Fie slumped back with a broken laugh, red swimming in her vision. She didn’t know if the lightness in her chest came from relief or blood loss.
She’d done it.
She’d brought the prince to his allies.
A mountain of a shadow rumbled nearer, fading in and out of sight. A mammoth. A rider, spear still in hand.
“Master-General Draga,” the prince said stiffly from somewhere above her. “How did you know?”
“You lit a fire the size of Gerbanyar, Highness,” his aunt answered from even higher. Fie could scarce pick her form out of the blur, but she sounded like the sort of woman who enjoyed riding mammoths full tilt at a pack of Vultures. “And even if you hadn’t, I was warned to expect your arrival.”
She pointed her spear to the gates behind them.
Fie reeled about, heart in her throat. Had she missed it? But Tavin hadn’t—he couldn’t have gotten the message out—
A black thread of smoke spooled into the sky, lit from Trikovoi’s plague beacon.
“Oh,” Fie said.
And then, eyes shuttering, she fell to the dirt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CROW MOON
“She’s coming around.”
“Am not,” Fie grumbled into unyielding dark.
“I, for one, am not convinced,” another voice said, dry. Fie had heard that one before, grating through dust and smoke … Jasimir had called her Draga—
Her eyes flew open and saw only stone.
Fie blinked and craned her aching head about, tallying up the surroundings. Stone walls, stone floors, stone ceiling, diamond-shaped windows letting in near-sunset light. Dark figures at a desk. Another figure crouching by her side.
The weight of her swords was gone. Fie threw a hand to her throat and found the string of teeth untouched, Pa’s tooth yet humming.
Trust Hawks to take her steel but leave her teeth.
“Stay still,” the first voice ordered, the one who’d announced her awakening. A little sting of pain darted through Fie’s right leg. She blinked once more and found herself sprawled on a low wood bench. A bloody arrow lay on the ground nearby. Someone had cut gashes through her wool leggings—likely the Hawk woman at her side, who was frowning at the gore. Fie felt naught but a faint unpleasant tickle until the woman rocked back and stood. “All done. It’ll be stiff for a day. Expect flashburn scars.”
The healer didn’t address Fie, instead directing her report to the woman across the room. Now that Fie could see her plain, it was clear the master-general did not need the mammoth in order to loom. Draga hadn’t bothered changing out of her dusty leather armor; the only concession she’d made was a discarded helmet, which was leaving a rim of sweat on the parchment scattered across the desk. Fie saw the family resemblance between her and Jasimir at once: same dark gold skin, same sharp jaw, same lean build.
Where Jasimir fidgeted in a chair before the master-general, however, his aunt all but lounged against the desk, the picture of ease. “Good work, Corporal Lakima.” Draga nodded to the healer, who saluted and posted herself at the door.
She’d dealt with Fie’s wounds faster and more painlessly than Tavin ever had. He’d been right about being a middling healer after all. Fie sat up and stretched out her sore leg. “Where are we?”
“Inside Trikovoi,” Draga answered. “The fort’s commander has generously lent us his office. Corporal, please arrange for food and water to be sent up. The children look rather peaked.”
“I can escort you to a location more … suitable for the master-general,” Corporal Lakima said with the kind of delicacy that suggested the commander’s office had not been lent so much as commandeered.
Draga glanced at her, something metallic tinkling in her gray-streaked black hair. Her smile showed a few too many teeth. “I find this office suits me, corporal. I’d hate to refuse the commander’s generosity. Oh, and if you would? Send wine, too.”
Once the door shut, Draga shed the smile like a winter coat. “You two reek of questions, among other things. Yes, Taverin got the message-hawk through. Half the north’s league markers are staffed by Markahns, so don’t look so impressed.”
Taverin sza Markahn. Bastard or not, Tavin’s name had been good for something after all. Fie swallowed.
Draga’s voice roughened. “The Hawks who took his message said he appeared to be injured at the time, which tells me he was still pretending to be the prince. Clearly that didn’t last long enough. I can’t tell you if he’s still alive, but Tatterhelm would be a fool to throw away any of his bargaining chips. Scouts are sweeping the mountains nearby to see if we can pin down his location as we speak.”
“What of Father?” Jasimir asked.
Draga looked as if she’d stepped in dung. “What of him?”
“Is he … Has Rhusana…?”
“Ah. No.” Draga leaned back. “For better or worse, he’s still on the throne.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Draga straightened, and Fie saw that the tinkling came from finger-length steel feathers dangling from a tight knot of dark hair at the back of her head. Hawk custom. One for each battle won. Draga wore more than Fie could count. “Enter.”
A cadet near about Jasimir’s age walked in, bearing a platter of fresh panbread, soft goat cheese, figs, and smoked meats. A second cadet followed with one sweating pitcher of water and another of rich red wine. They both snuck fleeting, sidelong glances at Fie and Jasimir. One’s lip twitched into a curl before flattening out.
Fie almost laughed out loud. Between the prince’s grime, his ragged clothes, and his lost topknot, the cadets had taken him for a Crow.
Draga cleared her throat. “Give my gratitude to the commander,” she said pointedly. After the door shut she rolled her eyes. “Prissy little things. Eat up, I’m certain you’re famished.”
Draga poured two brass goblets of water and handed them to Jasimir and Fie, then poured herself wine. “So. Highness. The last time I heard from Taverin, Rhusana had just arranged to have ground glass dumped in your wine, because I suppose that harridan needed a hobby. He mentioned you might be paying a visit to your auntie soon. Then the next thing I know, a Phoenix has conveniently died of the plague for the first time in five hundred years, and just as conveniently, so has Taverin sza Markahn.”
“I didn’t know he was in contact with you.” Jasimir’s knuckles tightened on his goblet, though he’d schooled his face into granite.
“Markahns. We’re dirty gossips to the bone.” She grinned that toothy, sharp grin again, and Fie suddenly kenned where Tavin had learned to make the slightest gesture look lethal. “As my blood, my protection is yours, and as my prince, my loyalty is yours. But if you’ve got more in mind than taking up residence in the Marovar, you’d best lay it out for me.”
“Tavin’s original plan was to claim I survived the plague through the strength of Ambra’s bloodline,” Jasimir elaborated. “I’d return to the capital with the regional governors rallied behind me. The lord-governor of the Fan said he’d aid us, but we walked straight into Rhusana’s ambush.”
“So you came to me instead.” Draga eyed her goblet and sighed. “Only Taverin would come up with a scheme that ludicrous in the first place. I’m going to need more wine.” She tipped the glass at Fie. “And you, Lady Merciful. I can’t believe you shepherded the boys across the whole wretched nation out of the goodness and charity in your heart. I also can’t help noticing you’re missing your flock.”