8. Brett

Ishould have expected Nestor's concern for me.

Everyone but Memnon believed me when I said Clio had tried to kill me. It wasn't even hard to see the truth of it, with the livid scar still red and angry on my side for everyone to see.

Snakes and rats, even Memnon almost certainly believed me, since the way Clio had spoken during the attack, she'd been doing it for him. He simply had reason to suggest otherwise, where no one else did.

"If you're sure," Nestor told me, reaching out to squeeze my arm. "But if the Hawk needs time to flock and rest, we understand. We can hold out."

I shook my head. "I promise you, Nestor, we've got exactly what you need, and we'll have it to you before the first snowfall of the season. My people have been working on it for months now, and frankly, I think they're working even harder because they're worried about the situation with Clio."

Nestor gave a sad sort of sigh, his vivid teal eyes trained on the ground before him, and nodded slowly. His eyelashes were long and inky black despite all the time he spent in the sun, on his boats, and this late in the day, the dark shadow of a beard was coming in on his face. He was a strikingly beautiful man, but many in the Duck Clan were. "Sometimes," he finally said, "My men work twice as hard when there's the threat of a storm, and tire themselves out. If the storm then doesn't come, I call for a day of rest anyway. Perhaps the Hawk should have an extra day of rest this season. You always work very hard, and this is a difficult situation."

He wasn't wrong. My clan deserved a rest. The problem was that they wouldn't rest if I didn't, and I was filled with a terror that the moment I stopped rushing from one task to the next, worrying about tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow... I'd actually have to think about Clio and the ramifications of her actions.

About whether the Eagle Clan meant my people harm.

The Hawk Clan had more land than most others in Nemeda, because we used it, not to live on, but to grow crops and graze animals. And from those crops and animals, we fed everyone in Nemeda. Not that Nestor didn't help with his fish, and most clans hunted or gathered something everyone loved. The Hummingbird grew flowers and kept bees, and made mead and provided honey to us all. But fields of cotton and wheat? Those took space.

If the Eagle Clan were looking to expand, they could take land from any of their neighbors—Crane, Raven, Owl, or Hawk—but the Hawk had the most. And our land was the safest and easiest. Raven and Crane had to fight the southerners for theirs, and Owl lived in a forest, and provided most of the lumber and paper our people used. They had a very strict plan for only planting and using newer trees, and leaving the majority of the old growth forest on their clan lands intact. They built their homes up in those trees, defensible and beautiful at once.

We lived on the ground, in a town. We had no fortress or enormous ancient trees to hide in. We were supposed to be protected by the surrounding clans, so that we could farm and work without fear of invasion from outside.

So what happened when the invasion might come from within?

It had been generations since any clan had attacked another, but it wasn't unheard of. It wasn't impossible.

And when I slowed down and considered what Clio's attack on me meant... well, then I started to panic, because... I could fight. Nearly all of the villagers could fight. But we didn't. We'd rarely been forced to, except when we all did our time working with the Crane. My grandfather had promised once, in his youth, to send every single member of the Hawk Clan to help protect the border in Crane lands for a year. Every other clan had agreed to the arrangement. Some people, like me, spent extra years in Crane lands to pay for the years of others—I'd paid for Rosaline, for Owen's son Brandon, for a few others. For decades, the Hawk had followed through on that promise, helping the Crane defend Nemeda. It meant that most of us were able to fight. I, myself, had done a total of seven years fighting alongside the Crane, starting soon after I crested and only ending because of my father's death.

The problem was that yes, Owen had gone to the Crane as well. Two decades ago. And the story was the same for most of us. We knew how to fight, but we weren't fighters. We were farmers. We raised cows and spun wool and cotton into thread and grew wheat and squash and cotton and beans...

And if the Eagle came for us, I didn't know how we would deal with it.

