Tavin gathered her hands in his, brow furrowing. The same needling heat flared about her fingers as new skin swallowed the scabs. She couldn’t help a sharp breath.
His gaze flicked up to her. “Sorry. I’m not all that good at healing.”
Fie saw it, then, the flaw in his façade: the campfire lit his dark eyes closer to gold than Jasimir’s flickers of gray.
How did she know that?
She couldn’t ken why she couldn’t bear to change it. She hated him for trying to give her hope. She hated herself for hoping at all.
And then, with horror and fury, she found she hated her traitor heart, for burning quiet with something that was not hate at all.
A sick frost rolled down her veins. Hawks didn’t fancy Crows, theyused them. Tavin had wooed her kin well enough when he needed their help. This was naught more than another round of that dance.
And even if itwasmore—no. That road wasn’t meant for either of them, not a Hawk, not a Crow—
Didn’t want to be a Crow no more, the memory of a skinwitch hissed.
Hangdog hadn’t wanted it.
Did Fie?
Enough.None of it mattered anyhow, not with the oath still at all their throats. She yanked her hands free and turned away. “You want to help me? Fix your head on your own job.”
“What do you mean?” Tavin asked, but his tone betrayed him: He kenned her clear. And he wanted to be wrong.
All more of his mummery, she told herself. It was a mercy she couldn’t see his face.
“You know what I mean.” Fie unfurled her sleeping mat and lay down, waiting for an answer.
None came. “Wake me for second watch,” she muttered, and closed her eyes.
When Fie took up second watch, the prince waited until Tavin’s breath had evened out and only then eased himself up on an elbow.
She’d expected it: he’d gone to bed far too prickly to stay there. Her voice stayed low, skimming through the campfire sparks. “Aye?”
To her surprise, Jasimir scooted closer, one eye yet on Tavin. “Why can’t you read?”
“Why can’t you keep your own business?” Fie snapped back, ears burning. “You really got up to rub that in my face?”
“No—I—I apologize.” Jasimir grimaced. “That came out wrong. Ijust don’t understand—couldn’t you have asked Swain to teach you, if it bothers you this much?”
Fie scowled into the dark; she knew square why she hadn’t asked. “Crows use our own marks. We don’t need to read.”
And she hadn’t minded the difference right up until a day ago, when a pretty Hawk boy accidentally carved that line between them.
Jasimir picked up a stick of kindling and wrung it in his hands. “I thought… if you wanted to learn, I could help.” When Fie stared at him, wordless, he stumbled on. “I have to dosomethingto be useful or I’m going to go mad. And you’re going to be a full chief someday, and my mother always said a leader needs to be as skilled as anyone they lead, and…” He jabbed the kindling in the dirt. “And if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that you want to be the best chief you can.”
Fie almost burst into a bitter laugh at that. What she wanted would make her a terrible chief. But the prince was a roundabout sort of right: she wanted to be a capable chief.
And she wanted to not shrink inside each time Tavin carefully read out a flatway sign now, pretending he was thinking aloud and not fooling anyone for a moment.
“When can you teach me?” she mumbled.
Jasimir snatched up the kindling, sitting straighter. “During your watch, while Tav’s asleep. Then he can’t tell me I should be resting instead.”
Fie mulled it over. This wasn’t about her, not really; he wanted to play charity at a Crow, and more likely than not he wanted to do something without his Hawk’s go-ahead for once.
Besides, Fie knew her Crow marks; she knew scores of walking songs; she could recite the histories of their chiefs and their gods. That was good enough for Pa.
