Fie closed her eyes. She knew why the prince would ask; she knew the sense it made in his head. But ten hostage kin and one dead traitor had dragged on her heart all day, and all she wanted was to eat her dinner and not fight until dawn.

Then, to her surprise, Tavin spoke up. “We can’t trust the Hawks.”

Fie blinked at him.

So did Jasimir, his face darkening. “Then why are we even going to the Marovar?”

“Because the Hawks in the Marovar answer to the master-general.”

“They all answer to Aunt Draga. If we find a league marker, I can just put my hand in the fire to show I’m a Phoenix, and—”

“We’ll never get that close,” Tavin said, terse. “We look like Crows. The best-case scenario is that they laugh us away. The worst case … You saw what they did in Cheparok.”

Fie knew he didn’t just mean the bribes. It rattled her, though, to hear him say it.

“Not all Hawks are bad,” Jasimir argued. “For the dead gods’ sake, you’re a Hawk.”

Tavin shook his head. “It doesn’t take all Hawks to get us killed. It just takes one. I’ll sent a message-hawk to the master-general once we reach the Marovar, but out here, I don’t trust—” He cut off, caught his breath, and closed his eyes. “I—I don’t trust other Hawks to protect us.”

A stiff silence fermented over the campfire.

Fie rolled Hangdog’s tooth in her fingers until it hurt. Never have to burn another body, never deal with Oleanders. We’d forget he was a Crow.

“Fine,” the prince said eventually. “Knowing Rhusana, she’ll want to take the throne in about two moons, on the summer solstice like a true Phoenix would. That leaves a moon and a half for her to … to remove Father.” Fie tilted her head at that. “One week for Father’s funeral, one more for the full coronation ceremony. She won’t settle for anything less. So if we don’t make it to the Marovar by the end of Peacock Moon…”

“King Surimir has a hunting accident,” Tavin finished.

Peacock Moon yielded to Crow Moon; then Phoenix Moon began the new year at solstice. Crow Moon meant roadside vendors peddling charms to ward off sin, a month to cast off the year’s follies and misfortunes, shorter viatik, shorter tempers.

Crow Moon was ripe for tragedy, like a king tumbling down a long set of stairs. Fie’s brow furrowed. “Rhusana goes straight to the throne after him? Thought the king had a brother.”

“Hunting accident,” Prince Jasimir said, grim.

“But didn’t your uncle have a daughter?”

“Hunting accident.”

Fie gave the prince a long, narrow look. “How’d the queen first try to off you, again?”

Tavin coughed into his fist. It sounded strangely like “hunting accident.”

“Maybe you lot ought to lay off hunting awhile,” Fie said.