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’t cure it, 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.
“Aye.” Fie nodded. “So twelve Crows need to believe that you’re worth saving, worth bringing into our own. And then you walk our roads.” She twined her fingers with Tavin’s. “I’m teaching the way of it to the chiefs here, and they’ll pass it along to every chief across Sabor.”
Draga sat up. “The order for soldiers to aid Crows is still in effect. Obviously, we’re going to see a shift in attitude toward the Crows, since even the worst wretches in Sabor might find their life depends on it. But the Oleander Gentry didn’t die with Rhusana, and I’m positive that even now, there are still arbiters refusing to light beacons, so I’ll be leaving that order in effect until the roads are safe for Crows.” She gave a crooked smile. “We’ll see how long that takes.”
“What about the supply of Phoenix teeth?” the Crane magistrate asked. “Not to be indelicate, but it seems likely to … diminish.”
“The Well of Grace was a god-grave,” Fie answered. “Technically, mine. It’s the resting place of the Eater of Bones, the goddess of rebirth, and every time I went near it, all the teeth I thought I burned out came back good as new. I’m the only chief it happens for. So twice a year, on the solstices, I’ll gather chiefs in Dumosa to see to their teeth.”
“And I’m not going to let the Phoenixes die out.” Jasimir shook his head. “The Phoenix priests were barred from having children in the past so the line of succession wouldn’t get murky. We also only allowed marriage and adoption into the caste if someone was joining the immediate royal family. I’m rescinding both of those rules.”
“But the line of succession…” Lady Dengor started.
“Yes, about that.” Jasimir clasped his hands before him. He looked nervous. He looked immovable. “The fact is, we made Rhusana. My father made her, his father made her, and Ambra made her. We made a nation where the only way to be safe and happy was to wrap yourself in money and power and fire, and the only way to reach that was by stepping on everyone you thought beneath you. We made a society where the monarchs could ignore the suffering of their people because it was nothing but an inconvenience, and we punished those who used their position to speak out.”
Lady Dengor ran a finger over her carved ebony knuckles.
Jasimir continued, “Now the Covenant has spoken out. The plague in the palace started with my father, and that’s where it ends.” He drew a piece of parchment from a pocket and unfolded it. It was already signed and sealed. “Today, I am ordering each of you to return to your castes and choose three among you who know your troubles and your strengths. How you choose them, I leave up to you and your people. I will be doing the same.”
Tavin inhaled sharp at Fie’s side.
Jasimir stood. The parchment shook in his hands. “This decree forfeits my claim to the Saborian throne in favor of a governing council. It takes effect a little under a year from now, on the next summer solstice. My reign will only last long enough to establish the council, the limits of its authority, and the rules by which it governs. I’m sure you all have questions, and some of you may be thinking it’s a fool’s way out. I’m afraid it’s already signed. As for the questions…” He smiled. “We have a year. Let’s get to work.”
The gold circlet in his hair caught the morning light. For a moment, Fie would have sworn it burned like fire.
The Sunrise Pavilion was the eye of a small storm for the next hour, but eventually it dwindled to Tavin, Fie, Jasimir, and Khoda, who had kept his distance and fussed with Mango-Jasifur until the orange tomcat hid under a bench.
When it was just the four of them, Khoda trudged over, distinctly avoiding Jasimir’s gaze. “Officially,” he said, “you are the only survivor in the royal family. Not counting Tavin, since … Crow.” He shrugged. “Unofficially, you should know Rhusomir survived. I’ve been ordered to take him to be raised on Yimesei with the rest of the Swans. It doesn’t seem like he’s a witch, and he’s too young to remember much.”
“You’re going back to the Black Swans, then,” Jasimir said, just stiff enough for Fie to hear a cramp in his voice.
“Oh, I’m almost certainly going to be cast out for”—Khoda waved a hand at the swaths of charred rubble—“all this. Probably for the best.”
Jasimir straightened, startled. “You want to leave them?”
Khoda didn’t answer a moment, throat working. “You were right, you know. Both you and Fie. We helped a monster like Surimir stay in power, and we let everyone else pay the price. And they said it was all to do the best for Sabor, but if that was the best, I don’t want any part of it.” He finally looked Jasimir in the eye, as if he had more to say, then bowed. “Take care of yourself, Your Majesty.”
Jasimir didn’t say a word as Khoda strode from the pavilion.
Fie seized Jasimir by the sleeve. “Tell. Me. Everything.”
His cheeks darkened. He clapped his hands over them, cringing. “It was just—when you sent me to go find Barf in the guest quarters, I was trying to get her out from under the bed, and then Khoda showed up because he thought someone should save the cats, and we were both scared out of our minds, and. Things. Happened.”
Fie looked at Tavin. Tavin looked at her. Then he looked at Jasimir. “On a scale of one to window seat—”
Jasimir shoved him.
Fie thought of Wretch’s parting words to her when she’d left Pa’s shrine: Just because the lad loves you doesn’t mean he does right. It was easier to forgive Tavin than Khoda, and easier never meant easy … but it might yet be managed.
“You still have to hold Sabor together for a year, you know,” she said. “You could probably use a spymaster.”
Jasimir let out a long breath. “I probably could. Especially since … neither of you can stay, can you?”
Fie shook her head. “It’ll be a hard year. Those outbreaks will have wiped out whole crops, herds … I don’t know if we can put the land to rights like we did here. It might be just the grave, and even here, it needed to burn.”
“And I’m a Crow now,” Tavin said. “There’s something about that, isn’t there? Going where I’m called?”
Jasimir cracked a smile at that. “Then I’ll call you both back when I need you.”
Fie returned his smile. “And we won’t always wait for a call. Though we’ve a lot of ash to harvest first.”
Jasimir pulled the circlet off his head, staring at it a moment, and sighed. “It always should have been the palace. That was supposed to be the price. But I suppose this means we have something to rise from, right?”
“Aye,” Fie said.
Jasimir handed her the golden circlet. “Here. Just to make it official. Fie, Ambra Reborn, Oath-Cutter, the Crow Who Feared No Crown … I give you mine. Do with it what you will.”
The crown sat in her hands a moment, and it felt like fire.
But she had teeth for that. And she’d seen what fire left in its wake.
“Doesn’t fit me anyway,” Fie said, and handed it back.
Somewhere, the last crow lingering on the ruins of the palace took to the sky.
The chief was taking too long to say her goodbyes.
Her band waited for her anyway, with a company of six Hawks, seven new-made Crows, and enough Phoenix teeth to last her until the next solstice, or so she hoped. Fie had made sure each chief carried enough not just for themselves, but to leave in shrines and pass more to the chiefs they taught to deal true mercy.
She might have organized a discreet raid into the ruins of the catacombs to be sure there were enough Phoenix bones to go around. What Ambra’s skull thought of it all, it kept to itself.
The first time Fie had left the palace, it had been with a trophy of Phoenix teeth, two dead lordlings in tow, and a gray tabby in her arms.
This time she left with the boy she loved, the kin who would carry her, and a friend with a crown to lose and an oath to keep. The cat, of course, had only conceded to ride in the cart.
From the top of Dumosa, she could see trails of smoke all the way to the horizon. It would be a hard year, full of ash, but full of hope.
Tavin reached for her. “Ready?”
“Aye.” Fie took his hand, took a breath, whistled the marching order.
Together they led her Crows from the ruins of the palace, to the road that would lead them on. Fie did not look back.
She knew her own way home.