where they were in Sabor, he’d managed to find posies for his wife’s birthday, year after year, even after the roads had claimed her.
Tatterhelm had taken him from Fie in Cheparok.
He would take no one else. Not one Crow more. She was a chief. She would look after her own.
“Fie, get out—” Pa started. His Vulture captor seized Pa’s right hand and squeezed. Pa choked off a sharp cry. New bright red stained the bandage.
Give them fire, whispered the Phoenix teeth on Fie’s string.
Fie fouled up when she looked Tavin’s way. He didn’t speak, eyes burning through her. Of course he’d known she would take the deal. Maybe, for a moment, he’d believed that she’d choose another road. But they both knew better; Fie only hoped he hadn’t fooled himself for too long.
Once more, his face said a thousand things, full of fury and desperation and guilt and, worst of all, betrayal.
Maybe one day he would forgive her for this. But she’d always known it wouldn’t be easy.
Tatterhelm shoved Tavin to his knees, knife still at his throat, one hand digging into Tavin’s scalp. The northman hadn’t even bothered to don his favored helm to reckon with a little Crow half chief; he wore just a chestplate and heavy boots over his grubby yellow tunic and wool leggings. His pork-pink arms bulged bare and stark with valor mark tattoos in the gloom, his wild straw hair coiling about his shoulders. A beaked Crow mask swung from his belt like a prize scalp.
“You’ve been a pain in my ass,” he rumbled. “Making me hound you across the damned nation all on some fool’s notion.”
Fie spat in the cinders again. “You here to deal or not?”
“Y’know what the problem is with you people?” He pulled the mask free of his belt and tossed it into the dust at Fie’s feet. “You forget what you are. Queen’s comin’ for your kind, won’t be stopped by some bone thief brat.”
Long-dead mint sprigs spilled from the beak.
We have something that belongs to you.
The Vultures had trailed her the whole time. Not the prince, not Tavin. They’d known to follow her.
“Maybe the prince learns his lesson about trusting Crows,” Tatterhelm grunted, “but I’d say that lesson’ll be … eh, short-lived.”
He wanted her rattled. Fie knew a Money Dance when she heard one.
“Enough,” she snapped. “I did what you wanted. Now let them go.”
“Settle down.” Tatterhelm’s knifepoint scratched at Tavin’s throat. “Viimo.”
“Aye, boss?” Viimo answered from Wretch’s side, one fist holding fast to the older woman’s bonds. Wretch’s mouth moved, too quiet for aught but Viimo to hear. The skinwitch ignored her.
“These two bring any company?”
Viimo closed her eyes a long moment. Her brow knotted, then untied. Her free fist curled. “I see nothin’, boss.”
Draga hadn’t yet noticed their absence, then. Or she had cut her losses like Fie couldn’t. Either way, Fie was on her own.
On her own and in too deep to get out now.
Tatterhelm narrowed his eyes at her. “Drop the cloak.”
She let go of Jasimir. “Move and I’ll gut you,” she warned him, and pulled her ragged robe over her head.
Tatterhelm squinted at her shirt and leggings, searching for any hint of hidden weapons. She knew he’d find none. He jerked his chin. “The teeth.”
Fie clenched her jaw, then lifted Tavin’s sword and sliced through her chief’s string. It fell to the ash with her robe.
“Now the sword.”
Fie let the Hawk blade drop. When it struck the earth, she’d have sworn she’d stripped herself bare. Thin wool wouldn’t stop arrows. No teeth, no steel. Easy prey.
Pa had said she was a dead god reborn. She did not feel like one now. Not even Little Witness.
Her pulse beat a funeral march in her ears.
She did not look at Tavin.
“Bring the prince closer.”
“Let them go,” she returned.
Tatterhelm pressed a red line into the side of Tavin’s throat, just below the shade of a bruise. Tavin jerked; his slaughter bell tolled.
“I ain’t askin’ twice,” Tatterhelm said.
The cold hook in Fie’s guts winched tight. She forced a breath through her nose and marched Jasimir onward, unarmed. Empty-handed. Toothless.
Every heartbeat echoed what burned in every Crow’s eyes:
Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.
She fouled up and looked to Tavin again. What burned in his face was much, much worse.
She didn’t know why she’d ever fooled herself into hoping for forgiveness.
He would live. That had to be enough.
When they drew within a few paces, Tatterhelm barked, “Hold up.” They stopped. “Prince goes the rest of the way himself.”