The Flea’s backhand caught her square in the jaw. It didn’t look like much of a blow, but it knocked the woman clean off the log and into a patch of thorns beyond. The Wing leader didn’t so much as glance over. “I don’t like many people,” he said, gazing into the cool shadows beneath the trees, talking quietly, as though to himself, “but I liked Finn. We were in the same group of cadets. Went through the Trial together.”

He looked over at Pyrre finally. “It’d feel good to kill you.”

The Skullsworn, unable to break her fall, had landed awkwardly, face half in the moss, half pressed against a rotting stump. With an effort, she hauled herself up, then rose to her knees to meet his eyes. The fall had tightened the noose around her throat, and Gwenna could hear her laboring to breathe.

“You know what the difference is between the Kettral and the priests of Ananshael?” she rasped.

The Flea watched her, but didn’t respond.

“We’re all fighters,” Pyrre continued after a pause. “We’re all killers. The difference is that you kill in order to keep something else alive: your empire, your Wing, yourself. The death is incidental to the life.”

“And you?” the Flea asked.

Pyrre smiled. “For the priests, death is the point, the ultimate justice. You hold the knife, but death belongs to Ananshael, and I will never fear my god.”

The Flea watched her awhile longer, his head tilted to the side, then ran a hand over the graying stubble of his scalp.

“Well,” he said, “you’re going to have to wait awhile longer to meet him.”

The Skullsworn raised her eyebrows.

“My god is patient, but I’m surprised that you are.”

“I’m not patient,” the Flea said. “I’m practical. I can use you.”

Pyrre shook her head, the motion limited by the rope around her neck. “What is it with the Kettral? Why does every Wing leader think I’m a part of their Wing?”

“You’re not coming with my Wing,” the Flea said. “I need you to stay with Gwenna and Annick. To help them.”

“Stay with us where?” Gwenna demanded. It sounded suspiciously as though they’d been rescued only to be questioned and abandoned. She might not understand a ’Kent-kissing thing about what was going on, but there was a fight coming, that was clear enough, and she’d be shipped to ’Shael before she was left out of it.

“Andt-Kyl,” the Flea said, turning to her.

“What’s Andt-Kyl?”

“Small town,” Annick said, “near the center of the Thousand Lakes.”

“A little to the north of center, actually,” the Flea replied.

“And what are we doing in Andt-Kyl?”

“Getting ready.”

“For the summer fishing season?” Gwenna demanded, incredulous.