"Teela?"
Teela was wearing a dark, dark green. It was not quite the same dress she'd worn the other day—yesterday? Gods, it seemed so long ago—but it was just as fine. "The Lord of the West March has issued an invitation, Kaylin." And she reached into the pockets of her skirt—pockets that were hidden by seams and yards of drape, and pulled out a—something. It wasn't paper.
"The Lord of the Green has agreed to allow your presence. Acceding to the requests of his sons, the castelord will overlook the insult done him by the mark you bear." Teela might have been speaking of the gallows, her voice was so flat.
"What—what is that?"
Teela stepped forward and held out the flat of her palm. Resting against it was a heavy, gold ring. It was large, and it bore a crest of some sort, one that hinted of ivory and emerald. Kaylin squinted; the crest seemed to move, as if to defy identification. She cursed. "This is magic."
"So, too, is the amulet you now bear." The Barrani hand didn't waver. After a moment, Kaylin took the ring. "I'm supposed to wear this?"
"Only if you don't want to be cut down by the first Barrani Lord that sees you in the High Halls."
"That sounds like a yes." She hesitated, and looked at her hands. They were bare. "Which finger?"
"Whichever finger it will fit."
"But it's big."
"Put the damn ring on, Kaylin. Believe me, it won't fall off." Teela's Elantran was heated, but it was a welcome change.
Kaylin was right-handed. She put the ring on the forefinger of her left hand, and felt it bite. Magic, all right. And it coursed up her arm, as if it were a damn door-ward. She bit her lip, and tasted blood, before the pain stopped.
And it occurred to her, standing in the West Room, that she now had enough gold on her person to run to Elani Street, hock it all, and leave town by the fastest coach money could buy. Given the gold, that was a pretty damn fast coach.
She met the Hawklord's gaze, and almost blushed. He raised a brow but said nothing. "Why am I going to the High Court?"
"You saved the life of the Lord of the West March," he replied carefully. "And in some fashion, he is repaying his debt."
"He doesn't like living?"
"Judging by events at Court, one could assume that, yes." The smile that curved the Hawklord's lips was a cold one. But cold was better than nothing. "You are familiar with the word kyuthe?"
"Some."
"Good. If you are killed at Court, he will be obliged to find and exterminate the Barrani responsible."
"Which won't help me much."
"No. You'll be dead. It is supposed to act as a deterrent, however. The Lord of the West March is not without his resources."
"He was almost dead himself. So much for resources."
Teela pinched Kaylin's arm, hard. "You will speak High Barrani at Court," she said curtly, switching into that tongue herself. "It is harder—far harder—to show such obvious disrespect in this tongue."
She paused, and then added, "You also bear the symbol of the Imperial Order of Mages. Although you are not a representative of the Imperial Court
, and you will not act in that fashion, you will be known." She looked at Sanabalis.
"Yes," he said genially, if fire could be genial. "We do not have the term kyuthe, in our tongue."
"Could you teach me some?"
"Of?"
"Your tongue."
"Pardon?"
"I asked Tiamaris, and apparently, it's impossible to swear in Dragon."
Gold flickered in the center of Dragon eyes. His chuckle was loud. "I believe that Tiamaris has benefited from his exposure to your Hawks, Lord Grammayre. And Kaylin, the answer is no."
Teela nudged her. "Try to pay attention," she said when Kaylin looked up.
"I was."
"In her own way," Lord Sanabalis said. He was calmer now. Which was decidedly better than not calm, because for one, a transformed Dragon wouldn't actually fit in the West Room. "The Barrani have always been more concerned with kin and the prominence of clan. They are more mortal in that regard."
"Dragons," Teela added coldly, "have been known to devour their kin at birth."
Sanabalis shrugged. "It is true," he added before Kaylin could ask. "And because we do not prize kin above almost all else—publicly—we have developed no words for the relationship of almost-kin. And no traditions for it, either."
"Then this medallion?"