Which, I supposed, was precisely why Killian had told me that the Crane and Raven would stand with me, if I needed it. That, at least, slowed the racing of my heart when I considered the possibilities. I didn't want the Crane and Raven to be forced to defend us, but if I had to ask, I would. I would do whatever I needed to, to defend my people. To defend Nemeda's source of food and cloth.

Damn Memnon, if he wanted to take Hawk lands, I would make him suffer for it.

I returned to our part of the camp, practically throwing myself onto my seat. The beautiful young diplomat—Paris, I reminded myself. Such an unusual name. Pretty. Like him. Anyway, he stared at me for a second, swallowing hard, and then looked away, staring at the ground and scooting a tiny bit away from me. He was frightened. Of... of me? How strange.

Owen, meanwhile, wasn't interested in my tempers. "What crawled up your ass and died, oh great chieftain mine?"

I scowled at him, but I couldn't hold it. The man was some combination of older brother and father figure to me, more than ten years older than me and widowed, with a son about Rosaline's age, and our families had lived near one another my whole life. I sighed and shook my head. "Things for me to think about. Nestor offered me more time to fulfill the request they made."

Owen frowned. "I'm sure they've already sent it by now. That new loom is a damned wonder. I've got to get started on the parts to replace all of them with more like it."

I nodded, then paused and sighed, letting myself lean backward, as though I'd fall entirely off the log. Instead, I finally pulled myself up, pausing a moment to glance at Paris and consider my words. I didn't want to admit the truth aloud, not in front of someone from Urial. In front of someone absolutely beautiful, who clearly already thought us ill-mannered barbarians. "He's concerned that the clan is overworked and... we should be resting. Mourning."

Owen snorted. "I'd sooner mourn the death of a snake trampled by the cows it was trying to bite. That's practically what this is."

"Owen," I said, tone sharp as I cut my gaze to Paris and then back to him. I didn't want to say "don't talk clan business in front of the foreigner," but that was what it amounted to, wasn't it?

Besides, was I ashamed of Clio's death? She had been the murderer. It was a good thing she'd been the one to die for her crimes, and not me, or worse, Rosaline.

I wasn't ashamed, exactly. I just, for some reason, also didn't want Paris to know about my dead wife. Not that "wife" was even the right term. It had been less than a month between when she arrived in Hawk lands and when she tried to murder me. When she died.

In that time, she'd not slept in our marriage bed once, complaining that I was a "smelly farmer who never bathed," and staying to herself in a guest room. The same room I was about to offer Paris, ironically.

I wondered if the room still smelled of her Hummingbird-made perfume. Too sweet and floral, almost indolic, it had always made my stomach turn.

Well, unless Rosaline had gotten rid of her things, I supposed the scent lingered. I hadn't even worked up the resolve to walk into the room, let alone go through her clothing or papers or perfume.

In retrospect, it was easy enough to see that she'd never had any interest in drawing our clans closer through our marriage. She'd always looked down on everything the Hawk Clan did, treated my people as though they were servants—even Rosaline, whom she'd treated as though my cousin was her personal maid and not an independent young woman.

How had I not noticed? How had I not done something?

Owen stood from his spot, patting me on the head. "You worry too much. The clan is fine. Everything is well. We'll get back to normal soon enough."

With that, he went off to bed, leaving me practically alone with the young diplomat. When Minerva gave me an amused look and dragged Balthazar away with her, that was it. I was alone with him.

He was practically vibrating with energy, and clever me, the only thing I could think to say was, "Shall we find you a bedroll for the night?"

His cheeks pinked fetchingly and he didn't look at me, but almost choked on nothing. Once he'd gotten that under control, he nodded and stood, waving for me to lead the way.

So I did. That, at least, I could do.

We hadn't brought a full group with us to this council meeting, so there were plenty of bedrolls empty that he could use. The Hawk Clan was too damned busy in the fall, harvesting and preserving and preparing for winter, for dozens of us to come to a meeting.

And maybe, part of me had wanted as few of them as possible present, in case my news about Clio had gone badly. If Memnon had attacked and murdered me at the council meeting, I hadn't wanted my clan to get hurt in the fallout.

