Fie’s skull pounded, the camp swimming in her sight. Every bone rattled and whined. A copper tang singed her throat. Too far, she’d stretched the tooth-spark too far—but she couldn’t let go, not now—
The Oleander lord strolled over to the wagon.
“‘Feed the Crows,’” he drawled, disgusted. “Better to starve the damned leeches.”
With a flick of the wrist, he dropped his torch on the wagon’s top.
Fie cringed, her grip on the branch going white-knuckled as she fought to stay upright. Flames spread like a blanket over the dry wagon wood. If they were lucky, someone in the trees had smuggled out a stash of food. If not, they were in for a lean few days. Even a sack of rice …
A horrible thought near felled her from the tree then and there. No, there had been such a commotion before they took to the trees, for sure—
Her heart sank as a confused mew pierced the night.
Barf was still in the wagon’s hold. And the Crane arbiter had shut the way out.
The Oleander lord walked away.
“What now?” asked the Crane.
He mounted his horse and turned to the trees. “We wait.”
Flames began to lick down the wagon’s sides. Another cry rose from inside, unmistakable. The Crane hesitated, stretched a hand out toward the side panel, then jerked back at the heat. After a moment she, too, mounted her horse.
Another plaintive mewl wound around the camp.
The ghost of Pa’s voice scratched across her skull: You have to keep your eyes open.
Fie fought down vomit as her bones screamed, holding on to the Sparrow witch-tooth, holding her own panic back even harder, clinging to the only truth that mattered: she had to see Pa’s oath through. She had to keep the prince safe. She had to look after her own.
Tears burned salt tracks down her face.
Look after your own.
Blood trickled from her nose.
Look after your own.
The Oleanders waited.
Look after your own.
Barf’s wailing rose, desperate, fearful. Flames streaked higher into the dark.
Something seized Fie’s elbow. She near fell off the branch.
“The tooth,” Jasimir muttered in her ear. “Give me the tooth.”
“Wh—”
“Will it still work if I’m holding it?”
“Aye, but—” Her whisper faded, another wave of dizziness splitting her sight.
The prince’s hand found hers. He pried the Sparrow witch-tooth loose. “Don’t let them see me.”
And before she could say another word, he slid down her robe-rope and dropped from the tree.
Tavin reappeared at her side for a split second as the Sparrow witch-tooth strained to cover them all. Then, mercifully, Pa kindled a third tooth. The Hawk didn’t vanish, but Fie found her eyes glazing right over him. Pa must’ve felt Fie’s own Sparrow tooth drop.
Even better, Tavin hadn’t yet kenned that Jasimir was gone. Instead, his hand settled on Fie’s shoulder. Whether he meant to comfort or restrain her, she couldn’t say.
Fie twisted the witch-tooth’s spark so she alone could see the prince. To his credit, he had landed with scarce a sound; his mother had trained him well before she died. Not a single Oleander looked his way, still hunting the dark for any sign of Crows.
Barf’s mews climbed to a frantic howl.
Jasimir plucked his dagger from the ground, and the Sparrow tooth’s range shrank even farther. Relief near brought tears to Fie’s eyes.
The prince’s bare feet were useful after all; he left nary a track as he picked a path across patches of moss and grass. But closer to the wagon, there was only open dirt. And two Oleanders idled nearby, their horses’ eyes rolling at Barf’s shrieks.
Fie studied Jasimir’s options from above: He could try to weave round the Oleanders. Or he could inch across the dirt and chance the horses startling at his scent. Both would take precious time.
Barf went quiet.
Prince Jasimir stiffened, then smacked one of the horses on the rump.
The horse whinnied and reared, its rider swearing. Jasimir darted across the dirt, ducking flying hooves, and rounded the wagon until it stood betwixt himself and the Oleanders. Fie had to allow that he’d been clever there: from that angle, the riders couldn’t see the side panel crack open.
Jasimir’s arm vanished into the flames, then reappeared with a fist around the scruff of Barf’s neck. He yanked her out swift and stepped back from the fire. Barf wriggled and buried her face in the crook of his arm.
And not a single soul had witnessed it save Fie.
“Get your beast under control,” the Peacock lord barked.
The rider who’d near been bucked off patted his horse’s neck. “Apologies, m’lord. She’ll settle once we’re away from the fire.”
Another man gave a shout, waving his torch to the road. “Tracks over here. Nail-marks on ’em, like their sandals. Headed south.”
The Oleander lord stared at the burning wagon. Jasimir took another step back. Sparrow witch-tooth or no, he wasn’t accustomed to going unnoticed. But the sandpine mask only turned to the road and then back to the camp.
“YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED,” he thundered, loud enough that Fie flinched. “LONG REIGN THE WHITE PHOENIX.”
Tavin’s fingers tightened on her shoulder again. This time she knew it had naught to do with her.
The Oleander Gentry spooled from the clearing like a weft of burning wool, all white and dust and flame.
Once the hoofbeats sank from earshot, Pa let his own Sparrow teeth go and whistled the all-clear signal. Crows rained from the trees, flocking to put out the burning wagon.
“I’m sorry about your cat,” Tavin said, and let her go.
Fie smirked up at him, a little jump-drunk from swinging betwixt fear and relief. “Well, I’m not.”
She cut her Sparrow witch-tooth free, and Tavin’s eyes flashed with panic as he realized the prince was gone. Then a muffled cheer rose from the Crows below, drawing his attention to where Jasimir stood, still cradling the groggy tabby.
“His idea,” Fie said, smug. “Royal command, even. Can’t disobey that.”
Tavin studied the prince for a long, long moment, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Then he crouched to better look Fie in the eye, face inches from hers.
“Jas is a good person.” His voice was a dangerous breed of quiet. “He’s going to be a good king. Better than the one we have. And by every dead god, I will do whatever it takes for him to sit on that throne.” His eyes narrowed. “I would have been sorry about your cat. But you would have been sorrier if anything had happened to my king.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Call it what you want. But you’re going to be a chief, and he”—Tavin jabbed a finger at the prince—“is the Crows’ only hope at not reliving this night, every night, for the rest of what will consequently be a very short life.”
He was right.
She gave him her coldest, nastiest smile anyway.
“Joke’s on you, bastard boy: they’re all short lives. Wager I’ve spent more nights ready to die for my kin than you’ve spent rolling palace girls.”
Something haunted shot through the razor hum of his anger. She hadn’t dug for a nerve this time but she’d rattled one all the same. He tilted back, his stare dropping to her mouth, and when he found words after a long moment, all he said was “You’re bleeding.”