She would never forget the scream. One moment Viimo’s hands were hands; the next they were a tangle of raw red flesh and tattered skin. Viimo curled over them, sobbing.

“What are you doing?” Jasimir stared at Fie in horror.

“Making sure she can’t track us,” Fie said, grim. “She needs to touch something of ours to pick up our trail. And Tatterhelm can’t leave one of Rhusana’s best to starve. Probably.”

“But—”

“This,” Fie said, tucking another tooth into a pouch on Viimo’s belt, “is also a Hawk tooth. If Tatterhelm wants to make use of you again, then he’d best collect you quick, and he’d best give that tooth to Pa. Once Wretch is sorted out, perhaps Pa will have time to heal you.”

“You could have had your kin,” Viimo snarled.

“And the queen could have had eleven skinwitches.” Fie stood. “Now we’re both down to ten.”

This road had caught her the way only terrible roads could. The way back lay thorny and short, and the way forward lay thorny and long, and worst of all, she knew which way Hangdog had chosen.

But Fie’s own were in Cheparok, her own were all across Sabor, her own were bound up in every word of the oath. Being chief meant leaving what she wanted behind, and the Covenant didn’t give a damn if she hated that, too. By daylight she could see it all too clear. And if that meant dragging the prince all the way to the feet of Master-General Draga, she’d do it.

If it meant being a chief, even of a band of two false Crows, then that was who she’d be.

When she turned to the lordlings, she found Prince Jasimir studying the sand at his feet as if it held the answer to some great trial.

Then the crown prince of Sabor drew his dagger, pulled his topknot down, and cut his hair.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, hollow, and strode to the surf. When he returned, his hands were empty. The last sign of his lineage was gone.

Fie’s belly growled. It only sharpened her head more. Food, new cloaks, new masks. They’d need to find the nearest Crow shrine for help. And by every dead god, Fie wasn’t going to march all the way to the Marovar without some damned soap-shells.

“Hawk boy.” Fie donned her Chief voice. “You took watch. Are you good to put some distance down? We’ll stop for rest in a few hours.”

Tavin looked from the prince to her and nodded, running a hand over his face. “Yes, chief.”

Fie thought of traitors. And chiefs. And the oath. And Pa.

Then she wet her lips and whistled the marching order.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CROSSROADS