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"This is the way I carried you to Boma," Menga said. "Without you being seen." He placed the three knives on the cloth and drew the edges so that they were mostly covered by the material. Both the weapons and the cloth vanished, fading until nothing appeared on the table.
Zhura gasped. She reached for the objects, and felt them. Still there, but invisible.
"A clever shield," Menga said. "It belongs to you, of course. Take the knives as well. They are my finest steel."
"Thank you, Menga," Zhura said. She tried to imagine the gruff ironsmith like a mother, carrying her through the forest on his back. To her surprise, she was able. "For protecting me and giving me the life that I have."
"I hoped that one day I could tell you the truth about your father," Menga said softly. "But you grew to be safe and happy here. Perhaps I was a fool to believe you could ever escape your ancestry. None of us can."
He drew Zhura into a great hug, swallowing her up in his arms.
"You are the truest father," she whispered to him, "that I will ever know."
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