Page 77 of Realm of Crows (Wings of Ink #5)
Fifty-Eight
Ayna
The waves of the ocean lap against the sandy shores of our island like loving tongues, their waters shimmering a glistening blue as I roll over in the wide, carved bed Myron procured from one of the merchants from the mainland.
After a few weeks of cleaning out the palace and building more permanent residences for the Crows who chose not to live with the rest of us, Myron and I sent Silas and Royad to cross the waters in the east, where the Crows who’ve been alive before the curse know the mainland of Neredyn lies.
They brought back maps of the continent and word of what realms exist in a world they once called their home.
When Silas and Royad returned with the news the island we’ve settled on has been unclaimed for hundreds of years after a cruel war once raging across the continent, the core of our court sat down to figure out what we want to do with this realm.
It might be small and unwanted by the rest of the world, but it’s ours.
After hours and hours of discussions, of shattering our minds over what path to best take, not only for the Crows but also how to best establish trade with the realms of Neredyn, how to bring new aspects of culture into our people that don’t involve the worship of the God of Darkness, who has done nothing but cause us headaches, how to find happiness for each and every Crow under our care.
That was the day Kaira finally joined the conversation in the circular study, high up in the palace tower.
“We’ll need to find them females,” Kaira said, and when we all eyed her like she’d gone mad, she amended, “Over fifty males and only two females? I’m not sure if you like sharing, Myron, but I’m certainly not interested in being shared.”
And that was that.
We spent the next weeks figuring out what crafts the Crows excel and what they are good at, other than warfare and slaughter.
Not long after that, Alvary presented his first song. It was simple, and the melody, blown on a flute carved from bone, slightly out of tune, but it was the start of something new.
Then the merchants came, bringing grains and fabrics, while some of the Crows put together a forge to make weapons—something we figured out very fast that Crows excel at.
Now a ship comes in every other day. The merchants have started asking for blades of all sorts.
They’ll buy anything as long as it is of Crow making.
Why am I surprised? I’m not even sure—they are death incarnate and their weapons dangerous like no other I’ve ever known.
Except perhaps their claws. The merchants pay in goods as well as in gold, and what coin we make, we spend to buy raw materials and to hire workers from the mainland to help build more houses, infrastructure, and even a tiny theater where Alvary can sing his songs to the merchants now staying overnight in the three-room inn Ennis and Gorrey are running by the small harbor we built in the east.
The island spans more than a hundred times the size of the Seeing Forest, and we have our Crows patrol the lands, not for enemies but for signs of former cultures populating this space. If anyone inhabited the island since the Crows millennia ago, not a trace of it is left outside the tower.
It’s the ninetieth day since our arrival when we’re woken by loud caws and laughter.
Myron sits up in bed, the plain cotton sheets sliding down to his waist, exposing his sculpted chest and abdomen. I look my fill before glancing toward the window, following his gaze toward what we call the Crow Square in front of the palace.
“Do you hear that?” He knows I hear it the same way he knows I’m wondering who that could be.
We haven’t heard female laughter other than Kaira’s and mine on this island; even the two or three merchants who were female didn’t stay longer than a day to make trade, and most certainly not laughing at the Crows selling them swords and knives worthy of kings .
“Who is that?” I climb out of bed, picking the simple, blue woolen dress from the chair in the corner of our cream and onyx room.
Listening hard to make out the source of the laughter, I slip the dress over my head, binding my hair back with a leather string and searching the room for my weapons belt.
We’re not at war with anyone, but I’d be reckless not to carry a weapon wherever I go.
When I’m done, turning toward the door, Myron is ready, black leather pants and black woolen shirt covering his perfect body, and a beautiful sword hanging at his hip. Frenius made it for him, a gift to the King of Crows and a sign of his loyalty. “Shall we find out?”
Together, we make our way downstairs, walking rather than shifting and fluttering down the stairs the way we so often do.
Two Crows open the doors for us, guards stationed there to make sure we don’t have any unwelcome surprises.
So far, no one has complained about our presence on the island.
Myron and I wrote letters to every court of Neredyn, announcing we’d like to visit in the near future to form diplomatic relations, and so far, we’ve heard back from one realm—the southernmost in Neredyn, Phornes—that they will welcome us in a month’s time.
I’m not sure how I feel about a trip to the mainland, but Myron and I are both convinced our future is in strong bonds with prosperous kingdoms, in an exchange of culture and education.
So I’ll travel wherever I need to give the Crows the best possible future, including inviting artists and teachers, craftsmen and farmers to learn from .
The laugh echoes around the corner of the Crow Square, a full, warm sound that is most definitely female.
