Inkmistress (Of Fire and Stars 0.5)(48)
After nearly falling out of my chair the first time a bird flew through a window and took human form beside me, I soon became accustomed to the way the Nightswifts came and went—always through the window, always in and out of manifest form. They all seemed to have an affinity for the wind god. By the time we retired for the night, I’d met at least two dozen Swifts. They’d come from every part of the kingdom and every walk of life, now united by their purpose and their leader.
The accommodations turned out to be nicer than I would have guessed, largely because Hal gave me his west-facing room instead of one of the windowless guest chambers.
Besides a practical lantern, the table beside Hal’s bed bore a tiny set of chimes made of hardwood—a symbol of the wind god. A painted portrait of a woman who shared Hal’s deep brown skin and long-lashed eyes hung on the wall; she could only be his mother, because she fitted no description he’d ever given me of Nismae. Her hair was worn free of any braids or twists and framed her face in a halo of spiraling curls. She sat poised on a stone bench with a cluster of blossoms in her hands, but she had the slightest mysterious smile on her face—one I’d often seen on Hal. She even had the same single dimple in one cheek. I wondered who had painted it, if that person had loved her, and if the painting was something Nismae had stolen, perhaps from the temple of wind where their mother had been a cleric.
Because the Nightswifts spoke about things in a veiled way with me in their midst, it took a few days before I realized that many of the missions they referred to in passing or joked about over meals were still ones of death. Now they worked solely through Nismae instead of on behalf of the king. The lives and magical objects they stole made a lucrative business from the sound of it, though I couldn’t quite make out if Nismae’s goal was to obtain riches, knowledge, or something less specific. I didn’t know how she managed to serve in the role of contractor, researcher, and black market merchant, all without the king’s spies or soldiers catching her.
The scholars and craftsmen were a smaller and quieter group than the rest of the Swifts, from a young red-haired girl named Poe who couldn’t stop looking at Hal and blushing to a man about Yeon’s age who called Hal “son” even though he clearly wasn’t. Hal explained that the scholars and craftsmen didn’t participate in missions, but were a supporting force to help design weapons and patch up anyone who came back injured. The scholars were eager to hear what I knew of herbalism farther south, and we passed many hours in conversation. Meanwhile, the craftsmen showed Hal some enchanted blades specially designed for the Swifts. When Hal passed his hand over the bone handles of the daggers, an iridescent eagle appeared over them for a moment.
“These are very fine,” he said, hefting one of the larger blades and weighing it in his palm.
A blond woman with powerful arms who had to be their smith passed him another. “I’ve developed a new forging technique that allows us to imbue the blades with magic. It’s even better than the ones used by the king’s craftsmen. The weapons respond best in the hands of someone who can sense the energies.”
“Asra, feel this knife,” Hal said, handing the smaller blade to me.
I shook my head. I didn’t want it. The magic in my blood stirred uncomfortably at the thought of what I might be able to do with an enchanted knife. I’d done enough damage already without a weapon at my disposal.
I sighed as the conversations continued to go on without me, half wondering if I should give up on Nismae and start doing research of my own. Corovja might be a good place to start—if I could get there. But before I could start to follow that line of thought to a conclusion, Hal stood up and inclined his head toward the window, a slow smile blossoming on his face.
“What is it?” I asked, hope fluttering in my chest.
He leaned over to me and whispered in my ear so that no one else could hear.
“She’s back.”
CHAPTER 19
NISMAE’S RECEPTION WAS DIFFERENT FROM HAL’S, though no less enthusiastic. Admiration and respect radiated from the other Nightswifts as they greeted their leader.
I never could have mistaken her for anyone other than Hal’s sister—she had the same broad shoulders, high cheekbones, and strong jawline. Her eyes were almost hazel and her skin a warm shade of amber. A long glory of box braids cascaded over her shoulders, the top half of them pulled into a twist at the back of her head. Both of her forearms were laced with scars below her rolled-up sleeves, and ornate iron cuffs adorned her wrists. The cuffs appeared strangely dead in my Sight, as though magic could not touch them.
Her serious expression softened as soon as she laid eyes on Hal.
“About time you turned up,” she said, pulling him into a tight embrace.
“About time you did!” Hal replied, matching his sister’s smile as they pulled apart.
“I see you had to do your twists yourself,” she teased, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Only about a three on the ten-point disaster scale this time.”
“Hey!” He ducked, his voice indignant. “We don’t all have teams of people to spend hours braiding our hair before heading out on a mission.”
“You rarely even have enough hair to braid, you loon.” She laughed.
Hal pouted, but his eyes still held a spark of amusement.
“And what did you drag in with you this time?” she asked, finally taking a look at me. Her eyes traveled up over my body in critical assessment.