5. Paris

By the time the carriage came to a stop, my heart was pounding in my chest, my blood rushing in my ears. I could hardly breathe. Was this to be my life? Shoved out into the middle of nowhere, living in a tent until my limbs froze off?

Sure, it was overall warmer in Nemeda than in Urial, but we were near the border. Frostbite was still a very real possibility.

How did people keep fires lit in tents? How did they keep them warm without solid walls?

I'd never been much for the hunting expeditions some of the courtiers took when the weather was fair, but I'd heard enough from Tybalt, who'd loved them. It was no way to live even for a few days, much less?—

Gods, I'd be here for months. Years, maybe.

That was assuming I even survived that long. These bird-worshipping heathens could kill me and toss my ashes to the skies just for looking at them wrong.

The carriage was no longer bumping along the dirt path. I could hear the voices of people outside, muffled as the Montagues' footman came around the carriage to open the door for me.

Light flooded in, throwing a blinding golden rectangle across the floor. Still, I sat there frozen. I had to get out, but all I could do was blink into the light, stare across the carriage at the empty seat in front of me, and gasp for breath.

The king had sent me to die. Hector had left me to my fate.

I was doomed.

"Are they... all right?" A woman's voice, measured and soft.

What an absurd question. No! No, I was not all right. It was hard to imagine ever being all right again.

But sitting there wouldn't do me any good, and the longer I waited, the more conclusions these people drew about me. They would think me weak, pathetic. I couldn't stand it. Perhaps I would've been better served to bring Hector after all.

I forced myself to stand, bent low to disembark from the carriage without hitting my head, and when I straightened?—

Well, I'd been glad of our respite at the Montagues' estate, as it'd given me a chance to freshen up. Now, I thought all that effort was wasted.

The people before me were covered in feathers. Not only did they have them in their hair, but the woman's cloak was heavy with them. How could she walk, weighed down as it must be?

But that made infinitely more sense than the man standing beside her, who wore no cloak at all—no shirt, either. The whole of his top half was bare, a vicious scar down the left side of his chest, like he'd been clawed by some enormous beast. His hair was long, and shone in the sunlight, threaded with feathers that shimmered in every shade of brown and gold.

Who—who walked around like this? Came to meet a stranger like this?

My eyelids fluttered, my mouth slack with shock as I stared at him. His breeches were leather, not silk. His boots, the same. And his eyes were green as spring grass.

He was... beautiful. Strange, certainly, but—but perhaps I would forego shirts as well, were my arms as strong as that.

The woman at his side cleared her throat. Her smile was reserved, her dark eyes shrewd. Every part of her was swathed in black to match her inky hair.

"I am Chief Minerva of the Raven Clan. This is Chief Brett of the Hawk. You are?"

"P–Paris. I'm... I'm Paris, son of Sampson, here on behalf of His Majesty, King Albany of Urial. It is my—my honor." Remembering myself, I folded one hand before my stomach, the other at the small of my back, and bowed low as I could without compromising my balance.

When I straightened, Chief Minerva was smiling and there was something twinkling in her eyes like she wanted to laugh. Gods, had I made a fool of myself already?

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Paris, son of Sampson. Isn't it, Brett?"

She was teasing him, and the man in question—he stared too keenly, almost like a predator himself. I swallowed, the click of my throat audible in the quiet.

"Yes," he said. That was all he said before he crossed his arms. The planes of his face looked harder all of a sudden.

The Montagues' footman had abandoned his post at the carriage door to begin unloading my things from the back.

"You brought many trunks," Chief Brett mused, sounding faintly displeased beneath the veil of manners that I hadn't expected from a Nemedan.

That was too much like the court formality I was used to, and heat flooded my face. "Yes, well, traveling abroad, you understand."

He hummed. All the while, Chief Minerva was grinning at his profile. He did not look directly at either one of us.

When it became clear that was all the response he meant to give, I squirmed. "I didn't know what I'd need, so I packed everything."

Chief Brett blinked. "Everything in the whole castle?"

A sharp, affronted sound escaped me before I caught myself. I was halfway to stomping my foot too. "No, not in the whole castle. I packed everything in my—it's—it's all mine. I packed my things."

"Hmm," Brett hummed again.

Yes, I was coming dangerously close to stomping that foot.

"Well," he said, "we'll have to see if it all fits in the tent."

