“The Oleanders, they say we bring our troubles on ourselves, aye?” He leaned in. “Spend enough time biting your tongue instead of spitting back and you start to believe them. But there’s good in your road. Aye, we walk a harder, longer way to get it, but it’s ours. It’s yours. You deserve it and more. Don’t let them take that from you, too.” He leaned back and sighed. “Where’s your string? Don’t need ten fingers to tie that, at least.”

Fie pulled her tooth string from a pocket and brushed off the ash, then handed it over. Pa circled round to her back and looped it about her neck once more. A moment later, he let it fall, knotted tight.

“By the Covenant’s measure and the dead gods’ eyes, you’re a chief,” he recited. “Deal their mercy. And look after your own.”

The string felt heavier than before. She’d looked after two false Crows; now she had a band of ten true ones. But she had Pa, and she had Wretch, and she had a prince’s oath.

And she had a bag of Phoenix teeth. That helped.

Pa sat across from her once more and raised an eyebrow. “So. You and the Hawk lad?”

She hid her face in her hands. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Naught to be ashamed of, either,” Pa said, treading cautious. “He saved all our lives on the road. Tatterhelm thought he had the prince and didn’t care to keep toting spare hostages. Your boy blew his own ruse to keep us alive, knowing he’d take twelve hells for it. He’s got his head on right.”

“It’s all a wash, anyway,” she sighed, searching her hems until she found a thread to pick. “I near got his brother killed. And I paraded his biggest secret about before half of Trikovoi. He hardly even looked at me. Reckon we’re done for.”

Pa gave her a narrow look. “I reckon he started shining to you the moment you punched him. By the time Tatterhelm brought him in, that boy lit up like a torch anytime he caught your name. That’s a dedicated kind of shine to be sure. I’d wager some faith on it.”

For the second time that afternoon, she had no answer, no matter how she scoured the table for one.

“Excuse me.” Jasimir’s voice carried from a few paces away as he walked over to the table. “We found … this.”

He held out Swain’s scroll.

Fie took it in a shaking hand and spread the crackling parchment. For the first time, the letters ordered themselves for her: lines of a walking song, of lore, of lives here and gone.