They left with nary another word, picking their way down a lattice of vines and chittering tree-rats. Once they were earthbound and far enough from the shrine, Fie swung her pack off and dug for a fistful of dried panbread. Jasimir’s shoulders sank with relief as he and Tavin did the same.

A hand full of panbread thrust into her sight. Fie looked up. Tavin held his breakfast out to her. Jasimir blinked, a strip of his own panbread still outstretched for his Hawk to taste. After a moment, he held the rest out to Fie as well.

Fie’s throat closed. She fished out a pouch of salt and sprinkled it over their food. Her voice cracked as she said, “Go ahead.”

“Thank you, chief,” Tavin said quietly.

They returned to merciful silence, birdsong and rustling breezes washing through the air. Over and over, Fie repeated the shrine-keeper’s words in her head: A girl chief. Two false Crows. Trouble on all our heads.

Look after your own.

This was the road Pa wanted her to take. The road Crossroads-Eyes wanted her to choose. And she couldn’t fuss either of them now.

A question curled up as she chewed. “That skinwitch said the queen raised ghasts. Never heard of witchwork like that. And the queen’s no witch anyhow.”

Tavin and Jasimir traded glances. “I had … a theory,” Jasimir began, hesitant. “You’ve heard of the ceremony to marry into the Phoenix caste, yes?”

Fie nodded. “Seen something like it in Swan teeth. You lose your Birthright, aye?”

“Correct.” Jasimir frowned. “Wait—what do you mean, you’ve seen it in Swan teeth?”

“Swans don’t rut inside the caste,” Fie said around a mouthful of panbread. “At least, not to conceive. They find a willing partner outside the caste, and there’s a ritual, and the partner loses their Birthright until the next new moon. Meanwhile they try real hard to make a baby Swan.”

Tavin let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Of course. All this time we wondered how Rhusana pulled it off, and we could have just asked a Crow.”

“Not the first time, won’t be the last,” Fie muttered. “So what’d she pull off?”

Jasimir ran a hand through his ragged hair. “The Phoenix ceremony is supposed to be permanent. Even witches lose their Birthright, and it never comes back.”

Fie sorted it herself. “You think Rhusana did the Swan ceremony to herself, so her Birthright came back.”

“And I think she’s a Swan witch,” Jasimir finished.

At that, Fie put down her panbread and stared.

“She has no witch-sign,” Tavin added hastily. “And the odds of a Swan witch being born are—”

“I know what they are.” Fie’s voice had gone frigid. The Swan caste had only three dead gods. Three solitary witches in over a thousand-score people.

Any more than that, and they’d rule Sabor.