Fie didn’t have to guess at her own memories: far away and long ago, a little girl picked up a crooked, fleshy caterpillar in the cold and dusty road, then found nine more in a red-tipped trail.

Ma had hooked that finger through Fie’s small hands enough times for her to know every scrape, every callus, every bump of the scar down one joint. And when Fie had fumbled, and the broken stump of finger-bone scraped against her palm, she’d known the spark singing to her from that bone. She’d know Ma’s song anywhere.

The road had caught Fie back then, in the peculiar way that only roads could. Chief—not Pa to her, not yet—had strode that bloody path, blade in a shaking fist, knowing he had mercy to deliver to one of his own. And Fie—not a chief-in-training, not yet—had stayed frozen in place, wanting to see her ma but knowing that every time that blade came out, Ma had covered Fie’s eyes.

That cold road had trapped her there until Wretch bore her away, for even then, Fie had known her choices were to either walk down the chief’s way, or to run from it.

And on this road now, in the torch-lit dark, Fie still could not say which way was worse.

But if the queen gave Oleanders command of her Hawks—if not even daylight gave Crows refuge—Fie knew sore how all their roads would end.

The lines in Wretch’s face seemed to carve a little deeper than they had a moment before. “If you boys are fixing to have us Crows storm the palace and fight off Her Majesty, I got hard news for you about how that will turn out.”

“The Oleanders only have sway.” Prince Jasimir seemed steadier on political ground. “And the people still call Rhusana the Swan Queen for a reason. She can rule through her son’s claim to the throne, but she still needs support from the regional governors to keep the kingdom united. My cousin Kuvimir is the lord-governor of the Fan region. He’s sworn to take us in and rally the others behind me, which should force Rhusana to back down. If we move fast, we can reach his fortress in Cheparok before she deposes Father.”

“So we smuggle you to your kin in Cheparok, they make a big, ugly show of liking you over the queen, and you remember us rosy on your throne someday.” Fie nodded to the wagon’s load of firewood. “Reckon you forgot how most of Sabor thinks you and your Hawk here are charcoal in a pyre right now.”