As the Crow Falls | ✔

Chapter Nineteen

Someone knocked on the door before Isaiah could do more than freeze. He got to his feet slowly, with a spooked expression that set off all of Niccola's internal alarms.

"Outside, now," he whispered. "See to the crow."

Niccola tossed the cushion she'd been sitting on onto his bed and crossed the room in a heartbeat to test the door to the balcony. It was unlocked. The last things she heard before she eased it shut behind her was the rattle of the room's other doorknob, and a woman's voice that she recognized as the queen's.

"Isaiah? Are you in there?"

Everything went silent when the door closed. Niccola pressed her ear to it, but it was solid wood and let only the muffled garble of voices through. She withdrew again and looked around. He'd said to see to the crow, and nothing would provide her better cover. The balcony was a simple one, perched on another room, overlooking a long wing of the palace below. In its most sheltered corner was a rook-house on an old wooden table, with a perch above and food and water beside it. Niccola peeked into the house. The crow was there, eyes shut and feathers fluffed in a way that told Niccola she was unwell.

"What's your name?" said Niccola. It was customary to ask, whether or not the bird responded with an actual name or something more distracted. This one, though, did not respond at all.

"I was told you had taken ill," continued Niccola. The language of the crows was less coarse at a murmur, like a mix of their softest caws and a foreign human tongue. "I might be able to help. Would you let me see you?"

When she checked the rook-house again to gauge the response, she found the crow awake, watching her. Something about that gaze, the lay of the crow's feathers, and the silence of her thoughts was familiar. Niccola pulled back sharply as a chill ran up her spine. "It's you?"

The mute crow continued to watch her without responding. Suddenly ill at ease, Niccola unwound the scarf she was wearing and held it for a moment, debating what to do. So this was where the crow had been for the last week that she'd been missing. This was her home. Had Niccola not known better, she would have suspected this was her sister, drawn to both a palace and to Niccola for their familiarity, even in lapsed form. But Phoebe's crow would carry the same white patching on its feathers as she'd worn on her skin. Niccola had checked this crow before, stroking her back for any sign of dye or fading. There had been none.

But this crow was still sick, and acting strangely. Niccola approached again. She reached a hand into the rook-house with another reassurance, then whipped it back as the bird's beak missed it by a hair. A low rattle rebuked her. The crow struggled to her feet, limping forward like she meant to escape. Niccola took her scarf in both hands. She waited for the crow to edge out onto the table, ready to fly, then lunged. In a flash, she'd cast the scarf over the crow's back and caught her feet, sweeping her close so her back rested against Niccola's chest. The crow squawked wildly, wings unable to beat beneath the restraint. She tried and failed to peck instead.

"Got you," said Niccola in a low voice, not bothering with crow-language this time. "Now, let's see where you're from, hm?"

Varna banded all its bred and trained birds, and most messenger-crows in the Ring of Thirty were Varnic. Madeira's small breeding stock was marked the same way. Niccola checked the crow's left leg, but found it bandless and striped with scars. The bird bucked in her arms.

"Calm down, or you will damage your feathers," Niccola scolded. "I am not here to hurt you."

The crow rattled back.

Isaiah had said this was his messenger-crow. Niccola had never heard of a properly trained messenger without a band, unless this one had simply lost it. Possible, but unlikely. In most cases, crows without bands were simply wild crows.