Her radio crackles.“Truffle Pig to Eagle One, requesting hot drop and perimeter cruise—”
She’s hilariously formal on the radio. “Oh, Truffles! Come on in.” He smiles as the roar of the ship grows louder. “Oh. Darrow. I remembered. No more Truffle Pig. She hates it. Says it’s demeaning to her other contributions and athletic stature.”
“Uh-huh. Well. She doesn’t get to choose her own callsign.”
“Of course not. I was thinking Strawberry Lass. No? Crow Whisperer? Red Rabbit?”
“We’ll figure it out later.” I have a thought. “What do they call baby eagles?”
He acts like he’s just seen a puppy. “Eaglet. Oh gods. She’ll die.”
We wait in the grotto as Lyria performs a dramatic arrest overhead to impress Cassius. She almost hits the building.“Shit,”she mutters over the radio.
“Still on janitorial, Eaglet One,” he says into his com.
“What?”
“Nothing. Yet.”
He literally acts like he’s twelve around her.
Volga jumps out the back of the ship and makes a beeline toward me. Her head is down under the wash of the ship’s engines. She glances at Cassius. She does a double take. He’s staring dramatically out to sea now, either thinking about Lysander or posing for a coin. She’s so captivated by him her foot clips an uneven stone. He doesn’t look over at me, but draws a finger along his jaw. Idiot.
Volga blushes as she comes to a stop. “You shouldn’t be off the islands,” I say.
“Sevro said Lyria’s a Howler,” Volga says. “Counts as my escort.”
“Did he?” I say. “You should be campaigning.”
“That is done. The votes are being cast. Can we talk? Alone?”
“Cassius,” I say.
He sighs. “Are the services of a hero required?”
“Go up these stairs, around to the left. There’s a garden. I saw sometide pools there.” He stands and checks his razor. “Admire your reflection for ten minutes, and come back.”
“Funny. I think I’ll hop up and talk to the young eaglet instead. I hope I don’t open any wounds in my exertions. Oh wait. I have none.” He jumps upward after Lyria’s shuttle. Volga watches him go. When he’s gone, she wheels on me, angry.
“Why did you let me kill Fá?” she asks.
“Is there a problem?”
“People are trying to make me queen.”
“And you’re telling them not to?” I ask.
“Yes, I am telling them not to.”
“Oh, thatisa problem,” I say. “Skarde and Fjod must not know what to do.”
“Braves keep seeking me out to tell me they will vote for me. The jarls are angry. I cannot escape them. I do not want to be your puppet queen. I do not want to be your Fá, but you made me that when you had me kill him.”
“That was your choice. Did you not want to kill him?”
“He had to die. And yes. I wanted to kill him,” she says. “That’s not the point.”
I sit down on the stone with a wince. I wave for her to join. She doesn’t, then grows awkward standing over me, and sits. For the first time I really look at her. She is not as callused in the face as most Obsidians. She has deep lines on her forehead, scabs from a few cuts, a nose that’s been recently broken. But it’s her eyes that are the most captivating. They seem too young for her face, and can’t meet mine without glancing away. “We’re not gonna talk about Ephraim or Ragnar or Fá. We’re going to talk about the future. Fá said something before he died that made think about this place. My mentor once told me, ‘Death begets death begets death.’ That’s the sickness that eats the Golds. It’s the sickness that ate the Red Hand.
