Four little girls raced along a planked walkway above, leaning over the rail to giggle and stare down at us. Two of them were twins, each with olive skin and silky black hair. Tillia brought two fingers to her lips and whistled up to them. It was sharp and loud, the same noise I’d heard before we’d arrived at Treow. The girls all pressed their own fingers to their mouths, attempting to whistle back. It came out as mostly sputters and spit, which only made them laugh harder. “We have lookouts at the perimeter,” she explained. “We whistle so that no one gets shot in the heart with an arrow.”
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