Indignant, I huffed and stuck out my chin, but he had already turned away. Chief Minerva jerked her head in his direction, as if I was to follow him.

Him?

"Chief Brett will be your host while you're with us. I'm certain he'll see to your every need, Paris, son of Sampson."

All right, I was getting rather tired of her saying the whole thing like that. Moreover, I was tired of that humorous tilt to her lips, like I was missing out on the jest.

"Thank you kindly," I said to her, nonetheless, and swept another bow before I was left to scamper off after Chief Brett. Surely, someone would see to my things. I—I couldn't be expected to?—

"There's a man with the diplomat's trunks," Chief Brett was saying to another man when I arrived in his tent. It was... larger than I expected, at least. Absurd to think that there wasn't room for my things. Sure, they'd take up a great deal of the space, but there was still room.

"I suspect he will need help," the chief said, already sounding exasperated.

I was used to that tone of voice from Hector—the sound of a man who had too little rest and too much to think about. But I—I was not some burden to be borne. My very presence presented an opportunity! If this heathen couldn't see it, that was his own folly.

I blinked at the other man as he smiled and gave me a nod. He ducked out of the tent after me.

"So this is—this is where we're staying?"

Chief Brett turned toward me. Somehow, his expression had gotten even harder. "Is the accommodation not what you were expecting?"

I looked around. Candles were lit, the light flickering warmly. Furs lined the bedrolls comfortably. But... well, no. I had expected walls.

"I'm sure I'll be comfortable."

"Yes," Chief Brett agreed. "Hard to imagine you'll want for anything, as laden down as your carriage was."

I started. Gods, the man had cheek.

But I... I knew the stories. I knew the way conflicts were settled in the south. People fought for their honor, were willing to die for it.

I knew my strengths and I would not take his bait. Whatever he wanted from me, if it was a fight or just to make me feel small, he wouldn't get it.

"Indeed," I agreed with a sneer. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to relieve myself before supper. I have no dietary needs you ought to be aware of, and I so look forward to sampling your people's... cuisine. Excuse me."

It was easier to breathe once I'd stepped out of the tent. The Hawk chief had my hackles raised, but that was fine. While my things were unloaded, I would walk the settlement, get the lay of things, and once my temper was more even, I'd return and be pleasant, damn it all, and he would be the same.

I was on the way back from the latrines when someone caught my arm.

It was a man with a rough face and nearly as many feathers in his hair as the Raven woman had.

"You're the diplomat," he said, the last word dripping like venom. Everything about this man screamed danger, like the only emotion he ever felt was rage. I flinched back from him, but his grip on my arm only tightened.

"Let me go?—"

"I have a proposition for you," he interrupted, leaning close enough that I could see his dry, parched lips.

I shivered to think what it might be.

My worst nightmares hardly had time to spiral before he said something shockingly normal. "You're here to seek a treaty with my people, are you not?"

Wide eyed, I nodded. I wasn't sure I could manage a word.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Anything—" I hissed. "Anything that gets me home."

"Oh," the man growled, low and pleased, "I do admire your flexibility, lordling. I can help you with that, you know? Get you anything. Quite a lot, actually, once I've taken my due."

"All right." I narrowed my eyes at him. He was wearing quite a few feathers and one of those big, imposing cloaks that Chief Minerva had worn. Perhaps he was someone important, even if he struck me as something cold and unwholesome. "But... why? What—what do you want?"

"I want Brett's head," he said through clenched teeth. "I want every drop of that bastard's blood. I want him dead, and the way I understand it, you, little lord, will have ample opportunity to see it done."

I blanched. I'd never killed anyone before. I wasn't a soldier, no assassin. Gods, I hadn't even taken part in a proper duel.

"I—I don't know if I?—"

"He killed my daughter," the man hissed, leaning in so close his sharp breath fell across my face. "And mark my words, the second you let your guard down, he'll kill you too." He stepped back, hand still on my arm, only to press a knife into my trapped hand. "Consider this your friendly warning. Keep that close"—he nodded at the blade—"and see it done. I'll see you rewarded."

He let me go, and within seconds, he was gone, disappeared between the shadows of the tents while I shivered, colder than I'd been in the worst of Urial's blizzards.

Who in the hells was that man?

And gods, had they truly sent me to live with a murderer?

Hector was wrong; I wasn't up to this at all.