“And I think she’s a Swan witch,” Jasimir finished.
At that, Fie put down her panbread and stared.
“She has no witch-sign,” Tavin added hastily. “And the odds of a Swan witch being born are—”
“I know what they are.” Fie’s voice had gone frigid. The Swan caste had only three dead gods. Three solitary witches in over a thousand-score people.
Any more than that, and they’d rule Sabor.
There was a hard reason why their witches weren’t allowed to leave the Swan island even after coming of age. A hard reason why their Sparrow servants were clothed crown to foot, finger to toe.
In a Swan witch’s hands, the desire Birthright became more than a way to command attention. When they caught hold of even a single strand of another’s hair, they could seize that person’s desire and twist it—and them—as that witch pleased.
All it would take was one stray hair from Fie’s head, delivered to Queen Rhusana, and one scrap of hate the queen could seize on. Then Fie could wake one night to slit the boys’ throats without a flinch.
“You knew,” Fie accused, stacking up every horrid piece. “That’s why you ran.”
Jasimir shook his head, adamant. “It didn’t sound possible until now. All three Swan witches are accounted for, she has no sign, and Tavin and I witnessed the marriage ceremony ourselves. We didn’t know she could lose her Birthright for only a moon. I swear, I came to your band for help because Rhusana allied with the Oleanders, and for that reason alone.”
Fie scowled, baleful, at the dirt. “Aught else you want to tell me? Tatterhelm’s got a meaner cousin? The king’s really two asps in a fancy robe?”
“I still don’t know what Viimo meant about ghasts,” Tavin said.
“Me either.” Fie’s gut twisted. Pa had taught her how to call Swan teeth just on principle, for they had but a largely useless few. Still, in the handful of times she’d blinked through the life in a dead Swan’s spark, she’d heard no whisper of ghasts. And that, like so many things, bode ill.
Grim silence settled over them once more as Fie plaited a whole new set of troubles into the ones on her head.
Then Tavin’s voice broke in. “I really have to know: Which one of us is Pissabed?”
* * *
He didn’t want to be a Crow no more.
Fie had rolled Hangdog’s tooth between her thumb and forefinger since they’d made camp by the flatway at sundown, so long that it had pressed trenches into both fingers. She didn’t stop as she stared into the campfire now, a half-eaten heap of dinner cooling in the bowl beside her.
Hangdog had been born to be a chief like Fie. But he’d been willing to give it all up to get what he wanted.
She couldn’t help but wonder what that was like.
“What if…” Jasimir’s voice rattled her from her thoughts. “What if we went to the Hawks? Before Trikovoi, I mean.”
Fie closed her eyes. She knew why the prince would ask; she knew the sense it made in his head. But ten hostage kin and one dead traitor had dragged on her heart all day, and all she wanted was to eat her dinner and not fight until dawn.
Then, to her surprise, Tavin spoke up. “We can’t trust the Hawks.”
Fie blinked at him.
So did Jasimir, his face darkening. “Then why are we even going to the Marovar?”
“Because the Hawks in the Marovar answer to the master-general.”
“They all answer to Aunt Draga. If we find a league marker, I can just put my hand in the fire to show I’m a Phoenix, and—”
“We’ll never get that close,” Tavin said, terse. “We look like Crows. The best-case scenario is that they laugh us away. The worst case … You saw what they did in Cheparok.”
Fie knew he didn’t just mean the bribes. It rattled her, though, to hear him say it.
“Not all Hawks are bad,” Jasimir argued. “For the dead gods’ sake, you’re a Hawk.”
Tavin shook his head. “It doesn’t take all Hawks to get us killed. It just takes one. I’ll sent a message-hawk to the master-general once we reach the Marovar, but out here, I don’t trust—” He cut off, caught his breath, and closed his eyes. “I—I don’t trust other Hawks to protect us.”
A stiff silence fermented over the campfire.
Fie rolled Hangdog’s tooth in her fingers until it hurt. Never have to burn another body, never deal with Oleanders. We’d forget he was a Crow.
“Fine,” the prince said eventually. “Knowing Rhusana, she’ll want to take the throne in about two moons, on the summer solstice like a true Phoenix would. That leaves a moon and a half for her to … to remove Father.” Fie tilted her head at that. “One week for Father’s funeral, one more for the full coronation ceremony. She won’t settle for anything less. So if we don’t make it to the Marovar by the end of Peacock Moon…”
“King Surimir has a hunting accident,” Tavin finished.
Peacock Moon yielded to Crow Moon; then Phoenix Moon began the new year at solstice. Crow Moon meant roadside vendors peddling charms to ward off sin, a month to cast off the year’s follies and misfortunes, shorter viatik, shorter tempers.
Crow Moon was ripe for tragedy, like a king tumbling down a long set of stairs. Fie’s brow furrowed. “Rhusana goes straight to the throne after him? Thought the king had a brother.”
“Hunting accident,” Prince Jasimir said, grim.
“But didn’t your uncle have a daughter?”
“Hunting accident.”
Fie gave the prince a long, narrow look. “How’d the queen first try to off you, again?”
Tavin coughed into his fist. It sounded strangely like “hunting accident.”
“Maybe you lot ought to lay off hunting awhile,” Fie said.
Tavin laughed outright at that. Jasimir, surprisingly, covered a smile with a hand. Fie couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen him smile.
Fie couldn’t help grinning back. Maybe it would be all right, at least for a little while. They weren’t her kin, but the sharp edges of their pomp had worn off enough to abide for now.
Then Jasimir set his empty bowl down. “I’ll take watch.”
“No,” Tavin said, swift as a gate slammed shut. “Leave it to Fie and me.”
The prince frowned. “You know Mother wouldn’t want me to be deadweight.”
“She’d want me to do my job,” Tavin said, stiff. “And that’s keeping you alive.”
“You managed it fine in the palace.”
“We’re not in the palace.”
The prince’s gaze shifted to linger on Fie. His frown deepened. “Suit yourself.” He rolled out his sleeping mat and lay down without another word.
Fie couldn’t fault Tavin’s reasons; it’d be too easy for the Vultures to snatch the prince up if he alone kept watch. She was also dead sure this wasn’t the last time they’d have this quarrel.
She rolled Hangdog’s cold tooth betwixt her fingers again, over and over. Tavin broke the quiet soon enough. “Is there any chance you can sustain a glamour until the Marovar?”