Hundreds of white crows streak by us, close enough to drop feathers, close enough to hear their cawing and see their black eyes watching. They tear through and by us, doing easy loops around my head, hairpin-turns over Lucien’s shoulder, swirling between Fione and Malachite in dizzying spirals. The cacophony blasts my eardrums, ringing wingbeats and scratching caws, and as quickly as the horde comes, they’re gone, only three crows hovering on the little shard of sky-land we stand on.

And then they’re not crows at all. White feathers elongate, take on the color and texture of cloth, bird-legs turn to human-legs in a twisted flash, and three people stand in front of us, hair blown by the wind.

Witches.

A particular witch, with an awe-inspiring mane of tawny hair and the stature of a statue—thick arms, powerful waist, and a face like the roundest moon with the brightest smile.

“Zera.” Her green eyes crinkle. “Welcome home.”

8

8

WINDONHIGH

“Nightsinger!” I cry, the looming death-drop just beyond my feet forgotten as I launch myself at her. “I—I never thought—”

“As did I,” she agrees softly, embracing me. Always soft, eyes evergreen. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for sending you off on such a selfish mission—”

“It’s okay. Really.” I flash a smile. “We’re here now, and I’m starting to learn that’s all that matters.”

Nightsinger’s nod is small, her smile wry. “Crav and Peligli are very excited to see you. You must have so much to talk about.” Her eyes slide over to Lucien as he steps to my side. “Ah.”

“Greetings,” he starts with a careful bow, eyes never leaving her.

“You—” One of the witches at Nightsinger’s side narrows his gaze.

“We will allow them entry, Valeweaver,” Nightsinger says instantly. “For he is witch.”

“It is custom to entertain brethren in one’s home,” the other witch at her side murmurs, her stunningly embroidered mantle lifting in the wind.

“But—” Valeweaver’s tail of braids whips with his indignation. “He looks exactly like Laughing Daughter. He feels just like her. Is she not—is he not—”

“He’s the prince of Cavanos,” Malachite suddenly cuts in, standing in front of Lucien with what I know by now to be his lightly menacing aura. “And if you’ve got a problem with that, you can take it up with me and all four feet of my sword.”

“What our beneather friend means to say,” Fione jumps in, “is that we won’t be here long.”

“They’ve requested two days,” Y’shennria says to Valeweaver.

“How do we know he’s not on the Laughing Daughter’s side?” he argues. “They’re family! They’re—”

Lucien muscles around Malachite, his expression all granite and ice. “My sister and I have parted ways. Forever.”