“I still do.” His mouth quirked, too alike Tavin. “If he’s someone I can save.”
Fie knew he didn’t mean to save the king from just Rhusana.
“People get drunk on crowns,” she warned. “Think they can do as they please because they know we’ll catch twelve hells if we hit back. But by every dead god, one day I will. And so will you.”
“Let’s make them pay,” Jasimir whispered.
“Let’s burn them down,” she answered.
A look shuttled between them like the weft of a loom. The threads of their terribly different worlds gathered, crossed, and pulled taut.
They didn’t speak the words aloud; they cut no oaths into their palms. But a promise took root in them all the same.
She didn’t want to burn Sabor down. Neither did the prince.
But, by every dead god, one day Sabor would know that they could.
In the morning, Tavin’s trail stopped north of the crossroads—but not so far north that the skinwitches stood any chance of closing in.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Fie said peevishly, squinting at the map. “They’re not moving fast enough to be hunting us, so why come north?”
“Let’s figure that out once we reach Trikovoi.” Uncertainty lingered in Jasimir’s tone.
They carried on, following beacon after beacon. By noon, Fie could see the stone fangs of Trikovoi’s towers jutting from the crest of a stone ridge and looming over a field of maize ahead.
“Almost there.” Wariness dangled each word at arm’s length. The next beacon could lead them down some roughway, giving the Vultures time to cover ground.
Fie opened her mouth to answer—then froze.
A soft, dangerous shiver crept up through the soles of her sandals from the road below.
She knew it. She knew that tremble like the voice of kin.
And in that moment, she knew exact where they’d fouled up.
Jasimir stopped dead, eyes widening as he too read the signs.
“The trail,” he whispered. “We weren’t tracking the skinwitches, we were tracking Tavin—”
The shiver swelled to a rumbling high tide. Fie heard a scream just beyond the bend of the road at their backs.
“Run—run—!” Jasimir bolted off the road, Fie at his heels.
They scrambled over a splinted fence and plunged into maize stalksnear as tall as Fie. A dark border of firs waited at the field’s end, and beyond it, not one league off, lay Trikovoi.
She couldn’t run a league straight. Not with a pack weighing her down. They weren’t going to make it—
Fie thought of the starving wolf and ran.
Maize leaves bit at Fie’s face and hands as she and Jasimir stumbled over furrows of crumbling earth. She didn’t waste time trying to call on Sparrow teeth: the sway of stalks betrayed nigh every step they took.
They only have to catch you once.
A Vulture whoop streaked the air. Moments later, the drumbeat of hooves muddled into the wet crackle of breaking stalks.
Almost there—almost out—they were only a few paces from the woods—
Something splattered at her feet, speckling the back of her legs. She caught a whiff of acid and burnt wool—then pain burst across her calves.
