52. Killian

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

KILLIAN

D amn it all.

Join us on the wall, I'd said. I didn't recall suggesting he leap off it into the oncoming horde of fucking southerners.

Had he run mad?

Along the wall nearby, everyone watched in shock, staring at where he'd landed naked in the dirt before the looming menace.

Cursing under my breath, I reached for the clasps of my own armor. I couldn't leave him down there alone, even though this was certain to end in disaster. My own people were about to begin a fight by watching me get killed. It wasn't going to go well for anyone but the southerners.

As I lifted my spear and dropped it over the edge of the wall, I turned to look at Viola. "Write Orestes. He'll be in charge of the Clan until—unless—he finds someone better suited. Until he arrives, Nia is in charge."

Her eyes were round in shock, but she didn't yell at me. Didn't tell me I was mad and had to stop. Just nodded once. I turned and looked around. "Whoever survives. Orestes."

"Orestes," one of the people behind me repeated, so I accepted that enough of them had heard me and jumped, following Hector over the side of the wall, shifting as I dropped and swooping down to the ground, barely using my wings to slow enough to keep from injuring myself as I landed, then shifting back and picking up my spear as I did and coming up behind Hector.

The southerners narrowed their eyes at me as I marched up behind him, but they didn't immediately attack when I didn't.

Hector, meanwhile, was talking about... about building an arena in the area where we stood. About how the southerners could compete with Nemedans in some sort of... tournaments of strength.

I lifted a brow at him, but didn't interrupt. It was madness. But the southerners weren't interrupting either. More than one of them looked... interested?

They were also looking Hector and me over like we were slabs of meat, and I thought they were sizing us up for where the swords should go in.

"Obviously we'd take down the bolt throwers," Hector told the man. "But you'd have to stop attacking. No more killing. At all. And the Nemedans aren't willing to infect your people with Avianitis, not as a whole."

The man who was apparently in charge listened to Hector avidly the whole time he spoke, but now he turned to look at me. "What say you, Crane? I know naught of Urial, but does this naked man speak for you?"

I looked down at myself, like I needed to point out that I, too, was naked, and when I looked back up, he was eyeing both of us. His eyes twinkled with something like amusement. And attraction.

He looked so like . . .

"My brother spoke highly of you, when I was a child. He said you would be the greatest war leader the Nemedans ever had. He hasn't been proven wrong, not until this"—he motioned to one of the bolt throwers, high above us—"travesty."

Hector sighed and shook his head. "Nemeda isn't fighting for the same reasons you are. They don't have gods who require feats of bravery. They're only defending themselves from aggression."

Suddenly, every eye was back on Hector, as though he'd said something shocking. There was whispering along the southern line.

"Your bird gods don't require you to prove yourselves?" the leader asked. "My brother never much mentioned them."

I dredged up memories of my school days, when we'd learned about the gods Nemeda had worshipped years earlier, when we'd worried about such things, and shook my head. "The Crane worshipped a god of art. She required that we hone our skills and create. The Raven had a god of learning, who required them to gather information. There was no Nemedan god of bravery."

"Was?" one of the men asked. "Have the Nemedans killed their gods?"

I cocked my head in consideration. "No. We simply haven't had time for art or learning in recent generations. We've been too busy defending our lands from your attacks."

The indrawn breath was almost a collective thing, and the men started whispering madly amongst themselves. Their leader, the one who looked so like Carlyle, paled. "Our quest for valor has forced you to abandon your own sacred quests?"

Hector, for some reason, beamed at me. "Yes," he insisted. "And Nemeda wants to go back to their sacred quests. To art and learning and... well, I imagine every clan had their own quest. But they're willing to help you in yours, still. So as I said. An arena. And four times a year, we'll meet and you can show your skills. Compete with each other."

"And Nemedans," one of them said. "Surely some Nemedans wish to show their valor. Do none of your gods care for valor?"

In fact, I did not think any of our gods had given a single fuck about valor, but the sharp look Hector shot me told me I was not to say that. So I thought fast and reached hard. "The Heron worshipped a god of hunting. He favored the quick. And the Vulture always favored strength."

No reason they needed to know that strength was literal, and more about the lifting of heavy stones rather than beating other people senseless.

There was some judicious nodding at that, and Hector smiled in approval.

"Your people will work with us, then?" the one who looked like Carlyle asked. Brother, he'd said. The age was about right, since he was close to my own age. It was a wonder a southerner had lived that long. "To build this arena and plan these... shows of valor?"

Hector looked up at me, brown eyes wide and nervous.

He, I realized, had just negotiated a stop to the fighting. Possibly a permanent one. If Nemeda was willing to help build an arena and take part in... games of valor? To show off everyone's skill and—hells, I wasn't even certain what valor meant. I wasn't a Raven, after all. Learning had never been my goal in life.

Not that I'd spent a lot of time thinking about painting or sculpting, either.

"You don't need to take part personally, obviously," one of them said, looking me over, his gaze lingering on my scars. "The lord of birds has shown enough valor for a hundred men in his life."

"Crane," I corrected. "I'm only the chief of one Nemedan clan, not all of them."

That caused no small amount of surprise. I imagined it would be an even bigger surprise for them to learn that many of our leaders were women, given their odd views on that.

"Then why has another not—" the leader started, then stopped, sitting back on his horse, shock and realization writ large across his face. "No requirement of valor. Your gods did not require that another prove himself, so you remained, always. We wondered sometimes, how much valor a single man had to show among your people, because you were always there. But it was never that. Your gods wished you an artist, and we have kept you from that quest."

He slid down off his horse and marched toward us, sticking out his hand. Hector, seeming to know what he was about, reached forward in the same way, and the man clasped his wrist, shaking it slightly as they gripped. Then they broke apart and he turned his hand to me. Since Hector was giving me that same pleading look, I offered my own hand, for it to be grasped and jerked about in the same manner for a moment. Then the man pressed a fist to his chest. "You have given us much to think on this day, lord of bir—Cranes, and son of Sampson, of Urial. I believe we can come to an accord in this. Perhaps your gods do not require a quest for valor, but both of you are seen today by our gods. Your valor will not go unnoticed." He glanced back to me, ducking his head. "I apologize that we have interfered in your quest. Perhaps when this arena is built, you will be able to pursue your... art."

Art. He was entirely serious. He thought we'd make peace and I'd go become a painter. How bizarre.