The Faithless Hawk by Margaret Owen

Author:Margaret Owen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co. (BYR)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A SHOW OF STRENGTH

She clung to their trail like an ancient grudge, never too far from reach. Every time Tavin’s guards looked back, their gazes passed right through her as they hustled their makeshift prince down a walkway that hummed under Fie’s soles with the bones of dead gods. They’d chosen to leave through the other half of the Divine Gallery, where Fie had not yet tread.

The eyes of the statues seemed to burn on her, as if the Phoenix gods took issue with her mummery of fire. Fie refused to be sorry.

Tavin’s guards did not slow as they cleared the crowds. If anything, they quickened their pace, striding down the mostly empty lantern-lit colonnades and shoving aside the few servants who didn’t duck off the path in time. As Fie passed one fallen woman, she was tempted to begin snuffing out the lanterns ahead of Tavin’s guard, row by row, just to see them run.

But she’d learned long ago the hard difference between what she wanted and what must be done. If they ran, she would lose them in the dark long before the blade at her side could be returned.

“What do you think—” She heard one Hawk begin.

Another Hawk cut her off. “It was a threat, that’s all we need to know.”

At the rear of the squad, two guards traded looks. One cast an uncertain glance behind them, scouring every shadow for signs of an intruder. Fie knew they’d only find an empty walkway.

She gave in and blew out a lantern—just the one. The guards’ eyes widened. They hesitated a moment, then whipped back around to keep their eyes on Tavin.

The escort wound into the royal gardens, cutting through tunnels cleverly hidden between hedges and behind falls of vines. Fie kept at their heels with an Owl tooth burning in her bones, committing every step, every shadow, every mutter to memory.

Every drop of sweat or oil running down the back of Tavin’s neck.

The farther they went, the further a strange, dreadful feeling welled up in Fie’s bones. It wasn’t a sickness, no, nor a weakness she knew; it didn’t feel wrong in the way that skin-ghasts set her on edge.

It felt … it felt like she’d felt at Little Witness’s tower, standing at the edge of a measureless sea, one that meant to swallow her with barely a ruff of foam to mark her drowning.

She clung tight to her teeth until it passed. Not too long after, they emerged into a wide, open courtyard, its intricate tiles little better than an unruffled lake in the dim moonlight. From its center rose an island of a structure, bedecked with domes, fringes of gold, tiled roofs that flared like skirts, intricate friezes, and balustrade-laced verandas that looked high enough to see most of Dumosa sprawled below.

The royal quarters. Where Rhusana slept. And her son. And Tavin. Fie didn’t know if a Crow had ever set foot inside.

She supposed she’d best leave an impression, then.

The guards led them into a grand foyer clearly meant to impress people far more important than Fie.

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