CHAPTER ONE
The Master of Crows looked around Ashton and smiled at the way it was starting to live up to its name. Clouds of smoke rose over it from those sections that his men were clearing with fire, from the foundries that were even now churning out more weapons, from the fires that fed his men, burned brands into captives, and heated irons for the torment of those who tried to stand against them.
“Come to me,” he said, holding out an arm. “Show me.”
Crows descended from the sky, landing on the outstretched cloth of his great coat, their claws digging into the flesh beneath and their croaking voices filling the air around him. As each landed, it brought with it the sights and sounds and smells of a city in ruins, and each image only made the Master of Crows’ smile broaden into a sharp edged rictus.
The first crow showed him the ruins of the outer city, where starving children ran from older starving children, knives and clubs in their grubby fists now. The buildings there were rubble, splintered wood and scattered stone lying in piles that his crows picked through in search of the bodies beneath. The Master of Crows felt the moments when they found them and fed, trickles of lost life flowing into him.
More power came from the gibbets and the breaking wheels, the tying posts and the cages. A whole battalion of his troops worked at them, forcing criminals inside, and just about everyone in Ashton was a criminal under the New Army’s laws. There was the crack of muskets as soldiers practiced their rifle work on the condemned, and always, always, the tumble of crows onto those who fell.
Even more came from the places where the remaining people of the city worked in drudgery, forced to carry and forge, dig and build. There was no time for breaks, and little for sleep. Those who fell were beaten until they rose, and those who did not rise became food for his pets.
“More,” he said, because the hunger was always there. The crows demanded more, and he had to feed them. His words echoed out through the city, through the throats of a thousand birds. “Feed us more.”
He didn’t just need it for the hunger. His mind flicked out, seeking out crow after crow, spreading out beyond the city, letting him see the rest of the country. He saw fields and towns, the progress of his armies and the spots where the people of the kingdom sought to build their own.
“Should I crush you now, or later?” he wondered. Now would put down any rebellion easily. Later though, when they’d built up more followers… the rush of death would be so much greater then. The power would be so much better.
Another crow showed him the reason that he needed that power. Stonehome sat below, safe within the long wall that surrounded it, the tall stones set at intervals serving as anchors for the shield that those within could call up. The Master of Crows could see more people down there than should have ever fit into such a space: at least half or more of those who had fled Ashton, and the king, Sebastian, and…
Even from up here, the bright glow of the child was impossible to ignore. Sophia Danse’s daughter shone with the kind of power that might eclipse the sun, and that might even be enough to sate the crows. With that kind of power, a man might find himself immortal without the need for more killing, without the spread of black wings further.
Or he might have enough power to take everything.
He brought himself back to his own body, and turned to the aides who waited just a little way away. Several of his captains stood with them, looking as nervous as all his followers learned to be over time.
“What progress has there been?” he demanded, hearing the croak and rasp of his own voice. It was always worse when he’d spent a lot of time in the minds of his birds. He pointed at one of the captains at random, guessing that otherwise, they would spend their time arguing over who got to be first, or last.
“My men continue to hunt down stragglers,” the man said. “People continue to live in the city’s crawl spaces and slums like rats, but-”
“Next,” the Master of Crows said, cutting him off.
“Our control over the surrounding countryside is almost complete,” another of the captains said. “The new laws have been implemented, and we have started to-”
“Next,” the Master of Crows said.
“There is a nobleman who has announced himself as king, and-”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” he demanded, irritation rising in him. “We will deal with all of this, but it is not relevant.”
“Forgive us, my lord,” one of his aides said, “but what is it that you want to hear from us?”
“I want to hear about progress in attacking Stonehome. I want to hear that you have found a solution to that damnable shield that they have put up.”
“We have sent engineers to try to undermine their walls,” the aide said.
The Master of Crows looked over to the man. “And?”
“And they were slaughtered by forays from the people there. There was mist, and…”
“And when it lifted, they were dead. Yes, yes,” the Master of Crows said in irritation. “What else?”
“Cannon do not work against the shield,” one of his captains said. “Nor does any kind of physical assault.”
“Do not tell me what does not work,” the Master of Crows said. “I know that my army cannot break through.”
“We are searching for anyone who might have a solution,” an aide said. “But they have been reluctant to come forward, even with promises of wealth.”
Of course they were. Anyone who had that kind of knowledge would undoubtedly have a spark of magical talent as well, and someone like that would be anything but likely to help the New Army now. They would be too afraid of what would happen to them afterwards.
“Go through every record,” the Master of Crows said. “I want works of magic sought out. I want every man who can read, every aide, every captain who is not actively fighting going through the libraries of the city. Put out a reward. Any man or woman who brings information relating to the shield surrounding Stonehome will be spared, will be given gold and a place in my army, even if they have magic of their own, even if they are priests of the Masked Goddess, or nobles, or anything else. Find me a solution, and I will forgive anything. I must have that child!”
He set off back into Ashton’s palace, which had become as twisted and changed as the rest of the city. He didn’t care about any of the holes that had been blasted in the walls in the course of the battle, or about the offices and billets that had taken over what had once been noble bedrooms. Screams came from one of the rooms as his interrogators worked on a servant to find out what they knew about the city. The Master of Crows shrugged and moved on.
He briefly paused as he passed in front of a gilded mirror, the sight of his reflection arresting his attention for a moment. The tall frame, wreathed in a dark coat and covered in crows was the same as ever, but what caught his attention was the small red mark that stood out brightly against the pallor of his skin.
Moving closer, it was still possible to make out the shape of a child’s handprint, as red now as it had been in the seconds after the young Princess Violet had touched him there. The burn didn’t hurt now unless he touched it, but it was a reminder that she had the power to hurt him, and that could not be ignored.