Worse, Jasimir hadn’t moved, his face clouded with uncertainty.
“Two bone thieves,” the Oleander mused. “So peculiar. Not the only peculiar thing this moon, either. A friend, a very kind lady, sent along a message this way, you see. Look for bone thieves, traveling in three, maybe two. And she sent us … oh, some help.”
Fie caught a horrid slippery whisper, like a sinner’s last wet breath.
Two men appeared behind Jasimir and seized his arms, forcing him to his knees.
No, not—not quite men. The torchlight made ghouls of all the Oleanders in their masks and scarves, but something about the figures seemed … wrong.
“Let—go—” Jasimir thrashed.
Then she saw it. The men’s arms coiled about Jasimir’s elbows like asps, like rope, boneless and wrenched tight. Their clothing—Vulture make—slipped in odd places, slumping below shoulders and hips.
An arm slithered about Fie’s throat, a weight pressing against her back like a cold sweat. She gasped and jammed Pa’s broken sword into the place where a gut ought to be.
It sank to the hilt without a sound, but the flesh round her throat stayed iron-solid. She twisted until her captor swam into view.
She knew his face.
The skinwitch who’d ambushed them a week and a half ago. The one they’d left for the wolves.
His slack face had turned a sick gray. His mouth gaped in a silent, toothless hole; limp skin flapped like a flag where a nose belonged.
He had no eyes. Instead, torchlight slicked off a dark maroon paste where a skull ought to be.
If she’d had the breath to scream, she would have. All she could do was claw at the arm about her throat. The skin bent and stretched about her fingers, like it was filled with naught but air, yet the grip on her stayed crushing as stone.
“Skin-ghasts got no bones for you, little thief.” The Oleander man ruffled Fie’s hair hard enough to rip strands out, then whirled to face Jasimir. “Special present from the White Phoenix herself, since her pet Vulture’s taking too long. Wanted us to find someone very important to her and help him come home.”
Jasimir went still.
“The White Phoenix said if we find him, tell him he can come back, that they’ll sort it out with his father, and it’ll all be fine.” The ringleader came to a halt one pace from Jasimir. “Of course, this important person, he’s a prince. Not a Crow, just mumming as one. Risky business to be sure, since we’ve our own way of dealing with Crows here. But all that prince would have to do is come forward, and we’d get him back to Dumosa, safe and sound. Easy as that. It’s just been one big misunderstanding, hasn’t it?”
The skin-ghast’s arm tightened, crushing the last of Fie’s breath.
Jasimir looked from Fie to the ringleader. Then he bowed his head. “What about … the Crows?”
Fie almost started laughing.
Hangdog had been right. She’d dragged the prince this far, she’d given everything she had and more, all for an oath he’d never meant to keep.
“Don’t you fret.” The Oleander flicked his hand. “We’ll handle them, Highness.”
Fie’s sight dimmed.
“Let’s get you back to Dumosa.” The Oleander waved off the skin-ghasts holding Jasimir, then reached out to help him up. “Your father’s waiting.”
Fie took some wretched comfort in the fact that even if she died here and now, the Covenant would not forget the oath. The prince could run from her, from Pa, from every Crow in Sabor, but he’d carry that oath to the grave and beyond.
It would have to be good enough.
Jasimir straightened. He took the Oleander’s hand.
Then he yanked the man closer. Steel flashed, a thorn darting through torchlight.
The Oleander man gaped, dumbfounded, at the dagger in his belly.
“There’s been a misunderstanding.” Jasimir jerked the dagger free. “I’d have sworn that prince is dead.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE CROW AND THE HEIR
Of all the sights Fie expected to see before she choked to death, Prince Jasimir vomiting on the corpse of an Oleander hadn’t made the list.
The world went dark, shouts fading from her ears—then the weight at her back abruptly slackened. She staggered forward, the skin-ghast’s arm still locked about her throat. Someone grabbed her, and then with a jerk, the arm fell away. She gasped and coughed, eyes watering.
The prince knelt beside her, pinning the skin-ghast’s arm to the ground with Tavin’s sword. Scraps of gray skin littered the ground around them, wriggling and unfurling still. The skin-ghast’s head flattened out like raw dough, then swelled again. Just beyond it lay the dead Oleander.