Excerpt of Trickster's Choice by Tamora Pierce

Nawat stood against the wall, relaxed and alert. Before
him two men-at-arms were preparing to shoot. Dove stood
behind one archer with a handful of arrows, while the
duchess held arrows for the second archer. Aly's mind told
her that the duchess would hardly consent to murder just
as the first man shot. The second man shot immediately
after him. Then both set fresh arrows to the string and
shot steadily, arrow after arrow, one at a time, until
they had exhausted all the extras held by the duchess and
her stepdaughter.

Nawat caught them all with grace and ease, snatching the
arrows from the air as if he had all day to do so. When
the archers finished, he gathered the heap of arrows at
his feet and carried them back to their owners.

He's so fast, Aly thought in awe. I couldn't do it, and
I'm no slouch! She sighed, wishing Da were here to see it.
He'd taught her to catch daggers in midair, but this game
was much more hazardous.

The game was not done. The men-at-arms repeated the
experiment with javelins, then hunting and combat spears.
Nawat caught them all, moving so fast Aly couldn't follow
his hands. She cheered him and the men-at-arms on.

When the bell rang to remind the household it was nearly
time for supper, he looked up at the applauding Aly and
waved. “This is my favorite game,” he called to her. “Do
you want to play?”

“I wouldn't dare!” she cried, laughing, before she
retreated into the room. She'd seen men catch knives
before. She had seen the finest archers in the Queen's
Riders draw an outline in arrows of someone positioned
against a wooden fence or wall, just to show they could do
it. She had never seenanything like this.

Sarai and Dove ran in. Sarai smiled at Aly. “You should
have seen your face! Did you know he could do that?” she
asked as she collapsed on her bed.

Dove unstrung her bow, shaking her head. “He's amazing,”
she said, coiling her bowstring.

“You know, maybe this horrible old place isn't so bad,”
Sarai told the ceiling. “Not if these wonderful men keep
showing up.”

Aly raised an eyebrow at her. “I wouldn't try kissing
him,” she warned. “It wouldn't be what you expect.”

Sarai wrinkled her nose. “Aly!” she complained. “I found
out he eats bugs! I'm not kissing a man with bug breath!”

Aly blinked. I don't remember him tasting of bugs when he
kissed me, she thought. I'd better pay more attention next
time.

Her mind promptly reined her up. This was highly improper.
There would be no next time. Her task was looking after
the Balitang children, not mooning over someone,
particularly not a crow turned man.

Even if he could pluck arrows from the air.

The next morning Aly, still on a goatherd's hours, walked
out of the keep into the dawn. The sun had just cleared
the walls to light the inner courtyard and the young man
who straddled a bench there. Aly stopped to watch him
carefully glue pieces of feather onto the wooden shaft.

Nawat looked up at her with a smile that lit his
eyes. “You are beautiful in the new light,” he told
her. “If I were the Dawn Crow, I would bring you the sun
to hatch as our first nestling.”

Aly blinked at him. Her heart felt strangely squeezed by
some powerful emotion. She bit her lip to distract herself
from a feeling that made her horribly unsure. “Have you
been kissing anybody?” she asked without meaning to, and
gasped. She had let words out of her mouth without
thinking, which was not like her! Worse, they were such
personal words, ones he might feel meant personal feelings
she did not have! This was the kind of thing that other
girls said, those girls who were not bored by all the
young men who had courted them. How many handsome fellows
had sighed compliments to Aly while, unconcerned, she had
mentally wrestled with breaking a new code? At home she
never cared about her suitors enough to worry if they
kissed other girls. She scrambled to blot out what she'd
said. “Not that it's any of my business, but you should
understand, people have a way of kissing for fun, without
it meaning anything serious, and I'd hate for you to think
someone wanted you to mate-feed them just because they're
kissing—” Stop babbling, her mind ordered. Aly stopped.

Nawat's smile broadened. That disturbing light in his eyes
deepened. “I have kissed no one but you, Aly,” he assured
her, serious. “Why should I kiss anyone else?”

Aly gulped. You can continue this conversation, or you can
talk about something less . . . giddy, she told herself.
Less frightening. “You know I won't always be around,” she
said abruptly. “I don't belong here, really.”

“Then I will go with you,” Nawat said. “I belong with you.”

He doesn't know what he's saying, Aly told herself. He
doesn't know what that means.

She looked at him, arms folded, trying to keep any extra
feelings from leaping out. “What are you doing?” she
asked, to change the subject to anything less dangerous.
Then she grimaced. He was fletching arrows, as always.

She glanced at his bench, then bent down. He was
fletching, but these arrows were heavier, and the feathers
he used were not bird feathers, but Stormwing. “How did
you cut them up?” she wanted to know, genuinely curious.
More scraps of cut-up steel feathers lay on the bench.

Nawat pointed to a long piece of what looked like black,
chipped glass. “Shiny volcano rock,” he told Aly. “Chip
the edge until it is sharp. That cuts Stormwing feathers.
They come from the heat of the place where Stormwings were
born.”

Aly touched the glassy blade. “Obsidian,” she
said. “That's its name.”

“Yes,” Nawat replied. “Shiny volcano rock.” He set a
length of steel feather into a thin groove filled with
glue and held it in place.

Aly didn't see a single cut on his hands, though the
feathers were lethally sharp. “Won't they be too heavy for
the glue?” she asked.

“I shaped the glue. It holds Stormwing feathers,” Nawat
answered.

“Stormwings really are born in volcanoes?” Aly inquired,
curious.

“In the beginning time, when they were first dreamed,”
replied Nawat, setting another piece of steel feather in
its slot. “Now, if carrying an egg does not kill the
mother, they are born from steel eggs.” He looked at Aly
and sighed, his dark eyes wistful. “The eggs are too heavy
for a crow to take.”

“You've already taken enough from Stormwings,” Aly told
him, pointing to the small pile of glinting feathers
beside his bench. “You could have been killed.”

“There is a trick to it,” he replied, and blew lightly on
his fletchings. Holding the arrow shaft before one eye, he
squinted down its length. “Perfect,” he declared, and set
the arrow down.

“It seems like a lot of trouble and risk when goose
feathers are safer to work with,” Aly remarked. “What is a
Stormwing-fletched arrow for, anyway?”

“They are mage killers,” replied Nawat. “No matter if the
mage is powerful, if he has great spells to protect him. A
Stormwing arrow will cut through illusion and magic.”

Aly whistled softly, impressed. “Take very good care of
those, then,” she told Nawat. “We might find a use for
them.”

“I made them for you,” Nawat said, giving her that
radiant, innocent smile. “They are yours, for a day when
they will help you.” He offered a finished arrow shaft to
her.

Aly smiled at him despite the goose bumps that rippled
along her skin. “Keep them until they're needed, please,”
she told him. “My archery skills aren't very good.”

“You could practice,” Nawat pointed out.

“I'm a slave,” Aly explained. “Slaves who are caught with
weapons are killed.”

“Then do not be a slave,” he said matter-of-factly. “Fly
free.”

“Not just yet,” she replied. “I'll see the summer out
first.”