She whistled the marching order, cast one more look to her lordlings, and turned away. She had a chief’s string; she had Pa’s blade; she had a bag of Phoenix teeth. She had a king-to-be’s oath; she had a Hawk’s sword; she had a bastard boy’s heart. She had a mask and a fistful of fresh mint. A league away, a red trail of smoke called for Merciful Crows. It was time for a chief to answer. Fie set off down the road.
