At this moment, she is standing, a bit horrified, in front of a beast. The Fire Princess insists that it is a horse, but Croi has seen horses before, and this beastie is nothing like one. To begin with, it is not made of flesh and blood but sand forged by fire. It has big, fiery eyes that are fixed, malevolently, on her. The princess calls the sand-horse a birthday present from her father, Aodh, the Tine King. Croi would be suspicious of anyone who tried to gift her such a thing, but that’s just her. The sand-horse answers to the name Dahy. Croi thinks Beastie would suit it better, but no one is asking her.

“Will you get on already?” the Fire Princess says with no small amount of exasperation. She’s already astride the beast, not in the least bit concerned about its sharp teeth, evil eyes, and flaring nostrils. Croi saw it belching smoke. Perhaps it, too, fancies itself a dragon.

Tinder is nowhere to be seen. She flitted off with the dawn to regions unknown. The princess approached Croi just after breakfast, when she had sadly put down what looked like porridge because her mouth hurt too much to eat, and told her that Tinder had confirmed that they are going to the Tine camp and, subsequently, to Talamh Caisleán with her. The plan is to pick Tinder up along the way.

“We’re wasting time.” The princess levels a look in Croi’s direction. Her words are sharp, smudged with hostility that is curbed by an unwilling respect. Ceara might not like Croi, but she defers to the power in her magick. “Do you have to say goodbye to anyone?”

Croi looks over to where the kin are piling into the caravan. The interior of the caravan remains large enough to fit all the kin and rebel soldiers. Croi doesn’t know where they’re being taken, though she’s pretty certain none of them are being sent home.

“These rebel soldiers—were they once kidnapped kin?” Croi asks instead of replying to the princess’s question.

Ceara looks flustered by the question. “What do you mean?”

“Look at them.” Croi nods at the black-clad soldiers. “I’m not sure how old they are, but I’d be willing to bet none of them are over twenty-five summers. Now look at the kidnapped kin. If they were to put on the uniforms of the rebel soldiers, would you be able to tell the difference between them and the soldiers?”

“What exactly are you saying?” Ceara narrows her eyes.

“How are the rebel soldiers recruited? Who leads them?” Croi pushes for an answer. Not because she cares but because things don’t make sense.

Are you sure you don’t care?

“There’s no reason for me to care,” Croi thinks to her other self.

“Why do you care so much about the rebels and the rebellion?” Ceara raises her chin, her eyes gleaming. “Have you changed your mind about joining us?”

No.

“Of course not.”

“In which case, get on. We need to go.” The princess sounds impatient, and her beastie whickers, as if anxious to be on its way.