Fie’s beak was only in the way now. She set Barf down in the cart and pushed back her hood to loosen the mask’s straps, letting it hang about her neck as she ran a hand through her chin-cropped tangle of black hair. It was a blessing to breathe clean night air and not the palace’s incense or her mask’s stale mint.

She had naught to fear of contagion. It was said that every Crow had fouled up something grand in their past lives, bad enough for the Covenant to strike them down with plague and boot them directly to a life of atonement in containing the disease. That Crows were born already in debt to the Covenant’s measures of sin. That it would not take them to their next life before that debt was paid.

So it was said, at least. Fie didn’t know how much of that rang true to her ear. But it was truth hard as iron that the Sinner’s Plague left only Crows untouched.

Death-stink hadn’t settled on the boys yet, but she still flinched at the crimson stains on their shrouds. Of all a chief’s duties, cutting throats was the one she dreaded most.

She reached into the cart, prodding what seemed like the nobler of the bloody heaps. “They really royals, Pa?”

“Just the one. Other was his body double.”

Fie tugged back the linen until torchlight landed on a boy’s rust-flecked face, looking for all the world like he was sleeping. Maybe a little afraid. Maybe he’d been awake when Pa’s blade touched his throat.

She pursed her lips. “So that’s what a sinner prince looks like.”

The dead boy sat up.

“Well, no,” he said, “but I’ve been told I’m fairly close.”

CHAPTER THREE

A COVENANT OATH

Fie didn’t intend to punch the boy, but she did all the same.

Fie didn’t intend to scream, either, but that happened, too, and with enthusiasm. As did tripping over her feet as she bolted back, landing on her rear in the damp grass. Hangdog’s curses and Pa’s roaring laughter only muddied her panic.

The dead boy yanked his left hand loose from the bindings, wincing as he felt his jaw. Gore on his plain long-sleeved tunic made it impossible to tell if any of the blood was new. Fie scrabbled about to arm herself with a rock as the other shroud also began to stir.

“Here, here,” Pa said, wiping tears from his eyes as he reached into the cart to help free them. “You’ve gone and spooked my girl.”

“There’s an understatement,” the boy said, dry. He glanced down at the wiggling shroud beside him. “Jas, as your personal guard, I feel obligated to warn you”—he pointed at Fie—“that one is easily startled.”