Fire-song raged in her bones, in her heart, in her teeth. One dead queen. Three milk teeth. She’d hunted for near an hour to pick out Phoenix teeth that wouldn’t fight one another. Now they balanced as one, burned as one, and answered to her wrath alone.

Tatterhelm had never once believed a Crow could best him.

Pa might be right about witches and dead gods; perhaps she’d been one, and perhaps so had Tatterhelm, once. But right or wrong, it hadn’t taken a god to strike him down. Only a chief and the element of surprise.

She had business to settle before she dealt with the surviving Vultures. She strode to Jasimir through the flames, Tavin trailing behind her.

Jasimir had pushed himself up on one leg, clinging to the wall. His eyes landed on Tavin and the telltale flames nipping harmlessly at his arms. “You’re … you’re a Phoenix.”

Tavin flinched, eyes on the ground. “I’m a bastard.”

“He’s your brother,” Fie finished, hoarse, and sawed at the bonds about Tavin’s wrists. “Half, at least.”

Tavin looked at her then, as the rope fell free.

She wanted to burn away the awful anger and shame in his eyes. She wanted him to heal himself as he had before. She wanted his hand in hers.

She wanted him to forgive her for risking his king, for laying his secret bare, for letting him fall to Tatterhelm to begin with.

But she was a chief, and her own were not out of the valley yet.

“It’ll be all right,” she lied, and cut the slaughter bell from his neck.

An open hand reached into the space between them. Tavin blinked at the prince, then took it. Jasimir wobbled—and embraced his brother.

“I should have seen it,” Jasimir mumbled. “I … didn’t want to. I’m sorry.”

Tavin didn’t answer, but neither did he let go, and in his own way, that was answer enough.

Fie’s breath came hard and harsh as she turned to the Vultures, trying not to choke on the reek of burnt hair and foul cooking flesh. Blood sizzled in the back of her throat, a sign she kenned too well by now. Easy harmony or no, the dead queen was fading.

Fire prowled round the remaining Vultures, keeping its distance, waiting for her command. One way or another, it was time they learned what it meant to cross the wrong Crow.

“Drop your weapons,” she ordered. Most obeyed; a few stragglers hesitated until fire lashed at their elbows. Madcap took a spear and passed it to Jasimir to use as a walking staff.

“Now what, chiefling?” Viimo asked.