54. Killian

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

KILLIAN

" T hat is stunning," Minerva said, a tiny smirk playing around the corners of her lips. "Truly a work of art, Killian."

"Shut up."

Hector bumped his shoulder against mine, whispering, "Be nice."

But I didn't have to. I didn't have to do anything.

I also probably hadn't needed to write the peace agreement out in the old calligraphy for both sides to sign.

But... I'd been curious. Artistic calligraphy was something our ancestors had spent time on. Years in school not just learning to write well enough to be readable, but to write as a thing of beauty.

And now, with this peace, new and tentative as it was, I had a lot of time on my hands. We all did.

Many simply went home to their previous clans, continuing their lives as farmers or builders or loggers or such, but the Crane was still the biggest clan in Nemeda, because for generations, we'd been accepting everyone who needed a place to find themselves. We'd folded in large parts of the former Gull and Eagle Clans, most of the refugees from other nations, and every Nemedan who simply didn't feel at home with their own people's ways.

I had been worried at first, that there would be a rush for them all to find a new way to make themselves useful, but frankly, there was not.

As it turned out, not having to pay for a war lessened the strain on every clan. They were having to send us less, because we needed less, and everyone was grateful for it. In fact, one of the things that had gone onto the docket for the next clan meeting was what to do with the surplus goods.

The chief of the Vulture had tentatively suggested trade with the southerners.

Trade.

With the southerners.

So we were to discuss it at length in the fall.

For now, some of the surplus was being taken up by the building of the arena, though the southerners were being shockingly accommodating, offering most of the hard goods necessary to do construction. The Vulture chief had drawn up the plans himself, and come to oversee the laying of stone. The southerners had been quite impressed by him, and thought he had clearly well-pleased his god of strength, since he could move stones by himself that took two or three of them.

Nemedans had quickly become accustomed to talk of gods, and some had even started adopting the terms for themselves, even if they clearly didn't have the religious fervor of the southerners. We'd lived too long on our own cleverness and hard work to give over control to creatures who may or may not exist.

The other clans had been adjusting well, though, and the Crane...

Well, some of us were doing well.

The kitchens and the smithy had twice as many workers as before. Some Crane had started farming the land that had been allowed to grow wild for generations of war. Some were still simply resting, waiting, uncertain of what to do next.

An adventurous few had leaped into artistry with both feet. Viola had started a sculpting studio, where the Vulture had supplied her with thousands of pounds of clay and stone. They were everywhere in Crane lands suddenly, the Vulture. They'd been the most distant clan for all our lives, but suddenly, the Crane were building. We needed them, and without a moment's hesitation, they had descended in force, to give anything we needed.

I'd refrained from crying, but only just, to be honest.

My clan had, for so long, given Nemeda everything. Our lives in their entirety. Having Nemeda come, unquestioning, to give back was overwhelming in the extreme.

But then . . . well, calligraphy wasn't so bad.

I didn't think one could make a life of it, but it had been fun to shape the letters correctly, spelling out the words that had changed all of our lives, forever.

Because for the first time in my life, Nemeda was at peace.

And somehow, so was I.