And there she found Draga and Tavin, leaning against the wall, heads bowed to speak quick and quiet. Tavin looked up when the door swung shut behind Fie. A raw shadow darted through his expression before he screened it off again.

Now she knew where he’d learned that from.

Draga saw what caught her son’s eye and muttered something, then pushed off the wall and headed toward the other door.

Fie reckoned she hadn’t really ever been looking for her room.

She steeled herself and walked nearer to Tavin, trying to ignore the rattle of her heart shaking its cage. “What did she say?”

“That she didn’t raise a coward.” Tavin’s voice rang hollow to Fie’s ear; his face stayed blank.

“What does that mean?” she asked, half to drive him to speak again. She wanted to hear his voice. She wanted to know he’d not suffered too much with Tatterhelm.

She wanted to know if he’d forgiven her.

Tavin levered himself onto his feet proper, still not looking her way. “It means we should talk somewhere better than here.”

Fie followed him up a set of stairs that curled about a tower, lead dragging in her gut. At the top waited a cold brazier and a handful of benches.

Tavin held a hand over the brazier, then jerked it back, gaze flicking to Fie. His shoulders dropped.

He trailed fingers over the coals, and golden fire sprang up in their wake.

“When—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat but did not pull his hand from the brazier. Flames curled and danced along the lines of his burn scar. “When I was seven, the king came to Dragovoi. Mother told me to stay out of sight, but … he saw me. I looked exactly like Jas. And Surimir knew that about eight years earlier, on his own wedding night, he’d been drunk enough to command Mother to his bed while Aunt Jasindra was still at the reception.”

Fie’s belly churned. Tavin had told her of Hawk loyalty to the crown, of Surimir’s fondness for abusing it. Yet she couldn’t fathom how one of the gods’ favored Phoenixes could sink to that terrible depth.

Tavin wasn’t done. “Mother never formally acknowledged me as her son and heir. It’d raise too many questions about my father. I don’t know how many half castes there are, but … when you’re half a Phoenix, you can’t just play with fire, you have to deliberately try to not get burned. Mother could teach me only the blood Birthright. So. You asked where this”—he turned his burnt wrist—“came from. When Surimir saw me, he had a strong notion of what I was. And he held my hand in a fire until I figured out how to prove him right.”