7. Hector

CHAPTER SEVEN

HECTOR

T he Crane Clan, those that'd come with Killian, were preparing to fly south. Many of them were returning to the wall. Determination fell over their features, lowering their brows and setting their lips in a firm line. They were preparing for war, I realized.

It wasn't something I'd ever done.

Urial didn't engage in wars. The winters were too long, the weather too bitter, for the movement of armies. Most of the lower classes' labors were put into surviving the cold.

No one wanted to take anything from us, and Urial had been too proud to raid from people the king thought so little of.

Now, I'd be expected to learn these same heavy scowls, the proper way to wear a sword while on horseback.

I'd only ever shot an arrow across the lawn in summer to hit a still target.

Gods, I was going to be a disaster.

At the very least, I should've felt more serious, as determined as my new comrades. Instead, I was lost. A little worried.

Not of battling. I hadn't delved deep enough into my anxiety to acknowledge that I would have to fight.

For now, I was simply worried about the trip.

I'd never taken on this kind of journey by horseback alone. Any travel that took more than a day in Urial, we'd done by carriage. It was long and bumpy, not terribly comfortable, but it was less effort than riding horseback hours on end over the course of days.

Without knowing exactly what trials to prepare myself for, I was left confused and empty-handed, dreading how my thighs would ache and the way my lower back would protest after long hours on the road.

And then, I noticed Killian was among the few of us readying to take the long way south.

For some reason, I'd expected him to fly ahead with the rest, return to the wall triumphantly, a true warrior.

Instead, he led an enormous white and gray mare by the reins to my side.

"Do you have everything you need for the trip?"

I stared at him, my eyes wide and unblinking. "I think I do."

The day before, in the market, I hadn't let Orestes leave my side until I was well satisfied that I had all I needed to get me to the Crane lands and situated. He was an invaluable resource, having spent years on the wall despite not being born to it, so he knew what it meant to have to prepare.

"Are you . . . traveling with us?"

Killian arched a brow. "How else am I to get home?"

I looked pointedly at the Crane Clanspeople shedding their cloaks and shirts, preparing to take flight. "I thought you might. Well, you don't have to take the slow road."

Killian huffed through his nose, but he had this strange way of looking dissatisfied that didn't wrinkle his smooth skin or cause lines at all, like he was used to being annoyed and it wasn't worth the effort of a real frown.

"I'm aware," he said. "But as chief, it's my duty to see all of my people home safely."

Right. Obviously it had nothing to do with me personally. I wasn't simply holding everyone back with my distressingly Urial ineptitude. Damn me for my lack of feathers.

Even as I ducked my head, Killian tilted his in an attempt to hold my eye.

"If you are coming to serve on the wall, that includes you."

I couldn't help staring at him. This man was... strange. Stubborn. Terribly responsible and utterly unavailable and?—

"I'm sorry." The words toppled out of my mouth and heat rushed up my neck. I wasn't taken to blushing often, and my skin was dark enough that it didn't look half so dramatic as it did on Paris. Still, I hated it.

Killian's head stayed tilted, a curious arch to his brow.

"For the other night," I explained. "For throwing myself at you, and—and for any sourness that followed. I... don't want to make this awkward or—well, I've been in a strange mood and it's nothing to do with what you—with what you believe in. And really, it's... I should appreciate that you... that you look after..."

Me? That was absurd.

Still, he could've taken me to bed, thinking all the while that he might infect me with Avianitis, and not care that he'd sent me to my deathbed.

Instead, he'd pulled away, which was a kindness, little as I'd wanted to be treated kindly when there were so many other ways he could've treated me.

"Hector," Killian said softly, holding my eye with his gleaming silvery ones, "it's fine. You weren't sour."

Oh, I certainly was. In fact, I remained so, given that I had been denied my birthright, my home, or even a tumble to take my mind off it all.

Wryly, I smiled. "In any case, I apologize. You don't have to look after me, though. I can take care of myself."

Finally, he frowned. Perhaps he didn't like that. Maybe he was getting ready to tell me that I was a useless mess who'd squandered all my family's potential and that I very much did need someone watching my back.

I didn't want to hear it, so I dipped in a quick bow and excused myself to say goodbye to Paris and Helena and—and leave them behind.

Riding on horseback was worse than I'd imagined. My legs ached, the going was slow, and I regretted not demanding a seat on the wagon that rolled along with us.

The creak of its wheels behind me should have been proof enough that Killian had a reason to join our convoy beyond my uselessness, but I couldn't convince myself it was true. He was simply coddling me. I was holding him, holding everyone, back.

If I'd been a true Nemedan, I could've flown ahead with the others, made myself useful, belonged.

I let out a long exhale. What I needed was to calm down and get myself in order. Before Father had died, I would not have suspected there was anything beyond me, and now—well, perhaps I'd failed on many fronts, but that didn't make me entirely incompetent.

Rather than fall into despair, I gave my horse a little kick and cantered to Orestes's side.

"Little Hawk," he said with a nod.

I might've felt sorry for his horse, but his seat was fluid and balanced, and he didn't seem to give the creature any more trouble than the rest of us gave our mounts, though no Nemedan seemed as comfortable in their seat as anyone from Urial. Why would they, when they could fly?

"May I ask you a favor?"

He turned my way, his eyes narrowed skeptically. "Probably."

"When we stop for the night, would you... I want to train. Before we arrive at the palace. I don't want to hold anyone back, and I'm not conditioned. Not for travel, not for war. But if I am a weak point, it'll only—I'll belong less than I do now. Will you help me? Show me how Nemedans fight and tell me what to look for and?—"

As I rambled on, Orestes's grin spread. "Yes, yes," he interrupted when I was rushing toward sputtering. "After supper, I'll show you how to fight. Though..." He glanced at my sword, belted at my hip. "Have you ever used a spear?"

A spear? Killian had mentioned them. Gods... I was doomed.