“Aye.”
“My mother once told me Master-General Draga just wants to be left alone with her spears, her mammoths, and her husbands and wives. But she’ll bring all twelve hells down on anyone who takes her away from that.” Tavin tossed a shell from hand to hand. “In retrospect, maybe that contributes to the ‘don’t get angry’ philosophy.”
Fie wrinkled her nose. “Reckon ‘don’t get angry’ is a lot easier to say from the back of a mammoth, too.”
“The mammoth probably helps,” Tavin admitted. “Round three.”
Fie came away with a shell this time, snatching it before he could stop her.
“You know what else helps?” Tavin asked, grimacing as she added the shell to her side. “A bag of Phoenix teeth. Round four.”
“Teeth burn out. Phoenix witches don’t.”
“One. Two. Three.”
They both seized shells. Tavin stayed silent as he placed his stolen shell in the gap she’d made in his rows. Something was amiss; he always had a parry to every strike.
“TherearePhoenix witches, aren’t there?” Fie asked.
His mouth twisted. “Right now? Only King Surimir. If Rhusana kills him before another witch appears…”
Fie filled in the blanks herself. With all of their dead gods buried under the palace, any Phoenix stood near as good as a witch on itsgrounds. But outside of their palace, and outside of their witches, there was only one way to call down that terrible fire.
The bag of Phoenix teeth that now dangled at Pa’s belt.
“Round five,” Tavin said.
He won that round, stealing a shell faster than she could stop him. Her mind was only half there, scrubbing at notions of teeth and royals. A question chipped loose. “That why the prince’s so fussed to save the king?”
“I don’t even know that the thought’s occurred to him.” Tavin rolled the shell in his fingers. “Jas cares about the welfare of his country, and he looks up to his father. And generally, he frowns on coldblooded murder, which is somethingIlook for in a monarch.”
Fie didn’t decide to ask the question; it just seemed to fly out on its own: “Do you really think he’ll be a good king?”
“You don’t?” Tavin looked up, brows raised. She let her silence answer. That same taut-wire edge crept back into his voice. “It’s been my job to die for Jas since we were seven. I’m not about to die for a bad king.”
“Must be nice to have a say in dying on a bad king’s account,” Fie muttered.
Tavin didn’t seem to hear her, rolling the shell around scar-dappled fingers. “Dumosa loves him. The Peacocks are practically catapulting their sons at him for suitors. The king’s council thinks he’s the sharpest heir in generations. And his aunt is master-general, so the Hawks won’t be a problem.”
“For him.”
“Foranyone.” Tavin had slipped wholly off-balance now. “We’re bound to protect every Saborian. You know, if we’d camped nearer a league marker last night, the Hawks on duty could have run the Oleanders off.”
Fie tensed, wondering if this was a road she could go down with a Hawk witch, even one trying to make it to her good side. “You didn’t see it?”
“See what?”
“At least one Oleander carried a Hawk spear last night,” Fie said. “Bronze-tipped, for the village outposts. They aren’t running off the Oleander Gentry, Hawk boy. They’re riding with them.”
Tavin stared, silent, at the void in his rows where the gambling shell in his fist belonged. Fie waited for the inevitable denial. Of course he hadn’t seen it; of course he believed no Hawk could do such a thing.
“Jas… Jas can fix it once he’s king,” he said instead. “You swore him to that.”
Fie sat back, startled. But if they were digging into ugly truths, she carried more than her share. “This morning, hours after an Oleander raid, your king-to-be didn’t ask me how he can better protect the Crows. He asked me why we don’t just make it easy for him and leave. So I ask you again: You think he’ll be a good king?”
“Fair enough.” Tavin sighed and at last dropped the shell in place. “If it helps, you two are more alike than you’d think.”
“I’m—” Fie’s voice came out louder than she wanted. She tamped it down to a hiss. “He and I arenothingalike.”