For some reason—no, not some reason, but because he was pretty and I was already biting back the urge to touch his cheek and see if it was as soft as it looked—I led Paris to a bedroll rather near my own. His trunks were nearby, so it made sense, though. Right?

"Is this acceptable?" I asked, waving to it.

He sighed at it, as it clearly wasn't acceptable. I didn't blame him... not that much, anyway. There was no call to be rude about it, but I didn't like to sleep on the ground on a bedroll either. It would be good to get home and into my own bed.

"It's fine," he finally said, with a strained smile, as he toed off his perfect shoes and climbed into the blanket, still fully dressed.

I wouldn't lie, I was disappointed. I'd been half hoping he'd strip off all that shiny silk, so I could see what was underneath.

But that was strange and inappropriate. I barely knew him, and he was from Urial. That was a terrible idea all around.

So I turned and pulled the curtains between his bedroll and mine that we'd hung in the tent years earlier, giving us all more privacy.

"Goodnight," I said aloud, and got a chorus of responses from the handful of Hawks I'd brought with me. And maybe one from Paris the diplomat as well.

I woke before dawn,and Owen was already awake and looking quite pleased with himself. He led me out of the tent, and up to a wagon hitched to two horses. He patted it on its side, grinning. "Lovely, isn't she? I made her years ago. Borrowed her from the Heron, since they brought the meat for the summit and didn't need it to return home, since we ate it all. We'll just need to get it back to them at the winter meet in Crane lands. Easy enough."

I stared at him blankly, till he tilted his head.

"For the diplomat's trunks?"

At that, I let my head fall back and barely held back a groan of frustration. He was right. We were—at least a few of us—going to have to ride back to Hawk lands, to take Paris with us. And afterward, how were my people going to react to his presence? We'd never told the people of Urial our secrets, and frankly, we liked it that way. Bad enough that the southerners knew, and were constantly trying to convince our people to inflict Avianitis on them. I couldn't imagine being willing to die for the slightest chance at power.

After a moment, I sighed and nodded. "Fine. I'll travel with him. The rest of you can go back home after he and I... ride out."

Owen snorted. "Good luck convincing the others. It was hard enough to talk them into letting you go with just two of us for protection. They all wanted to come. Wanted to ask the Raven to travel with us."

Of course they had. My people were all nervous about Memnon's well-known temper, combined with me killing his murderous daughter. I was nervous about it. I didn't think he'd kill me on my way home, but I did know it wasn't over.

The camp was up and bustling about before long, people packing their things, if they'd brought anything. The Duck had not, and all departed before dawn, together and alone, as always. I was never sure whether to pity their solitude or envy it. They had the Heron and the Pelican as allies, I supposed, but all three clans were solitary a way those of us in the midlands weren't.

It was well after dawn, the smell of food wafting through the air, when Paris rose and wandered out of his small enclosure. He looked confused to see us all packing up.

Owen grinned at him. "Time to get your trunks into the wagon so we can get headed home, little bird."

Little bird. I wasn't sure if it was intended as an insult or a compliment. It was a suggestion he was one of us, but also a child. Which Paris was not. On the other hand, Owen had a son not much younger than Paris, and he called him the same thing.

Paris's eyes went round, and he almost dropped the bowl of bread, cheese, and sausage someone handed him. "My trunks? But I can't... they're enormous!"

Owen laughed, and it sounded merry rather than mocking, which was a bit of a surprise. I'd have expected him to tell Paris that he shouldn't have brought the trunks if he couldn't lift them himself, but he was being kind and welcoming. It was bizarre, and I didn't know what to make of it. Somehow, at the same time, it was... nice.

I hadn't wanted a diplomat. I wasn't thrilled to be going home in a wagon. It was going to take days instead of hours. But if my people were going to be kind to Paris and give him the benefit of doubt, I was proud of them for it. And I would do the same.