PROLOGUE
Spring of One
The journalists arrived before the coffin did. They gathered at the gate overnight and by dawn they were a crowd. By nine o’clock they were a swarm.
It was near midday before Corvus Crow made the long walk from his front door to the tall iron rails keeping them at bay.
“Chancellor Crow, will this affect your plans to run for reelection?”
“Chancellor, how soon will the burial take place?”
“Has the president offered condolences?”
“How relieved do you feel this morning, Chancellor?”
“Please,” Corvus interrupted, holding up a leather-gloved hand to silence them. “Please, I wish to read a statement on behalf of my family.”
He pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his smart black suit.
“We wish to thank you, the citizens of our great Republic, for your support over the past eleven years,” he read in a clear, authoritative voice honed by years of demanding order in the Chancery. “This has been a trying time for our family, and the distress will no doubt linger for some time yet.”
He stopped to clear his throat, looking up for a moment at his hushed audience. A sea of camera lenses and curious eyes gleamed back at him. A ceaseless assault of flashes and clicks.
“The loss of a child is difficult to bear,” he continued, returning to his notes. “Not only for our family, but for the townspeople of Jackalfax, who we know share in our grief.” At least fifty pairs of eyebrows shot upward, and a few embarrassed coughs broke the momentary silence. “But this morning, as we welcome the Ninth Age of the Wintersea Republic, know that the worst is behind us.”
There was a sudden, loud caw from overhead. Shoulders hunched and faces flinched, but nobody looked up. The birds had been circling all morning.
“The Eighth Age took from me my beloved first wife, and now it has taken my only daughter.”
Another piercing caw. One reporter dropped the microphone he was thrusting at the chancellor’s face and scrambled noisily to pick it up. He turned pink and mumbled an apology, which Corvus ignored.
“However,” he continued, “it has also taken with it the danger, doubt, and despair that plagued her short life. My… dear Morrigan”—he paused to grimace—“is finally at peace, and so must we all be. The town of Jackalfax—indeed, the entire state of Great Wolfacre—is safe again. There is nothing to fear.”
A murmur of uncertainty rippled through the crowd, and the onslaught of camera flashes seemed to slow. The chancellor looked up at them, blinking. His paper rustled in a slight wind, or perhaps it was his hand shaking.
“Thank you. I will not be taking questions.”
CHAPTER ONE
THE CURSED CROW
Winter of Eleven
(Three days earlier)
The kitchen cat was dead, and Morrigan was to blame.
She didn’t know how it had happened, or when. She thought perhaps he’d eaten something poisonous overnight. There were no injuries to suggest a fox or dog attack. Apart from a bit of dried blood at the corner of his mouth, he looked like he was sleeping, but he was cold and stiff.
When she found his body in the weak winter morning light, Morrigan crouched down beside him in the dirt, a frown creasing her forehead. She stroked his black pelt from the top of his head to the tip of his bushy tail.
“Sorry, kitchen cat,” she murmured.
Morrigan thought about where best to bury him, and whether she could ask Grandmother for a bit of nice linen to wrap him in. Probably best not to, she decided. She’d use one of her own nightshirts.
Cook opened the back door to give yesterday’s scraps to the dogs and was so startled by Morrigan’s presence, she nearly dropped her bucket. The old woman peered down at the dead cat and set her mouth in a line.
“Better his woe than mine, praise be to the Divine,” she muttered, knocking on the wooden doorframe and kissing the pendant she wore around her neck. She glanced sideways at Morrigan. “I liked that cat.”
“So did I,” said Morrigan.
“Oh yes, I can see that.” There was a bitter note in her voice, and Morrigan noticed she was backing away, inch by wary inch. “Go on now, inside. They’re waiting for you in his office.”
Morrigan hurried into the house, hovering for a moment near the door from the kitchen to the hallway. She watched Cook take a piece of chalk and write KICHIN CAT—DEAD on the blackboard, at the end of a long list that most recently included SPOYLED FISH, OLD TOM’S HEART ATACK, FLOODS IN NORTH PROSPER, and GRAVY STAYNES ON BEST TABELCLOTH.
“I can recommend several excellent child psychologists in the Greater Jackalfax area.”
The new caseworker hadn’t touched her tea and biscuits. She’d traveled two and a half hours from the capital by rail that morning and walked from the train station to Crow Manor in a wretched drizzle. Her wet hair was plastered to her head, her coat soaked through. Morrigan was struggling to think of a better remedy for this misery than tea and biscuits, but the woman didn’t seem interested.
“I didn’t make the tea,” said Morrigan. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
The woman ignored her. “Dr. Fielding is famous for his work with cursed children. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Dr. Llewellyn is also highly regarded, if you like a gentler, more maternal approach.”
Morrigan’s father cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That won’t be necessary.”
Corvus had developed a subtle twitch in his left eye that appeared only during these mandatory monthly meetings, which signaled to Morrigan that he hated them as much as she did. Coal-black hair and crooked noses aside, it was the only thing father and daughter had in common.
“Morrigan has no need of counseling,” he continued. “She’s a sensible enough child. She is well acquainted with her situation.”
The caseworker chanced a fleeting look at Morrigan, who was sitting beside her on the sofa and trying not to fidget. These visits always dragged. “Chancellor, without wishing to be indelicate… time is short. Experts all agree we’re entering the final year of this Age. The final year before Eventide.” Morrigan looked away, out the window, casting around for a distraction, as she always did when someone mentioned the E-word. “You must realize this is an important transitional period for—”
“Have you the list?” Corvus said, with a hint of impatience. He looked pointedly at the clock on his office wall.
“Of—of course.” She drew a piece of paper from her folder, trembling only slightly. The woman was doing rather well, Morrigan thought, considering this was just her second visit. The last caseworker barely spoke above a whisper and would have considered it an invitation to disaster to sit on the same piece of furniture as Morrigan. “Shall I read it aloud? It’s quite short this month—well done, Miss Crow,” she said stiffly.
Morrigan didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t really take credit for something she didn’t control.
“We’ll start with the incidents requiring compensation: The Jackalfax Town Council has requested seven hundred kred for damage to a gazebo during a hailstorm.”