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CHAPTER

Forty-Two

R AVENS ARE PERSISTENT. It is a defining part of our nature.

If we want something, we do not give up until it is ours. We are tireless, we are observant, we are clever.

We are fuming.

Furious with Neema, and furious with the Solitary Raven. Sol, as we must now call him. The arrogance, thinking he can stop the Last Return on his own, just because he’s been given his own special name, and a bag of meat to sit in.

We are also left with a conundrum. What to do? Where to go? Dragon’s instructions are of no use to us now: THE TIGER WARRIOR MUST BE STOPPED, RAVEN. COME TO NEEMA KRAA IN DREAMS, PREPARE HER WELL, SO THAT SHE WELCOMES YOU WHEN YOU NEED HER. AND WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT, JOIN WITH HER. THE FATE OF TWO WORLDS RESTS WITH YOU, SECOND GUARDIAN.

We can’t go home to the Hidden Realm. At some point Dragon will wake from its slumber, it will lift its great head from its coiled body, yawn and say— IS IT DONE, RAVEN? Yes it is done, Dragon , we could say, and it would burn us to ash for lying. Or we could say, No, Dragon, everything went wrong and now the fate of two worlds rests in the claws of the most wretched fragment in existence . And it would burn us to ash for failing. And not in the usual way. Dragon would burn us to ash for ever. THERE ARE OTHER BIRDS, RAVEN.

Our only option is to stay here on the Other Side and hope Dragon doesn’t wake up and notice we are still gone. Dangerous, for the whole of us to spend so long away from home. Unsettling, to be so reliant on Sol, the useless being.

But as we consult more deeply with ourself, we realise that while Sol is undeniably wretched, and worthless, he is also a fragment of us. Which means his plan is—by definition—our plan. And, thus, magnificent.

Immediately, we feel much better.

One of our bolder fragments—Intensely Curious Juvenile Yet to Learn the Benefits of Caution—shoulders its way excitedly to the middle of the flock. This is a magnificent opportunity to be seized with both claws! We are free to explore, to fly wherever we wish. We could leave the island! Soar over the empire, swoop low across the Scarred Lands and—

Wiser beaks peck the young fragment into submission. Steady on.

But the juvenile does have a point. (Of course it does, it is us.) We don’t have to remain stuck to Neema’s side any more. We can afford to stretch our wings a little, take in a different view.

Not Nisthala and her burning skin. Not the emperor and his sticky treacle song.

We shiver. No. Not there. Not those places.

What about the Tiger Trial?

Neema was supposed to be there.

She is only not there because of Sol and his stupid (yet magnificent) plan.

We could argue we should be there.

We should be there, yes. The Tiger palace. With Cain.

The Tiger palace, yes. With Cain.

We are highly satisfied with this decision; we groom ourselves and preen our feathers. We are the Raven. We are indefatigable.

Neema was enduring her own lesson in the persistence of ravens. As she was too late to join the Tiger Trial, she’d decided to visit the imperial dungeons and demand Benna’s release. Sol had other ideas.

Priorities, Neema. You must choose a weapon for your fight with Katsan. The weapons chest, Neema. We must go there now. Now. We are going there now. To the weapons chest. Neema. Neema. Neema . The weapons chest, Neema.

And on it went until Neema said, out loud, “Sol. If you don’t shut up, I will cast you out. Do you understand?”

She saw him in her mind’s eye, wedged in the cage of her ribs, claws curled around the bone. He hunched his shoulders, tucked his head and whispered, sadly, I understand. I am the Solitary Raven, doomed to be alone and lonely, spurned by all.

—I can’t have you shouting in my ear like that. I can’t think straight.

I will go to my field and contemplate my own wretchedness. In the rain.

—You don’t have to do that. We just need to establish some ground rules…

But he was already gone, soaring off to his field. Which was somehow, also, still in her chest.

She rubbed a hand over her heart. It was like reading a book, she decided. You read the book and the words became scenes, the characters became people and they lived inside you. She had dreamed of Sol, she had read his stories, and it had opened up a space inside her, where he could exist.

Sol was huddled in a hollow tree trunk, in the pelting rain. He lifted his head, and called over the top. If it makes you comfortable Neema, you can think that.

