corpse and caught those whose crime was simply negligence.
She’d never heard of the Covenant simply marking sinners, then leaving them be.
“Is it the plague, or no?” Yula asked.
“I-I’m not sure,” Fie said.
“You have to be sure. If it is…” Yula’s voice shook. “They can’t stay in the palace.”
Fie didn’t get it at first. Neither did the Sparrows behind her.
“Why?” the man asked. “If it’s our time, we’ll go to the quarantine huts.”
That was when Fie understood. Her blood ran cold.
“Take them to the city,” she told Yula. “Fast as you can, and anywhere that can quarantine them.”
“I said we’ll go—”
“It’s not you, it’s the queen,” Fie interrupted. She made herself face the Sparrows. “I’ve never seen plague like this, and maybe—maybe it’ll be different. But if the queen finds you, I know one thing: she’ll die wearing the Sinner’s Brand herself before she calls for Crows.”