10. Brett

Traveling in a wagon was . . . different.

Okay, it was awful. Jostling and loud and so very slow. We actually had to camp for two nights, because we had to take the road instead of heading straight to our destination, or the wheels might get stuck.

The road didn't go far out of the way, but it was enough that I could feel all of our frustration.

Well, mine and Cassandra's. Owen was strangely placid, unbothered by the inconvenience or the camping or even the unexpectedness of it all. And Paris... Since I'd inherited the chieftainship from my father, I'd been able to get a feel for the emotions of the people in my clan. It was part of the ancient magic; a pact all the original chiefs of the thirteen clans made that gave them very specific magic that allowed them to better care for their people.

There were only eleven clans left, but the pact itself had not changed.

All that to say that it was normal and acceptable that I couldn't feel Paris's emotions. He wasn't a member of my clan. It wasn't something that should unsettle me. Clio had married me, and had then lived with us over a month, and I'd never been able to feel her. I'd gotten used to having someone in my vicinity I couldn't feel again—after all, I'd grown up without the strange sense of empathy for everyone around me, so it was easy to get used to.

Except it wasn't, with Paris.

I looked at him, and though I could see plainly on his face that he was uncomfortable, I couldn't feel it, and I didn't like that one bit. As though feeling some tiny echo of his pain would let me share in it, and perhaps lessen it.

And as though that mattered to me.

It made no sense. He wasn't a Hawk. Wasn't even Nemedan. Why did he matter at all, other than in the sense that I wanted to keep him alive long enough to send him home and not be responsible for his death?

Who enjoyed being responsible for deaths? Not even Killian, who was forced to kill as a matter of course. No person I wanted to know at all.

I shook it off, trying to put it out of my mind. It didn't matter that I couldn't feel Paris. Even if every part of me rebelled at the idea.

"You have a lot of birds here," Paris said, watching a pair of hawks soar over our heads. "I never realized. We... we don't have that many back home. It makes more sense, how much you, um, think about birds."

Worship them, he meant. We knew well what the northerners thought of us, and it was fine. Convenient, even. If they thought we worshipped birds, and found us frightening, then they refrained from trying to kill birds in our presence. Still, he'd made an effort not to be rude and call us bird-worshipping heathens, or whatever it was they thought we were, so that was something.

"Birds are plentiful in Nemeda," I agreed. "Perhaps your home is too cold for them."

Paris seemed to consider for a moment, then nodded. "That's reasonable. The main variety we do have seem to fly south every winter. Does it get crowded around here?"

Cassandra gave a snort, and ducked her head when Paris looked back at her questioningly.

"The, ah, Urial Geese, you mean," I said, without looking at him.

From the corner of my eye, I could see him blinking, over and over, like it hadn't ever occurred to him that our people might have named the creatures for the land from whence they invaded us yearly.

Owen, finally, gave us away. He guffawed aloud for a moment, then turned to face Paris, grinning. "We call them Urial Geese because they come from your land and remind us of your people. They're beautiful, but if you go near them, they hiss and honk and attack you."

Paris stared at him, eyes round, for a long time. And then... he laughed. Not even a little, but uproariously, bending over his knees and gasping for breath and making little wheezy noises, as though it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard in his entire life. When he finally got it under control, he managed to whisper, "I have to write and tell my sister that as soon as we arrive. She'll love it."

"You're not offended?" Cassandra asked, slightly suspicious.

He looked at her, considering, and shrugged. "You didn't get offended at the idea that we think you worship birds. And... you're not exactly wrong. Plus who's going to complain about being called beautiful?"

"So long as you don't hiss and beat your wings at me," she said, with an exaggerated suspicious expression that was—was she joking with him?

He seemed to think so, because he gave a great, wide smile. "I promise. No wing-beating. I don't think I can even make that honk they have. I could hiss if it would make you more comfortable."

It was Cassandra's turn to laugh. Or, well, we all laughed. It was strange, that moment of camaraderie. I'd expected him to despise everything about our people, especially any jokes we might have made at Urial's expense. But there he was smiling that perfect, beautiful smile, because he'd gotten in on the joke.

Paris ducked his head, and his hair fell like water from his shoulder to make a curtain in front of his face, and it shone in the light. He was breathtakingly beautiful, every part of him. I'd never seen anyone so perfect in my life. Even the awkward way he retreated into his shoulders, shy and anxious, was somehow sweet and endearing.

The last trip we'd made to pick someone up with their trunks and bring them home had been Clio, more than two months ago, and that had been nothing like this. There had been awkwardness, yes, just like the start of this trip. There had been a feeling that she thought herself above us, which we all felt whenever someone from Urial was involved, regardless of their behavior. But not once had any of us made a joke, and had Clio respond in kind.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.