Tavin nodded. She waited for some new foolery: a jest about cave ghosts, a jibe about his cooking, anything. It didn’t come.
“I can hide us again,” she offered.
“They already know we’ve stopped here. Save your strength.”
“Then let me take watch.” A cold wind buffeted her, chased by a soft rumble of thunder.
Tavin winced. “It’s fine. You deserve a—”
“Talk plain,” Fie interrupted, chewing over another mouthful of dinner. “You don’t want to deal with the prince. What’s got you so riled up? None of what he said was a surprise.”
Tavin studied the horizon a long while before he spoke. “You remember the game I showed you? Twelve Shells?”
“Aye.”
“Remember how I said the palace plays its own versions?”
“Aye. What’s it to do with the prince?”
“How many castes are there in Sabor, Fie?”
Twelve. Twelve castes, all told. She began to see where he was going. “How does it work?”
“Each shell has a caste, and a value.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “The Crow shell is worthless.”
“And if there’s a draw … whoever has the Crow shell loses the game.”
Fie shrugged and set her empty bowl aside. “I got rough news for you: they act even worse about Crows outside Twelve Shells.”
“But that’s just it.” His face stayed steady; his hands couldn’t stay still, running over stone, picking at a loose thread, knotting together until his knuckles paled. “It’s everywhere. It’s everywhere. The Oleanders, the markets in Cheparok, everything. You’re right, you’ve been right the whole time, I know it, and Jas knows it, and the reason I don’t want to look at him is because we both told you we’d fix it and … and I don’t think we can.”
Fie watched the storm, thunder rolling about her head as the wind picked up.
“You can’t,” she said finally.
“We said we would.”
“You said you would help me after this,” she corrected. “And the prince swore to grant us Hawk guards, because that’s what I asked for.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “We both know Hawks can’t be trusted.”
“Aye, I’d fancy it if they’d treat us like people,” Fie said. “I’ll settle for them following royal commands, like it or not. It won’t change your Twelve Shells, it won’t stop towns shorting viatik. But it’ll say we’re part of Sabor, that the boy below the crown thinks we have worth. And royal opinions tend to catch on.” She settled back. “So why didn’t you say aught sooner?”
His throat moved; the screen slipped back. “I … I never know what to say to you,” he admitted. “It’s usually wrong.”
She couldn’t help a thin smile. “You’ve got a few things right.”
“Not enough. I want…” He trailed off, then cleared his throat. “You’re here for the glamour, right?”
“Now?” She reached for a Peacock tooth.
He ducked his head, resigned. “It’s not like Tatterhelm’s turned around and gone home.”
A tooth had never felt so heavy in Fie’s hand. She let it go. “He’s not at our door, either. It can wait.”
“No,” he sighed. “Please. Let’s get it over with.” Tavin closed his eyes, like he awaited a magistrate’s sentencing. One she would hand down.
She reached for him—then, for the first time, let her fingers brush his jaw, turning his face to her. The words fell before she could catch them. “What do you want?”
He wore the thousand-sided look once more, but this time, in a thousand different ways, it said only one thing:
You.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said instead, voice cracking.
Thunder shook the sky.
She’d known, she’d known, she’d known all along. Every look, every touch, every stray unpracticed smile, it had all said as much and more. And her own head had been dancing round it, insisting no Hawk could want her, searching for angles and motives, spinning lie after lie to cocoon the fearful truth.
Heartbeat after heartbeat rattled in Fie’s ears, the seed of another fearful truth unfurling, working its way to the surface of her thoughts. It didn’t matter what they wanted. She knew that too well. She was a Crow chief, he was the prince’s Hawk; until this nightmare passed, they had to look after their own. The oath, the prince, they came first and naught else.
What do you want, Fie?
The first shoots pierced through: she wanted him more than fire or steel or games, hungered for him in a way she couldn’t fathom, couldn’t reconcile, couldn’t stop.
It didn’t matter.
She thought of the wolf in winter. She thought of hunger greater than fear.