When, not if.No wonder Pa had stared at the road so.
Fie stole a glance at Prince Jasimir. He’d traded the fake nap for a true one, eyes shut against the noon sun, head lolling against the railing.
“Rhusana keeps five skinwitches in her pay,” Tavin muttered low. “Four are just trackers. Damned good trackers, but you, me, or Fie could easily drop them in a fight.”
“And the fifth?”
Tavin paused. “Greggur Tatterhelm,” he said at last. “The queen’s favorite. Biggest northman I’ve ever seen. You’d swear his father had a deviant shine for mammoths. He cuts a notch in his helmet for every mark he brings in, one if they’re alive, two if they’re dead.”
“Tatter-helm,” Pa drawled. “Quaint.”
“He’s not the best skinwitch, nor the fastest. But he’s all twelve hells to cross.”
“Hm.” The bench creaked again under Pa’s weight. “And this lord in Cheparok, he’s sound and true, aye?”
“What?”
“You boys trust him to hold to your plan?”
“Of course,” Tavin said a little too loud. Pa let the unanswered silence speak for itself. Tavin lowered his voice. “The governors of the Fan havebeen the crown’s strongest allies for centuries. Besides, Cheparok sits on the biggest trading bay in the south. No country will do business with a nation on the brink of civil war. Kuvimir’s been very clear who he stands with.”
“I see.”
The last time Fie had heard Pa use that tone was just yesterday, when the Crane arbiter had told them their viatik was only firewood.
“It’s all been arranged,” Tavin said. A wiry strain of conviction twined about his words, the kind that said you’d draw blood trying to pull them loose. “He’ll take Jas in once we get to Cheparok, and then Tatterhelm will have to go through the governor.” He stood. “Let me know if the Vultures get closer.”
“Aye.” Pa waited until Tavin had jumped clear of the cart, then half twisted round. “You catch all that, girl?”
“Aye, Pa,” Fie answered, quiet, eyes on the road behind them. The wagon rolled on.
“Then keep practicing.”
“Aye, Pa.”
“There. Harmony.”
Fie tried to brand the moment into her memory: the rosy campfire against the dark, the cool, sandy earth pressing against her crossed legs, and most of all, the two teeth humming in her hand.
“Harmony’s the key,” Pa said, nodding his approval. “They don’t wake up the same, they don’t burn the same, but they’ll burn together if you strike a balance betwixt them.”
Using one Pigeon tooth always felt like stepping on a loose paving stone: an odd, sudden tilt, and then it was gone. Calling on two waswholly different. Now fortune flowed like a river around her, eddies coiling about her fist. Whorls also bloomed round Pa, likely from the lingering witch-tooth’s pull.
Fie gave one coil an experimental tug with her mind. It lit up… then sputtered out as the teeth’s harmony frayed. Both sparks flared and died as she swore.
Pa chuckled. “First step’s the hardest. Just a matter of practice from here.”
“I’ve been practicing all day,” she grumbled.
“Do you want to take a break?”
Fie looked over her shoulder. Tavin stood on the other side of the fire, stretching an arm. “If you want, I’ll teach you to play Twelve Shells.” He waggled his fingers at Jasimir and Hangdog. “Oh, look at that—twice in one day. Nowyoutwo are making the same face.”
“Because youalwaysdo this,” the prince grumbled, just loud enough for Tavin and her to catch.
Hangdog was less subtle. He ran a thumb down the scratch across his cheek, thunder in his brow. “Keep your own business.”
“You keep yours,” Pa rumbled. “Go on, Fie. You’ve earned a rest.”
