own someday. But with Fie, the witch part’s not your trouble. It’s her temper that’ll leave a mark.”
Pa winked at Fie, then twitched his fingers at the blades the boys had strapped at their sides. “You’ll wrap those scabbards and hilts in rags tonight, and you’ll keep them out of sight. Hunting Castes don’t abide Crows with whole blades.”
“What do you mean?” Prince Jasimir clutched the jeweled hilt of his dagger. “Saborian law allows everyone to bear steel.”
Pa shrugged. “And that’s well and fine, but the law doesn’t weep much for Crows. Most we’re allowed is a broken blade for the chief. Your blades stay hidden, or they go in the pyre.” He didn’t wait for a response before walking off.
After that, Tavin’s stupid grin made itself scarce.
Fie couldn’t help kicking about the memory of grieving servants in that reeking, gaudy palace. Perhaps they truly had mourned for the lordlings. But if the last hour was any measure, she couldn’t for the life of her see why.
Once the pyre sat crowned in shrouds and bones, Pa uncorked the flashburn jug. Thick, clear ooze drizzled out as he turned back to the boys. “I’ll take your shirts, too, lads. Best leave some scraps in the coals. Fie, Hangdog, give ’em your robes and masks.”
Prince Jasimir seemed to have resigned himself to preserving the fragile truce, for by the time Fie shook the wood scraps from her cloak, he and his guard were already pulling off their bloody tunics. She could read a history of training in their clean-healed scars, a map of every time they weren’t quick enough to beat the blade. Torchlight also snagged in the whorls of a burn crawling round Tavin’s left knuckles. It looked old, and not the work of any training Fie knew.
“The old queen didn’t think much of royalty who were useless in a fight.”
Tavin had caught her staring. Fie flushed. He just took her cloak and mask. “Jas and I won’t be a burden if we meet trouble.”
The first queen had been born a Markahn, the oldest, proudest clan of Hawks in Sabor. It sounded like marrying into the Phoenix caste hadn’t changed her much.
Hangdog seized Tavin’s unburnt wrist. “Hold—”
In an instant, the fragile truce shattered.
There was a breath, a tumble of mask and black rags, an adder-swift twist of flesh and torchlight and steel, a startled curse.
And then there was Hangdog, standing stone-still as a sword point strummed the skin beneath his chin.
Any hint of amity had vanished from the Hawk, one hand thrown in front of Prince Jasimir. Tavin’s eyes stayed on Hangdog, but when he spoke, it was to them all.
“I’m tired. I haven’t eaten in three days. And I don’t take kindly to being dragged about. So let’s have another accord, yes? We will follow your bidding on passing for Crows, whether that be hiding blades, keeping quiet, or, Ambra help me, warning you about animal bones.” His scoff grated even more than his grin had. “And in turn you, all of you, will not lay one unbidden finger on myself or the prince. Not once.”
The pulse jumped in Hangdog’s throat, perilous close to the point of the blade.
“Do we have an understanding?” Tavin asked, cold.
A muscle in Hangdog’s jaw twitched, like he aimed to spit in the Hawk’s face. It was clear as day how that would end.
Fie stepped between the boys, pushing Hangdog back. “Understood,” she said, matching ice for ice in Tavin’s glare. The sword’s point hovered not a handspan from her eyes.
“He’s a war-witch,” Hangdog muttered behind her. “I thought I saw the sign.”
Sure enough, black lines adorned the Hawk guard’s unburnt wrist.
“Hear that?” Fie spoke loud enough for Pa to catch, trying not to think how close, how sharp the sword’s tip loomed. “He was just looking at your witch-sign.”
She counted one breath, then two, then three, never breaking Tavin’s stare.
Then the blade vanished in a hiss of a sheath, as swift as it had appeared. Tavin nodded, curt. “Of course I can hear him now. He’s figured out how to use his words.”
Fie dragged Hangdog over to Pa before he figured out words the prince or his guard dog found more offensive.
Pa shook his head as the last few globs of flashburn oozed from the jug onto cold wood. “Near one,” he said under his breath. “Hawk fools are still Hawks. Let’s not forget the claws, aye?”
“Aye, Pa.” Fie hated the shake of her hands, the old wrath curdling her veins. Oath or no,