26. Brett

My birthday.

Sure.

That seemed as good an explanation as anything.

Except that it wouldn't work at all, because the townspeople would start coming to visit again now that the fever had broken. Now that we knew he was going to survive. He'd crested, and now, to them, he was one of us.

I'd infected him, which was as good as my own seal of approval, and he'd survived the fever, which was practically a miracle.

I couldn't deny that.

I'd watched him toss and turn and sweat and shiver for more than a week, and been convinced he was going to die.

That I'd killed him.

"None of this is for me," I explained, motioning to the mound of gifts. "They're for you."

He stood there, blinking, staring at me, then at the gifts. The expression on his face wasn't just confused, as expected, but maybe a little hopeful. Like he wasn't used to receiving gifts, and he was touched and wanted the pile of things to be for him. "For... me? What, just because I got sick? Is it that big a deal?"

I let my head fall back, sighing, then taking another deep breath. I had to start to explain it. I didn't know how, but he deserved to know, even if I hardy knew where to begin. I wouldn't, couldn't, leave him in the dark, even if it would be easier for me. "It's not... it's not just that you were sick. It wasn't just a random illness. You had Avianitis. Outsiders almost never get it at all. And when they do, they don't usually survive."

For a moment, he just continued to stare at me, blinking in shock. Just like when he'd realized the gifts were for him. "You thought I was going to die? Wait, is this why none of our diplomats ever come back?"

I cocked my head, considering. "Not... not exactly. Like I said, most of the time, outsiders can't contract it. I think one of the last four diplomats your people sent died of it."

He slid into the chair across the corner from mine, looking over the mound of gifts again. "I didn't realize I was that sick. It just felt like... like a bad cold. I slept a lot."

"You've been in bed for more than a week. You had a terrible fever." I sighed and turned away, running a hand along a beautiful, handmade blanket in the pile of gifts. "The widow Laurence said it wasn't as bad as she's seen in most people, but that it was probably comparable to when she had it. She's—she's the only person I know who's survived it."

At that, finally, he sat back with his own heavy sigh. "I had no idea. But it wasn't your fault. Everyone in Urial thinks the diplomats keep being murdered. This is one of the reasons everyone in Urial thinks you're dangerous killers."

It was all I could do not to laugh. There was nothing we could do to fix that, not really. Either they thought we killed the people who died of Avianitis, or... well, better they thought us murderous barbarians than turn into another southlands situation.

And that was what we were looking at, because as much as he didn't know it yet, Paris was one of us now, in the most important ways. But when he was finished with us and went home to his true people, in Urial, to his beloved prince...

They would know.

They would know our secrets, and like the southerners, they would demand to be a part of them. Demand Avianitis, like a deadly illness was a gift.

Because in so many ways, it was.

The widow Laurence had only gotten a sparrow out of it, but I'd never once heard her complain. No, if anything, she was more attached to her gift than any other Nemedan I knew. That sparrow was everything to her, because she'd fought and sweated and almost died for it.

Comparatively, Rosaline had found her kestrel the year before simply because she'd been born to Nemedan parents and reached her cresting. There had been no near-death, no fever, and no misery. Just a bird and a party celebrating her joining us, an adult and a Nemedan.

It had to mean more to people like Esmerelda, who had come to us from the southlands, and Paris, who... well, he'd almost died for it, like her, but he hadn't chosen it. She'd walked into the infection with her eyes open, her husband having warned her it was going to happen before they even married. Likely, she'd already known beforehand, since Avianitis was half the reason for the constant war with the southerners.

I hadn't for a moment thought it possible for Paris to get sick until it was far too late.

I sighed and shrugged. "We don't talk about it. We... it's why we're at war with the southlands."

"Their diplomats died too, and they got angry?"

Before I could stop myself, I snorted. If only it had been that simple, we'd have offered to entirely quarantine ourselves from them, to protect them from the illness. "It's—I'm sorry, I don't mean to make light, but it's more complicated than that. You lot call us mad bird worshippers. The southerners want to become mad bird worshippers."

He blinked in confusion for a moment, his eyes falling to the blanket under my hands. It was a quilt, with carefully cut pieces shaped like various clan birds. A flock, flying together. There was a spot in the center still blank, I knew, because while the clan knew Paris had joined us, no one knew anything about northern birds.

Surely such a sweet-natured person as Paris wouldn't end up with an Urial Goose. That couldn't be right.

For a moment, Paris stared at me, considering. "They... want to be. Why don't they just do it, then?"

"Because it's... it's not just about worshipping birds. We don't actually worship birds. The birds aren't gods. They're part of us. They're who we are. And without Avianitis, you can't be one with the birds."

There. That was it. That simple. Get Avianitis, become one of us. Become one with the birds.

Given the blank look Paris returned, though, it clearly wasn't that simple to him. Ugh.