"Ah. If you remember your old stories—which were not taught in a classroom, and therefore have some chance of lingering—you will perhaps have retained some image of a Dragon upon a hoard of gold?"
Kaylin frowned.
"She grew up in Nightshade, remember," Teela told the Dragon.
"Ah, yes. One human enclave is so often like another, I forget myself."
Bullshit. Kaylin, however, was at least wise enough not to say it out loud. Not that she had to.
"The Dragons do have a word that will, however, suffice in the present circumstance. In Elantran, it is simple enough that I am certain you are familiar with it."
"What is it?"
"Mine."
Kaylin laughed. And then stopped, when it became clear she was the only person in the room who found it funny.
Lord Grammayre hovered between amusement and irritation for a moment. "Dragons do not have a hoard of the particular type denoted in human stories," he said at last, settling for irritation. "And the Dragon wars of old—no, Kaylin, I don't actually expect you to remember anything about them. They're almost prehistory at this point—were fought in large part to define the word mine in a way that could allow the Dragons to coexist."
Sanabalis nodded.
"Even now, they do not congregate in any number, they are rare. But what they gather or claim, they protect. The rules that govern this are difficult. I am not about to explain them."
"I doubt, Lord Grammayre, that you could," Lord Sanabalis said quietly. "The Dragon Emperor is very particular about the laws of hoarding," he added. "And theft, among Dragons, is unheard of for that reason. We do not claim friends, in Barrani fashion. We do not claim lives. We do not claim kin. Do you understand?"
She stared at him. And then looked down at the medallion.
He said nothing.
"This is yours," she said slowly. "And I'm wearing it."
"Yes."
"But by law, it doesn't mean—"
"No."
Teela snorted. "It is his. He has granted it to you. In the Court of the castelord—either Dragon or Barrani—it has the weight of a vow. In the Court of Elantran Law, it is simply gold bound with magic. But neither the Dragon Court
nor the Barrani will defer to modern law while either still has a castelord. What he is forbidden to do by the Dragon Emperor's dictate, he will not do. What he can do, he has done.
"And Kaylin, the only thing Barrani warriors feared in their youth were the Dragon Lords."
"He's not allowed to go Dragon."
"There are repercussions, yes. But, as you so often point out, that doesn't help the dead, or change their status." She took Kaylin's hand almost gently. "You have been called kyuthe by a Barrani High Lord. You have been… acknowledged by a Dragon Lord."
She turned to Sanabalis. "This is why I had to pass." Flat words.
He nodded. "In no other way could you bear my mark. It would consume you utterly could you not speak the name of fire. But where you go, Kaylin, all of these marks add up to almost nothing. They are not armor. There is, however, a difference between almost nothing, and nothing." He glanced at her cheek. "And neither the ring nor the medallion will carry the weight of the fieflord's mark. It will bring you enemies in the Barrani Court
. They will circle, and if you are not wary, you will be outflanked."
She didn't care much for the analogy.
"The invitation—it's not optional, is it?"
"There is Lethe in the Court," Teela replied evenly. "And worse. You could refuse. It was discussed," she added, meeting the Ha
wklord's gaze briefly. "But in the end, you may be needed, and I do not believe that I will be allowed to return to the High Court with you a second time, if you do not accept what has been offered. You may enter the High Halls openly, as an acknowledged guest."
She frowned. "Marcus isn't going to—"
The Hawklord grimaced. "The Sergeant has made his opinion widely known." He glanced at Teela. "And he had his supporters among the rank and file."
Kaylin winced. "So I'll just keep mine to myself, shall I?"
"That would be for the best, if it is at all possible."
She looked at the closed door. "So… the Quartermaster is buying a dress?" And snickered.
"All of your opinions, Private."
"Yes, sir."
The seamstress guild was definitely working overtime. The Quartermaster, in theory, wasn't. But if any man could be said to possess certain Draconian qualities, it was the Quartermaster. He was accustomed to respect. Unfortunately, that respect did not always extend outside of the Halls of Law, his private bastion.
