6. Brett

Silk.

Oh, our people produced silk. It made incredibly strong thread, and if treated correctly, beautiful, flowing fabric. But it was also easily stained, difficult to care for, and so very fragile in its early stages of production.

Yes, the young diplomat was wearing far too much silk—our people didn't ride horses often, but we never did it in silk shoes, and unless he had a pair of sturdy boots somewhere in his four damned trunks, he was about to have to do precisely that. But that wasn't why I kept thinking of silk.

That was because he was . . .

Perfect.

He had smooth, unblemished skin that looked like it had never seen a day of sun in his life. Long, raven black hair as silken and glossy as all of Minerva's feathers, and dramatic winged eyebrows to match. And the deepest, warmest brown eyes I'd ever looked into. I'd never seen a shade like it in nature, it was too rich and warm, and it reminded me of curling up in front of a fire with a hot drink—a feeling more than a picture.

And it was terrible.

Because there he was, looking at me like I was the same brown as a pile of shit he'd just stepped in. To say nothing of the way he said the word "tents," like the very concept was an affront to his dignity.

We'd discussed building a council fort there, on the border with Urial, but the problem in the end had been that no one wanted to pay for it in either resources or labor. It would have to be an all-clan effort, and it took more than convenience to draw something like that together.

The clans had all banded together to build the wall along the border with the southern kingdoms, and that had worked admirably. In the fifty years since the wall had been completed, the clans had calmed somewhat. Killian was the one who dealt with fighting every day. Who had to deal with the majority of the southerners' attempts to breach the wall.

When the council met here at the northern border, once out of the four times a year we met, he was always ill at ease and in a hurry to get home. It must be awful, to be away from his people and know they were still fighting, still dying.

Without him.

Killian—all the Crane Clan—had hair growing down past his waist. There was no other way for them to tie a feather into it for every lost loved one, without going around looking like a feral half bird monster. It was always sobering, seeing Killian's ice-white locks, long and wild and so filled with little gray, and white, and occasional red or brown-gold feathers.

The Crane Clan was the biggest in Nemeda. It was where anyone who felt lost or displaced went, and was accepted. And not a single clan chief felt threatened by them. Well, except maybe Memnon, but that was because Killian hated him, for some reason.

A flash of white caught my eye, and there he was, striding across camp. Even if he was wandering aimlessly—and I wasn't sure he ever actually did that—Killian looked like he was going somewhere. Strident and alert, like he was ready for a fight with every step.

He saw me watching him, lifted a brow, then turned in my direction and marched over. Maybe I should have been nervous. I knew many who would have. Killian was both a large man and a frightening one. But the Hawk and the Crane were allies. Killian and his clan defended us with their lives. And when Killian asked the Hawk for extra food for a feast, I never, ever turned him down.

The Crane Clan deserved every feast they survived to see.

"Hawk," he said, stepping up next to me and threading his arm through mine, turning us both to walk away from the other people in the center of the tents. "Walk with me."

"Do you need something? The cloth you ordered is almost done. It may have even been sent before I return to clan lands." I brightened and leaned in. "Maeve has built a new loom. It makes enormous swathes, wider than we've ever managed before, in the same time. It's going to double her production."

The smile he gave me was a little like a man who'd just watched a favored pet do a clever trick. I didn't see a reason to take offense, because frankly, I would understand if Killian thought of the whole of Nemeda as his pets. He protected us in a way no one else did, and we damned well appreciated it. I certainly didn't want his job.

"You know Eagles, right?"

My brows drew together, and I squinted at him. "Is that a trick question?"

"The animal," he clarified. "They're scavengers. They don't hunt, don't kill. They pick over the kills of more industrious hunters, like big cats, humans, age, and illness."

Slowly, I nodded. I didn't know as much about Eagles as other birds, but that followed what I did know. Though I hadn't ever thought of age as a hunter. Killian always managed to surprise me, cleverer than I gave him credit for.

"The thing is, they do kill sometimes. Given the opportunity, an Eagle will finish off a wounded animal." He gave me a look, lowering his head and widening his eyes, like there was something in the statement he was waiting for me to understand. We were back to talking about the clan, I thought. Scavengers, but not above killing their prey if given a chance.

Ah, their prey.

Me, because I'd killed Clio.

"And if the eagle has a grudge against that particular wounded, oh, say, hawk, do you think it would hesitate to strike a finishing blow?"

I shook my head. "But I'm not wounded, Killian."

He grinned, showing me all his enormous white teeth. It was the smile of a hunter. Of a wolf or a snarling cat more than a crane. Turning to face me, he reached up and scrubbed a hand through my hair. "I knew you were smart, baby Hawk. You're not wounded. Keep it that way. I like you, and I want to keep you. And... if you need anything, you summon me. Or your wild Raven. We'll come."

And then he walked away and left me staring after him, stunned.

Had he just... offered to ally against the Eagle Clan?