Nine Crowns for a Dead Sparrow

How it begins

Nessa had never polished a crown for a sparrow before.

The first eight fitted badly.

The ninth was mostly ribbon.

She laid them in a row beside the tiny body and wondered which king had decided grief required matching accessories.

Outside the stable, nine royal households were arguing about the order of arrival.

The bird lay on a square of blue cloth.

It weighed almost nothing.

Nessa had carried foals heavier than this across fields in the dark. She had never been given three guards and a written instruction not to lose one.

Oren the undertaker entered with a cedar box.

"Have you finished?"

"Do I put the crowns inside?"

"Not until the witnesses arrive."

The sparrow opened one eye.

Nessa stopped breathing.

Oren saw her face and shut the stable door.

"How long?"

"Just now."

He set the box on a feed bin very carefully.

The sparrow shook its head, scattered three grains of funeral incense and attempted to stand.

Nessa cupped her hands around it.

"It needs water."

"It needs," Oren said, "to remain dead until we understand the consequences."

She looked at him.

He was an old man who had spent his life arranging bodies with more kindness than the living generally received. He did not look proud of what he had said.

Beyond the door, a trumpet announced another king.

Nessa dipped one finger in the water bucket.

The sparrow drank.

Oren watched it.

"The border follows the first migration," he said.

"I know."

"No. The border follows whichever route they can persuade everyone to remember."

The bird settled in her palm, warm now, astonishingly ordinary.

Nine crowns gleamed beside the empty cloth.

Nessa looked at the little window above the feed bins.

There was a gap in the latch big enough for a sparrow.

Not nearly big enough, she thought, for what would follow it out.