The mattress seemed to be stuffed with down and straw, resting on a net of hempen rope. A soft sheepskin spread out over more woolen blankets, a luxury Fie found excessive until the temperature plunged after sundown.

It was all so soft. Too soft. And quiet.

She ought to be on watch. She ought to be counting her teeth. She ought to be eyeing what lurked in the dark, wrapped in a stolen pelt, trying not to think of Tavin or Pa or Wretch or her ma.

She ought to be doing something, anything to bring them back.

Instead she lay under a suffocating heap of blankets, weighty and near sick on lordling grub, leagues and leagues from sleep.

Her gut ached with more than a heavy dinner. Aye, she’d done it. She’d brought the prince to safety. She’d kept her end of the oath. And she’d be able to save them—Tavin, her kin, the king. Draga would see to that.

But her caste …

She knew in her bones that when Pa had sent her over the bridge, when Tavin had cast himself into the ravine, neither of them had done it to settle for Oleanders riding only by night.

Maybe in a year, or two, or five, Jasimir would sit on the throne, and he’d craft some law to banish the Oleanders, and the Hunting Castes and the Splendid Castes could call it good enough. And the Oleanders would carry on like always, the Crows would die like always, and like always, the law would not weep for Crows.

Somewhere beyond the window, in the chill of Marovar night, a Hawk at watch began to hum.

Enough.

She could make use of her time finding a way out of this damn stone maze for when the Hawks’ charity inevitably ran dry. She rolled from her bed, reached for her sandals, then thought of the nail scratches she’d left in the stone floor and pulled on sheepskin slippers instead.

Fie kept one blanket wrapped about her shoulders as she slipped into the hallway, away from the nagging hymn. Oil lamps marked the turns in the corridor, and more windows let in whispers of the first night of Crow Moon.

For a moment she stilled. Crow Moon. The final moon of the Saborian year.

All across Sabor, Crows would be gathered at one of their greater shrines—in Little Witness’s watchtower, the groves of Gen-Mara, the ruined temple of Dena Wrathful. If not there, then any haven shrine. If they couldn’t find a shrine, they would find a crossroads. There would be ceremonies: new witches hailed, new chiefs declared, an empty pyre for faces newly missing. Wedding vows for those who wanted to swear them. Bands cobbled together from stragglers and survivors.