Kaylin made herself as scarce as possible; given office gossip, she eventually found herself in the drill circle in the inner courtyard. It was a way to work off nervous energy, and to her surprise, given the events of the previous day, she still had some.
She became aware, as she worked—backflips, and without a net—that she also had company.
Severn was leaning against the far wall, his arms loosely folded across his chest. This lent him the appearance of a casual observer. Which, in a Wolf, was a bad sign. In a Hawk, it meant a possible jail term, but Wolves had different legal authority.
He'd spent a long time with the Wolves.
She finished and walked over to him. His nod was terse.
"You've heard," she said, grabbing the towel he offered and sponging her face dry.
"The entire office has, as you so quaintly put it, 'heard.'" Apparently, the Wolves didn't gossip; Severn found it alternately amusing and contemptible.
She shrugged.
"You're going."
And nodded.
"Why?"
"I want to go."
"I know."
She stretched, bending at the waist and placing the flat of her palms against dry grass. There hadn't been much rain so far this season. She hoped it poured buckets, but that was just reflexive spite. It would cause the merchants some inconvenience, and given how much trouble they caused the Hawks at this time of year, it seemed only fair.
"Kaylin—"
"I'm not an idiot," she said softly between deep and even breaths. "What they won't say, I know anyway. It's the damn timing," she added quietly.
She looked up then. Human eyes didn't change shade, but Severn's didn't have to. He knew what she was thinking. And she knew he knew. It had always been that way. Except for once.
And then the world had ended.
She turned away and rose. He caught her shoulder. They stood there, connected by his hand and their past.
"It's the timing. Of the deaths. Of the sacrifices. Of the Dragon," she said almost helplessly.
"I know. You fought the outcaste Dragon."
She nodded. "I won. I think." She looked at her arms; they were exposed. They seldom were, but she hadn't expected much company, and this particular company probably knew the shape of those sigils better than she did herself.
"But, Severn, the timing. He—the Dragon—expected to win. He expected those children to die. He expected their sacrifice to… rewrite what was written. On me. In me. What he expected I would become, I don't know. A weapon, certainly. His weapon. We thought he would use me then, that he would somehow destroy the streets of Elantra. But what if he held his hand? What if he was waiting for a different event?" She looked up, at the flags; she could barely see them. Too close to the towers. "But it seems too coincidental that he tried so close to this High Festival. The Barrani have gathered in Elantra in greater numbers than they ever have. Well, since I've been a Hawk. Some of them have been traveling for most of the year. Many of them don't live within the boundaries of the Empire."
"You think the outcaste Dragon knew."
She shrugged almost helplessly. "I think he must have. I thought—I thought it was over."
His face was pale, and for once, it was Severn that looked away. "Inasmuch as it will ever be over," he said. She could not describe, could never try to describe, the tone of his voice at that moment.
She looked away, and rubbed her palms across her eyes. As if she had something in them. Not even Kaylin was a bad enough liar to attempt to say as much; the gesture had to serve as everything.
They were silent for a while. Even pain did not separate them.
"But now—" She shrugged when it was safe to lower her hands. "I'm not his weapon. Whatever I was supposed to be, I'm not. But whatever I was supposed to be used for—"
"The Festival."
"You think so, too."
He nodded quietly. "I'm going with you."
"You can't."
His smile was slight. Like the edge of a dagger was slight. "There was Lethe in the Court," he told her. "And Lethe is a matter of the Law."
"It's not—" She stopped. Laughed. "Teela."
He nodded.
"She must either like you, or have lost an awful lot of money to you in betting pools."
"Or both."
"Severn?"
"I'm going," he said again, but quietly. "Have you ever seen Lethe used?"
She shook her head.
"Then I'm surprised you know it at all."
"It's a legal thing. It's useful." She shrugged. "If it helps, I've seen Tain and Teela half kill a dealer by the Ablayne. They take it pretty seriously."
