Drift: River of Falcons Book 1

At Eagle's Rest

Sasha lifted his spoon of soup, but before he could bring it to his mouth, Nighthawk reached out and grabbed his wrist. "Your fingers!" she said. "They're hurt! What happened?"

"Just a few broken fingernails."

"Show me," Thistle said.

"Really, Mother, is that necessary?"

"Yes. Right now."

Sasha held his hands out. The tips of his fingers bore cuts and scratches, and several nails had broken down into the quick.

"Injuries sustained while in animal form carry over to our human bodies when we return to them," Thistle said, "and it serves you right!" she added, glaring at him. "I told you to watch the upper pasture again today! Yesterday you snuck off to the valley, and this morning there was no sign of you by the time I got up. I suppose you've been down there again?"

"I did what needed to be done."

"What does that mean?" Thistle demanded.

"Nothing," Sasha said. "Just sometimes you snap out orders and don't care what I have to say."

"Really, Sasha, I don't think this is about me. The problem is the way you keep sneaking off! Not only that, but this morning, you talked your little sister into covering by lying for you. You'll both be cleaning the stables tomorrow, and digging a new latrine, too!"

"Mum!" Nighthawk objected.

"Perhaps it will be a deterrent to your irresponsible brother," Thistle said.

"If I might say something?" Sasha asked.

"I don't want your opinion," Thistle snapped.

"Because it might be the truth?" Sasha snapped back.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Thistle said, tapping her foot angrily.

"Yes you do," Sasha said. "If you really cared about responsibility, you'd be down in the valley, too. Important things are going on. You yourself said that if we ever got wind of a possible royal survivor, we'd go to her aid, and—"

"Her aid? Is this about some childish infatuation?"

"No! It's about how you told me we might have an opportunity to restore the royal family someday!"

"I don't recall discussing such matters with you."

"Yes you do. We were sitting at father's bedside, and he was telling me stories about the old days when he used to—"

"That's enough!"

"He said—"

"He was a hopeless dreamer. We all know what happened when he went down to the valley."

"What happened, Mum?" Nighthawk asked.

"For Spirits' sake!" Thistle took a deep breath. "Before you were born, Nighthawk, your father fought several of the sorcerers. He took a lightning strike to the chest and his heart was so badly damaged that he barely made it home. I nursed him for three long years, during which time his condition deteriorated until the inevitable could be postponed no longer." She paused, looking out the darkened windows. "He said a lot of things when you were young, Sasha, and none of them matter now. He was delirious half the time, anyway."

"No he wasn't! And he kept up his daily journal, almost to the end. I tell you, he would have wanted us to—"

"Don't discuss this matter again. Is that clear?" She glared at Sasha until he reluctantly nodded his agreement. "Finish your dinner, and afterward you can sweep the kitchen and pantry, and polish the pots and pans."