Fie mulled it over. This wasn’t about her, not really; he wanted to play charity at a Crow, and more likely than not he wanted to do something without his Hawk’s go-ahead for once.

Besides, Fie knew her Crow marks; she knew scores of walking songs; she could recite the histories of their chiefs and their gods. That was good enough for Pa.

Fie studied the trees twisting beyond the firelight, and for a moment, she thought the forest watched back. Patches of night yawned in something like an uncanny face peering from the bushes.

Then a passing breeze ruffled the brush. The face broke into naught more than leaves.

Fie pinched at Pa’s tooth. He hadn’t needed more than Crow marks to be chief, but that was before lordlings and skinwitches and queens had crashed down on all their heads.

Maybe, to keep the oath, she needed to be more.

Fie let the tooth go and looked at the prince. “Where do we start?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE BEACON

“Is that edible?”

Fie resisted the call to sigh. “No.”

“You’re not even looking,” Tavin accused.

“Because you’re pointing at the mushroom.” Its vivid orange cap had jabbed into Fie’s sight like a thumb as she trudged past, a nub of brightness in the gray-green hillsides. And by now, she’d kenned too keen to how Tavin took interest in that which stuck out.

Four days had broken since leaving Crossroads-Eyes’ shrine. Since then, Fie had settled into as near a routine as she could manage: Follow the main flatway north. Hide from the sound of horses or Hawk patrols. Try not to miss Madcap’s walking songs.

Ignore the hollow sting in her gut every other night, when she glamoured Tavin’s face away with a new Peacock tooth. Catalogue a new way she could tell him apart from the prince: a tilt to his brow, a stray freckle by the corner of his mouth. How the slightest gesture seemed weighted with motive.

How the weight of his gaze shifted on her.

Sleep half the night. Chew a few bitter laceroot seeds. Trade out watches with Tavin. Scratch out a few new letters with Jasimir. Trade dark for a dawn the prince still prayed to.

Follow the flatway north, as squash fields bled into sprouts of maize, then orchards and rocky pastures. North, toward the Hawks, toward the Marovar, toward a Covenant oath kept.

Fie had moments of anger and moments of doubt, and worst of all, moments of terrible peace. Moments to wash up alone, to watch the sunrise in silence, to sharpen the chief’s blade by herself.

She ought to have hated it. She surely hated that she didn’t.

“Fine. Is that edible?”

But not as much as she hated Tavin’s way of passing the time.

This time she had to turn to see what he’d found. It appeared to be a rock.