"I've seen it," he said softly. "If they only half killed him, they don't take it seriously enough."
"We're not Wolves," she replied quietly.
He shrugged, Shadow Wolf. "You should take a bath, or something close. I believe you'll be kitted out soon."
In her heart of hearts—as if humans actually had more than one, or as if they were like those funny dolls that nested inside each other—Kaylin had always loved finery. Loved to look at it, loved to dream about it. Usually, she'd dreamed about stealing and selling it, but that was the fiefs; it had a way of breaking the dreams it let you keep.
On the other side of the Ablayne, as a Hawk, she had learned what finery really meant, and she had learned, as a consequence, to loathe it. If envy played some small part in making the loathing easier, she wasn't big enough to ignore it.
It was therefore with very mixed feelings that she approached the very livid Quartermaster. She wondered idly if she could get assigned a desk job for a few months, because she was damn certain she would pay for every minute scratch in any of her regulation wear for at least that long.
Longer, judging by the white cast of his tight little lips. He handed her a… bag. With a hanger on it. As if it contained poison of a type which had to be imported by people with more money than sense.
"This," he said, "is yours."
"It will need fitting," Severn began.
"The Hawklord gave the seamstresses full access to current medical records. If there are any problems with the accuracy of the measurements, they are to be taken up directly with the seamstress guild." His eyes were a pale blue that verged on gray. Usually, Kaylin liked this color. She had to admit it didn't go well with mottled skin.
She thanked him profusely. She thanked him with as much groveling as a person could decently fit into Elantran. It probably wouldn't do any good, but with the Quartermaster, it was always best to go for overkill.
The worst he could do was laugh.
She took the bag and retreated, and Severn accompanied her. He was dressed as a Hawk. With a chain. And a sword. And several less obvious daggers. She wondered if he ever cut himself just moving.
They turned toward the change room, such as it was—it was mostly storage with a bit of empty space in the middle—and Severn nudged her forw
ard. "I'll watch the door," he told her.
She nodded.
And thought better of it once she'd opened the bag.
It wasn't that she'd never worn a dress before. She had, in the fiefs. But those had been simple, like long shirts with ties. This? It was… impossible. It took her five minutes to unfold enough cloth to figure out which parts were the sleeves.
And her hands? They looked dirty. Mostly because they were; it was her nails. They also looked a bit on the square side, and her knuckles were too damn big. She'd never liked her hands much.
She struggled with string. She figured out which end was up, and figured out that the buttons on the back—all fifty of them, at rough estimate—were actually not there for decoration. She dropped something that she thought was a handkerchief, but when she picked it up, she realized she was wrong—unless it was designed for giants. Which weren't real. Mostly.
In the end, she kicked the door, and when Severn opened it a crack, she said, "Get Teela."
"You need help?"
"I don't just need help—I need a full term of classes."
"Which you'd probably fail."
"Ha-ha. Get Teela, will you?"
Teela pushed the door open with all the caution she usually showed when approaching an angry Sergeant. Her expression wasn't all that much different, either. But her brows rose up past her damn impeccable hairline as she looked at Kaylin. She stepped in quickly and shut the door behind her.
"Kaylin, the buttons go on the back."
"I figured that out," Kaylin said forlornly. Her arms were sort of loosely inserted into the sleeves. Just not the right way. And the dress was fitted enough that she was afraid of removing it because if it tore, she was a dead woman. High Courts had nothing on Quartermasters. At least not while the latter was closer.
"Hang on. Let me pull it—ugh—up."
She managed to pull the dress off, and Kaylin was briefly free. The younger Hawk eyed the deep, deep green with active suspicion. "How the Hells did you manage yours?"
"Mine is less complicated," Teela said smoothly.
Kaylin, who hated to be patronized, snorted. "My ass."
"That's probably less complicated, as well. And if you must know, I generally have help. It's useful, when dressing."