There was a hard reason why their witches weren’t allowed to leave the Swan island even after coming of age. A hard reason why their Sparrow servants were clothed crown to foot, finger to toe.

In a Swan witch’s hands, the desire Birthright became more than a way to command attention. When they caught hold of even a single strand of another’s hair, they could seize that person’s desire and twist it—and them—as that witch pleased.

All it would take was one stray hair from Fie’s head, delivered to Queen Rhusana, and one scrap of hate the queen could seize on. Then Fie could wake one night to slit the boys’ throats without a flinch.

“You knew,” Fie accused, stacking up every horrid piece. “That’s why you ran.”

Jasimir shook his head, adamant. “It didn’t sound possible until now. All three Swan witches are accounted for, she has no sign, and Tavin and I witnessed the marriage ceremony ourselves. We didn’t know she could lose her Birthright for only a moon. I swear, I came to your band for help because Rhusana allied with the Oleanders, and for that reason alone.”

Fie scowled, baleful, at the dirt. “Aught else you want to tell me? Tatterhelm’s got a meaner cousin? The king’s really two asps in a fancy robe?”

“I still don’t know what Viimo meant about ghasts,” Tavin said.

“Me either.” Fie’s gut twisted. Pa had taught her how to call Swan teeth just on principle, for they had but a largely useless few. Still, in the handful of times she’d blinked through the life in a dead Swan’s spark, she’d heard no whisper of ghasts. And that, like so many things, bode ill.

Grim silence settled over them once more as Fie plaited a whole new set of troubles into the ones on her head.

Then Tavin’s voice broke in. “I really have to know: Which one of us is Pissabed?”

He didn’t want to be a Crow no more.

Fie had rolled Hangdog’s tooth between her thumb and forefinger since they’d made camp by the flatway at sundown, so long that it had pressed trenches into both fingers. She didn’t stop as she stared into the campfire now, a half-eaten heap of dinner cooling in the bowl beside her.

Hangdog had been born to be a chief like Fie. But he’d been willing to give it all up to get what he wanted.

She couldn’t help but wonder what that was like.

“What if…” Jasimir’s voice rattled her from her thoughts. “What if we went to the Hawks? Before Trikovoi, I mean.”