There was a Hound standing guard outside Neema’s door, short and stocky, tough-looking. Another of the new recruits, sailed in from the academy at Samra. His dark blue uniform was closer to a soldier’s campaign wear, with outer pockets on the trousers.

She thought of her conversation with Sunur, when they were first moved here to the eighth palace. Nothing to worry about. She looked at this guard and thought, Everything to worry about. He wasn’t here for her protection. Quite the opposite. He was here to make sure she didn’t miss her appointment with Katsan on the fight platform. Her appointment, in other words, with death.

“I need to visit the imperial dungeons.”

He folded his arms, enjoying his dominance over her. “Festival business only.”

“This is Festival business. My assistant—”

“Festival business only.”

Neema gritted her teeth. “Fine. The armoury, then. I need to check my weapons chest.”

He kept her waiting for his answer, because he could. Eventually he stepped to one side, jerked his head. All right. Out.

Sol, drenched in his field, gave a contented gurgle. Everything was going his way.

Neema set off down the hallway. The Hound shadowed her.

The weapons chest was set up for her on a back shelf of the armoury. She noticed things about it now she had not noticed before. The way the curve of the lid matched the curve of Sol’s upper beak. The iridescent gleam of the black leather. The brass key plate, the exact shade of a raven’s eye. Opening the lid, she released a dense, peppery smell, with a trace of oil. It smelled like Sol—his feathers.

Not the same. He was back from his field, landing with a neat plack on her rib. All ravens have their own scent.

—Like a thumbprint.

No, we do not have thumbs. That would be strange, a bird with thumbs. Do you agree, Neema? A bird with thumbs would be strange and freakish?

Neema was starting to understand why Sol had been shunned by the Flock.

The warhammer was strapped to the inside of the lid. She unhooked it and ran her fingers along the curved steel head to the tip. Flinched as she drew a bead of blood. It was sharper than it looked. She weighed it in her hand. There was nothing subtle about this weapon. It was made to smash, and gouge and pierce. She imagined swinging it at Katsan’s head. The terrible thunk as it lodged in her skull.

She set it aside and took out the longsword. Tried a few thrusts and swings. It was a fine weapon, perfectly balanced, but it was too heavy for her. She slid it back in its scabbard and dismissed it.

Yes—the sword is Katsan’s weapon, no one can defeat her with a sword, not even Ruko.

What else? The hinged staff might work, if she had ever practised with one. She liked the feel of the iron fork, its four prongs shaped like a raven’s claw. She turned her wrist back and forth, twirling it in her hand. Maybe.

—Eight, who am I kidding?

I will help you, Neema, don’t worry. Survive the first round, and I will distort time long enough for you to kill her. With the hammer, Neema, try the hammer again , he whispered encouragingly.

—We are not killing Katsan. Why can’t you help me in the first round?

I can only help you once, it will be very exhausting for me, propping up your feebleness, I will need a long time to recover my strength afterwards, we must choose our moment wisely.

Neema laid the rest of the weapons out on the ground: feathered darts, obsidian daggers, throwing knives. Under these lay the second compartment. She took out the shield and laid it to one side. It was of no use to her under the emperor’s new rules. Below that, neatly folded, lay a suit of leather armour, black mountain boots, and a short black cloak trimmed and lined with what felt exactly like the top of Sol’s head. Spooked, Neema dropped it back in the chest.

—We’ll use the fork thing.

The claw, yes.

As she packed everything back, she made a final discovery: a pair of black iron fans clipped to the padded interior just below the hinges. She slid one out of its case and flicked it open. The sound was startlingly loud and arresting, like the snap of wings opening. “War fans,” she murmured to herself.

Sol perked up. I taught you about these, Neema. Remember? When I was the book.

She did remember. A story about the ancient Raven warriors who had once guarded the monastery here on the island. They had carried fans like these as concealed weapons when they travelled to other monasteries. This one was shaped like a raven’s tail—a diamond-shaped wedge, longer in the middle. It might work as a surrogate shield. She opened and closed it a couple of times, testing her theory, then slotted it back in place, content with her decision. She was as ready as she could be.