Out Poster: Nuada

The hair prickled on the back of my neck and the noisy crowd pressed too close, though only Kit and Old Man Johnson were within a wingspan of me. Saga, the so-called Gitano Master Trader, was on the other side of the table — well out of reach — and the Flightless townspeople, despite their curious glances, remained by the main display tables.

'No doubt lusting after the Gitano steel.'

The knives and other metalwork were pretty, beyond a doubt, and far better than that of the town's metal smith. They were the type of blade that might be passed from mother to daughter.

"Bones and feathers!" The oath — which I'd thought I'd kept under my breath — drew unwanted attention from Kit, Johnson, and Saga, and I shoved aside the misery-laden thoughts that'd plagued my travels. Setting my jaw, I powered through my flushing cheeks. "Look, I need two knives. All this—" I waved a hand over the furs, buckskin pack, and venison. "—for two knives. Ones that'll last."

Saga literally took a step back. Kit giggled, the noise softened by a smile.

"By the Fire Lord!" Johnson groaned and shook his head. "Is that how you bargain with Mitry? No wonder he fleeces you."

"No, no," Saga said. "It is an… unusual tactic, to be sure, but it simplifies matters." He hesitated, glancing from the furs to the knives. "The furs themselves are valuable. That is beyond doubt. However… I cannot help but think you know something of their origin?"

I narrowed my eyes. 'Is he trying to say this isn't worth his knives? Not that I disagree, but he's the one who suggested they were more valuable.'

"Ya can't think she stole them." Johnson stepped forward, pushing me behind his shoulder, and I gawked up at him. "She's a good kid — works hard for what she earns."

"No!" Saga bowed slightly. "Forgive my tongue — it seems to have lost mastery of your language today." He rose and met my eyes. "I simply meant that our mages are quite interested in knowing more about these variant furs, and would make it worth your while if you have aught to share."

'He knows. Somehow. But how much?' I licked my lips. 'And do I dare stick around to find out?'

"They're Infected." Kit stared at Saga. "What do your mages want with the Infected?"

Saga's brows arched, and he inspected Kit from head to toe. I don't know what he saw in her bulky clothes, mussed too-pale hair, and strange boat.

'Too much. He sees too much. I need to end this.' My fingers itched for the knives on the black velvet.

"A traveler, then? From…" Saga searched the air above Kit's head. "... beyond the mountains?"

"Well," Kit began, but I cut her off.

"Doesn't matter. She's not here to bargain with you." I leaned over the table, getting close enough to smell the peppermint on Saga's robe. "Two knives. For all this. Now. Or we both deal with Mitry, and I suspect he's more pissed off with you than me."

"Monat?"

The voice was unfamiliar, but the name turned my blood to ice. I whipped around; the first Gitano had returned with another. This one — tall and thin, with blond hair streaked with black — looked like he'd stepped out of the battered memory crystal I'd left at my Home Post.

'He never lived in my memories — not truly — but Mother told stories of him until—'

Gasping, I spun away, scrabbling at the goods on the table; my blind fingers found the furs, the hide, then the venison before finally landing on metal nearly as cold as my hands. The bite as the sharpened edges found my flesh grounded me enough to grasp a hilt in each hand.

"No, you look like her," he — Nuada — said. A smile tugged at his lips. "You must be little Sorcha, all grown. How have you been?" He moved as if to hug me, but I danced away, hiding behind Kit.

'No. No. No. No.' My knuckles went white on the hilts, and blood dripped from between my clenched fingers.

"Are you okay?" Kit wrinkled her nose as she looked over her shoulder at me.

"Sorcha?" Old Man Johnson echoed. "Is that your name? It's pretty — don't see why ya didn't use it."

"Wait — you didn't know her name either?" Kit's smile widened. "That's amazing! How long have you known her?"

Nuada glanced from Kit to Johnson and back to me. I fought not to lose the pellet that was left of my breakfast — a much more uncomfortable situation as a Flightless than as an owl.

"You're her friends?" He shook his head. "That's wonderful, but where's Monat? Where's your mother, Sorcha?"

Johnson raised his hand, concern creasing his face. But I couldn't focus on him — not on any of them except him.

"Dead," I spat. "You weren't there, and she's dead." Leaping up, I slashed through the booth's canvas awning, shifted in midair, and fled with a knife in each claw. 'They're the only things I need.'

♫♪♫♪

I waited for Kit at the sandbar. The setting sun turned my brown feathers to gaudy shades that matched the Gitano's tent. Asking myself why I waited did nothing; it was like the knives weighed ten pounds each and anchored me to the gravel.

When she arrived, the kayak's paddle made gentle splashes against the river's current until the prow scraped into the gravel. It sat, anchored and shifting, while Kit searched my feathered expression.

"You know you're a mage, too. Just like your father."

I didn't shift, but twisted my head, looking away.

"Okay, I won't call him that. But the thing with the meat? The way you keep blowing past your limits? Those aren't Butterfly things. Not in the capital's records. Butterflies have a hard stop; a point where they can't keep going."

'I'm a Flit, not a mage. They're soft — they just don't try hard enough.'

The sun dipped below the horizon, drenching the river in purple-hazed darkness. In the too-close distance, shrieks and laughter presaged the beginning of the Quarter Moon Ceremony.

"Nuada wants you to stay with him. Get some training. It's dangerous to be untrained." She sighed when I didn't answer. "I know. It's hard. Family is hard."

We watched the last dregs of daylight fade to flames on the horizon. Kit didn't speak again until full darkness cloaked us.

"There's a big storm coming, the Gitano say. Their mages can tell, sometimes. I need to keep following the trail as fast as I can before the storm wipes the last traces out." She hesitated, dipping the paddle into the water. "Will you be okay?"

'That's a stupid question.' I clacked my beak once, twice, before stilling again. 'I'm always okay — that's the point.'

"Maybe you should stay in town until the storm's past. It's coming in from the wilderness, back the way we came." She lingered, then the kayak scraped on gravel again. "But I suppose you won't."

I focused on the quiet splashes that faded into nothingness beneath the distant sounds of the Flightless's ceremony.

'She's right about the storm.' My eyes sought the distant lightning flashes on the edges of the horizon. 'That's a killer.' But the storm wasn't any deadlier than the flightless I'd left it town. My stomach roiled, hot and sour. 'I can't come back here.' Faces flashed through my mind — Old Man Johnson. Mitry. Even Johnson's grandchildren, whom he kept insisting I meet. 'I've burned that bridge, and they'll have their priest burn me if they can catch me.'

A tiny sliver of doubt argued that Johnson wouldn't turn me in, that he'd be… hurt… that I thought he would. It died under the first firework exploding in the night sky.

I turned speculative eyes toward the storm — toward my Post. 'Kit came down the Trade Route. That's the only explanation — even the Gitano could see it. If it was open for her, it's open for me.' Resolve hardened. 'It can't be harder to get up the Trade Route than it is to get down the cliffs to town. If I can't get supplies here, perhaps…?'

I shook my wings, settling the feathers, and lofted into the air, still clutching a knife in each claw. 'That might work.' Lightning glinted off the blades as I headed into the heart of the storm.