24. Brett

Paris was confused, that much was clear.

It wasn't a shock. He was still in the grips of the fever, but every time he woke, some person from the village had come to visit. To give him a gift. The dining room table was covered with the ones he hadn't been awake to receive, and we hadn't made a point of giving them to him when he woke.

Not yet.

I'd have enough to explain if—when he recovered anyway; it wasn't as though explaining the gifts would make it any worse than it was.

The Hawk Clan was treating it as though Paris was coming of age. They were preparing for a cresting. As though they were sure he would survive, and it was a forgone conclusion that... that he was one of us now.

After all, he'd gotten sick, and no matter what I said aloud, that was as good as a declaration to them. Everyone knew outsiders didn't get Avianitis unlessone of us fell for an outsider.

But the fever wouldn't break. Some days he seemed like he'd be fine, and it was just a passing illness. But others, he was asleep almost all day, sweating and thrashing about in my bed, waking only to choke down some broth and bread, and mumbling about how his bones hurt.

His bones hurt. Because of me.

Paris hadn't grown up with us, with the bird in his heart from birth. For outsiders, there were only two paths: the safe path, staying with us a short while and keeping separate, holding themselves apart, and going back home when they were finished... and Avianitis.

The illness killed most of them. Days, sometimes weeks of fever, pain, and... well hells, we didn't know. What did it take, for the body to turn someone from an outsider into a Nemedan? What we knew was that it hurt terribly, resulted in death nine times out of ten, and wasn't worth it.

Esmerelda was the only person I knew who had survived it. She'd been born in the southlands and had come to us to escape a family who wanted to force her to marry against her will. Eventually, she'd fallen in love, contracted Avianitis, and somehow, through some miracle, survived.

She didn't talk much about it, either. The illness hadn't been easier for her because she'd survived. She'd been sick for the better part of a month, my mother had said. Almost died repeatedly.

For a sparrow.

Not that there was shame in a sparrow, but they hardly seemed worth nearly dying for.

Still, I'd asked her once if she was sorry for it, and she'd said she'd go back and do it again a thousand times, in exchange for the life she'd been given. Thirty years with a husband she chose for herself and loved more than anything. Another decade since widowed and still beloved within the community, and by her pigeons.

But it was different with Paris.

He hadn't been running away from Urial. He wanted to go back there.

That was going to give me nightmares. More than my own personal comfort, it was going to change our relationship with Urial. They were going to start making demands.

The southlanders knew about Avianitis, and despite the death sentence it so often was, they wanted it badly. Demanded it. Insisted that access to a deathly illness was their right. Then, they attacked us when we didn't give them what they wanted. Couldn't give them what they wanted.

Had I just extended that war to both our north and south borders? Should I suggest we start building a wall to keep Urial out right now?

More than killing Clio, the council would be angry with me for that. I wasn't the first Nemedan who had infected a diplomat from Urial, but I was chief. I was supposed to be better.

In front of me, Paris groaned and rolled over, sweat shining on his brow as his eyes fluttered open.

"Water?" he asked, voice raspy from the fever.

I grabbed the cup on the nightstand and leaned in, helping him sit up enough to drink, and then holding the cup to his lips and tilting it until he drank his fill. His stomach complained its emptiness, but he didn't ask for food.

"Do you think you could drink some broth?" I asked, since I knew he wouldn't. He didn't want it. Already, he'd complained of feeling wrong, and as though his insides were rearranging themselves. I didn't have the heart to tell him that, well, they were.

He made a face at me, but sighed and nodded. "I can try." Then he got that cute, artless sly look he got sometimes when he thought he was going to trick someone. I also didn't have the heart to tell him he couldn't have tricked a child, but it didn't matter, because I'd give him anything within my power that he asked of me in that moment. But instead of something difficult or sneaky, he asked, "Bread?"

It was a good thing he loved our bread so much, because otherwise I didn't think we'd have been able to keep him from starving while he was in the grips of the illness. I smiled at him and nodded. "I'll see if Rosaline has any fresh out of the oven, just for you."

Despite the fever and exhaustion, his smile was radiant. I let him back down onto the bed, as gently as possible, and slipped out of the room, promising I'd be right back. He'd be asleep when I got back, but I'd wake him to feed him, and he wouldn't complain. He'd never been much for complaints, but he simply didn't have the energy to even try anymore.

I rushed downstairs, past the pile of gifts on the table, trying not to focus on them. Clothes and shoes and gloves and tools and... well, they were cresting gifts. All the things a young person needed to start their adult life, independent of their parents and anything else. Allowing them to choose to stay with the clan or move on to a different community, as they wished.

Rosie was working in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner, and when I came in, she gave me a sad smile and motioned to the pot over the fire. "Still plenty left if he's willing to try it. And you can grab one of the fresh loaves from the sideboard."

She knew him as well as I did, at this point. Knew he'd do nearly anything he could for a nice crusty slice of fresh bread. It was adorable. Visitors always loved the bread we made, but Paris was so much more enthusiastic than most people.

He was more everything than most people.

I poured a bowl of broth and grabbed a loaf, cutting two rough slices off it and taking them both with me. As much as I could convince him to eat, I would.

He needed to be all right. I couldn't lose him. Even if I knew I was going to lose him in the end, knew he'd go back to Urial and his bastard prince, and I deserved it, after exposing him to a life-threatening illness and not even warning him about it... For now, I had him. And for now, I would give him anything his heart desired.