When Swain set out a pot of boiled soap-shells, both lordlings all but lunged for it, anxious to wash up before the Crows soiled the water. That Fie could begrudge. And if the lordlings caught stares when they ate before Pa salted the food, they still didn’t so much as slow a single bite.

Barf returned after dinner, smugly sauntering into their roadside camp with tail aloft as Fie unrolled her woven-grass sleeping mat a safe distance from the fire. It was early yet, but Fie’d needed the rest ever since waking up in Maykala’s shrine. The others rolled gambling shells, mended masks, pounded fresh nails through their sandals’ soles; all of them kept one eye on the flatway as dark fell. Barf herself just jumped back into the wagon hold and curled up among their sacks of millet and rice.

The prince hunched by the campfire, curling flame round his fingers, until Swain sat to his side. “Would His Highness like to see the rarest scroll in the kingdom? You’ll not find its like anywhere, not even in His Majesty’s own library.”

Jasimir’s brows rose.

Fie settled down on her mat. Swain had worked at his scroll long as she could remember, setting down all the songs and tales Crows carried in their heads. She’d never been able to read a single letter, but she supposed it mattered to him.

When Fie’s eyes at last drifted shut, Swain’s and Jasimir’s heads still bowed over the scroll, intently conversing by the fire.

Then Fie’s dreams dragged her from the dark of empty sleep, fast and vicious and red.

She held Hangdog’s hand in front of a pyre in broad day.

It was no pyre; it was the village they’d left behind, and it burned with phoenix-gold fire.

She’d wanted to burn it to the ground. No, she’d wanted them to know that she could.

Teeth spilled from her open palm, bloody and new, bursting into flame as they fell.

We need this deal, Pa said, nowhere to be seen.

The village changed: Now she saw a vale far to the north, burning end-to-end, all a massive black plague beacon. Screams for mercy filled the air.

No one answered, Pa said, shaking his head, much too close to the fire. And now we all will.

It was not Hangdog at her side; it was Tavin’s hand in hers, and he took her measure once again.

She yanked free—

“Fie.”

She woke to a sea of flames.

The campfire. It was naught but the campfire. Fie tried to catch her breath.

“Fie, get up.”

That was the Chief voice.

“Pa?” She sat up, rubbing her eyes. It was too dark yet to pack out.

The prince rolled to his knees, drowsy and scowling. Hangdog stood frozen nearby.