I’m about to ask Myron again where the source of the laughter is when Silas comes running around the corner, stack of books in his hands. “A ship arrived from Phornes.” He stops in front of us. “They sent old texts, tales and folklore about Neredyn. I think we’re in them.”
I’ve rarely seen him this enthusiastic. The broody warrior doesn’t seem to be the reading type to me, but when he glances down at the books in his hands, his entire face lights up.
“Only good things about us, I hope,” Myron comments, lifting the cover of the book at the top of the stack and grimacing as he tries to decipher the title in a foreign language. After what seems like a staring contest with the leather-bound tome, he gives up, shaking his head.
“The history of Neredyn, Your Majesty.” Her voice is rich like burnished gold and warm like the sun glimmering on the waves in the distance, and her lilting accent reminds me of the merchants from the Southern Continent in Eherea, who visited the palace in Meer every now and then.
Melodious and full of a life I can’t even begin to fathom.
All three of us glance up at the comparatively short female form at the edge of the square, and I’m ready to reach for my dagger, but Myron shakes his head.
She makes a curtsey that is so different from the court formalities I remember from the Tavrasian court that I find it a little bit charming.
“The King and Queen of Phornes send their regards, Your Majesties. They look forward to your visit, and they send these books alongside a lot more reading material and music for you to take a look at.”
I’m trying to make out her face, but the hood of her bright orange velvet cloak hides her features well enough, and the sun doesn’t reach where she stands twenty feet away in the shadow of one of the new houses.
The laughter sounds from around the corner, where a few of the Crows are working on building an educational center together with the craftsmen who arrived last week.
I’m not sure how I feel about it.
“You must be tired from your journey.” Silas finds his manners first, and the woman at the edge of the square inclines her head, hood shifting enough to expose part of an umber face and long, raven curls.
“Thank you, Sir—” She pauses, looking Silas up and down as she stalks closer on polished boots. “I didn’t catch your name when you came to retrieve those books from my sisters.”
Sisters? I try not to be alarmed.
“Silas, milady.” Silas bows an inch. “And I’m no Sir . Our court and people are too small to have established such titles.”
He’s not wrong about that.
“You could be a Sir ,” the woman says, stopping in front of Silas and glancing up at him with large, black eyes from beneath her thick, long lashes.
For a moment, I believe Silas is uncomfortable; then he shifts the books into one hand and places the other one on the hatchet on his belt, and a deep breath lifts his chest. “I have no interest in being a Sir . ”
“What interest do you have,” the woman asks, glancing up at him in that intent, soul-deep way.
The tightness of Silas’s features would be comical had I not seen that look on him before when he watched Gabrilla dance.
“To serve my court in whichever way I can.”
I want to hug him for putting this court—this people—above everything else, but I have a feeling he’d rather not have me do that right now, under the scrutiny of the stranger whose looks seem to tie him to the spot.
“What’s your name?” Taking a step forward, I summon a kernel of my power, sending it up my spine to form a circlet of stars on my head—a crown of silver Crow power.
The woman throws back her hood, delight on her beautiful face.
Her high cheekbones and full mouth complement the large, wide set of near-black eyes, and a segment of her hair is braided back in a twisty, coiling way I’ve never seen before.
Small golden earrings holding round, polished onyx gemstones dangle at her ears, and around her neck, a plain, gold necklace weaves around a matching stone.
She holds out her hand in greeting, no longer curtseying but grinning at me with a set of brilliant white teeth.
“Kepha.” She glances at Myron, then at Silas, then at me, her gaze digging deep into the depths of my soul, and something springs to life inside of me, a sensation I remember from when Kaira and I became friends.
“Our father sent me here.” She looks around to where more and more Crows are landing on the surrounding roofs and the windowsills of the palace.
Her eyes remain on me, two dark pools gleaming with mystery and mischief .
“My father was executed years ago.” The memory still hurts, but knowing that Tavras is free now and in the good care of the people who care for it more than their own lives gives me some peace of mind.
“I’m not talking about that father.” Kepha leans closer, making Myron shift toward me in an instinct to protect me—not that I need his protection with my power simmering beneath my skin like a storm ready to break loose.
But Kepha laughs, that warm sound I want to trust with all of my heart.
“Perhaps you would call the God of Darkness your great-great-great-great-grandfather if not your father?” She gives me a conspiratorial glance that instantly makes me like her despite what she’s suggesting.
“It doesn’t matter much how far our ancestry of his blood reaches back, Ayna. I’m still your sister.”
The second child Shaelak sired. He mentioned it months back, when I was trying to figure out what I am and how I could break free of my own curse, trapped in my feathered form.
“One for Eherea and one for Neredyn,” she says before I can respond, and in my bones, I know she’s speaking the truth.