“I do not doubt that. No one in that room does. But it is not the people in the room who will be adding those complications. It is the people who observe your house because Moran resides here.”
Aerians.
“The Hawklord will be flying in the face of his Caste Court. If you think that his position will protect him from consequences, you have failed to understand how the Caste Courts feel about Imperial Law. They are willing—of course they are—to accede; the alternative would involve a winnowing of their race. The Emperor’s Laws are the law—but never forget that the Emperor is the ultimate arbiter. He is the law.”
“And he’s meeting a fieflord in private at my house.”
“Very good. Yes. He is meeting a fieflord, in private, at your house. I am not completely certain that the spies will recognize the Emperor’s actual person. Or mine, for that matter. But they will research, and they will—eventually—know. Lord Nightshade’s timing in this matter could not be less fortuitous. It will not, of course, harm the Emperor.”
“...The Hawklord.”
“Yes, Kaylin. The Caste Court is allowed, by law, to cast out constituent members of the race it rules. Its rules must abide, in some fashion, by the laws laid down by the Emperor—but in matters of racial inclusivity or exclusivity, they are given a free hand.”
“I hate that.”
“Believe that no hatred you feel for it could be as deep, as profound or as difficult as the Emperor’s. He did not wish for the citizens of this Empire to be slaves. Ruling the weak is difficult. They are fearful, and fearful people are often very—what is your word?—ah, stupid. Stupid?”
“That’s the word.”
“He could rule as the Dragons once did, as the Barrani once did. But there is a delicacy to the mortal races that would consume most of you were he to significantly shift his style of rulership.”
“The Barrani wouldn’t like it much.”
The Arkon snorted. “Some of the Barrani would like it very much; they are young, brash and foolish. Having lived through only a small part of the Draco-Barrani wars, they would welcome a chance to test themselves in the same arena as their forebearers once did.”
“That would destroy the city.”
“Yes. It would not destroy the Dragon Court. It would probably destroy the younger fools among the Barrani High Court, but I am not certain that that would be a great loss.” At her expression, he added, “I am old, Kaylin. The old are famously impatient with certain youthful foibles.” They had reached the doors. “I am impatient with the idea that glory is won by slaughter—because of course it is not slaughter that glory implies. The Elantrans have a phrase that is apropos.”
“Please don’t repeat it,” Kaylin told him; she could guess which one, or at least which dozen, might apply. “You can get away with saying anything to the Emperor. I can’t.”
The door opened. Lord Nightshade stood in the doorway.
It was evening, but the foyer lights were bright; Kaylin could therefore clearly see that light reflected in eyes that were a shade too blue. That blue darkened as he met not Kaylin’s eyes, but the Arkon’s.
The ancient Dragon whose library was his hoard inclined his chin. “Calarnenne,” he said.
“Lannagaros. Ah, no, Arkon.” Lord Nightshade recovered first, and this time he bowed. It was not a superficial gesture.
“You did not bring your blade, I see.”
“Meliannos is not a trivial weapon, and it is not much required in the streets of your city; no. I do not have it.”
“Good. I will therefore endeavor not to find offense at your presence.” The Arkon’s eyes were orange. They’d been gold all evening.
“Had I known that Lord Kaylin was entertaining guests of such obvious import, I would have chosen a different evening to visit.”
“You visit often, do you?”
“I visit my younger brother; he is currently in residence here.”
“Yes. Annarion, I believe.” The Arkon’s smile had teeth in it, and not much else.
Nightshade stiffened.
“He reminds me,” the Arkon added, “of you, in our distant youth.”
“I do not believe I was ever as he is.”
“Not physically, no—but he has a youthful optimism that veers dangerously close to naïveté.”
Kaylin had said many things about Nightshade in her life. Naïveté was no part of them.
“Am I to be refused entry, then?”
“No. It is not my abode. I would counsel it, but Kaylin is somewhat like your younger brother in that regard. I will be blunt. Things are politically difficult for the Emperor, and your presence here increases the difficulty—for Lord Kaylin,” he continued, ignoring her cringe, “and for another of her guests. This difficulty has involved Lord Bellusdeo.”
Nightshade’s eyes cleared somewhat.
“You understand, then.”
“You refer to Moran dar Carafel.”
“I do.” The Arkon did not appear to be surprised that Nightshade knew Moran’s name or situation. Then again, the Aerian Court probably wasn’t the only one that was spying on this house.
For the first time since the door had opened, Nightshade turned to Kaylin. “Has the situation changed since her visit?”
“No.” She exhaled. “Yes. But I don’t understand why. If I had to guess—”
The Arkon cleared his throat. Loudly. It wasn’t a roar, but it reverberated. “She has accepted the mantle of the Illumen praevolo. She has accepted it publicly.”
Nightshade smiled. There was no ice in it, no malice; it made his face look young. All Barrani looked alike to mortals who weren’t familiar with them; Kaylin had that familiarity. But it seemed to her, watching, that the Arkon was right. There was something of his brother in him.
“Lord Grammayre is also here,” Kaylin told Nightshade.
“That is the reason for your dress?”
She had almost forgotten she was wearing it. “...Yes.”
“It is a very fine dress. I would think you might more appropriately wear it in the presence of royalty.”
Silence.
“...Arkon, you did not come alone.” It was not a question.
The Arkon’s smile was genuine. “No.”
“Lord Kaylin, you have always decried politics as a game played by powermongers. You understand that your current dinner table would be considered exceedingly political at this time?”
“I didn’t plan that!” She flushed and snapped her mouth shut.
“Very well. What would you have me do?” Nightshade asked the Arkon. “It is likely my presence will be noted, regardless. It is not the first time I have communicated with Lord Grammayre; it will, no doubt, not be the last. He will support the praevolo?”
“I am not mortal,” the Arkon replied—before Kaylin could. She considered this significant enough that the outraged words that had been about to fall out of her mouth died. “I do not always understand the games that mortals play. But I understand something of loyalty and service, and it is my guess—and it is only a guess—that he intends to do so.” The Dragon exhaled smoke; none of it reached Nightshade. “You are correct, however. The damage your presence might do—to his cause—has already been done. Is your brother expecting you?”
“Not exactly.”
“But he knows you’re here,” the brother in question said.
Chapter 15
Annarion stood at the height of the foyer’s grand, curved staircase, just beneath the level of the ostentatious chandelier Helen had insisted was appropriate for their visitors. His face was pale, and his eyes were ringed; he looked very much like a mortal recovering from a significant bender.
More important at this very moment was that he didn’t look happy to see his brother.
The Arkon noticed as well; it would have been impossible not to. At least he’d left Mandoran behind.
“Hello, older brother,” a cheery voice said from up above on the second floor.
Or not.
“Are you guys done with dinner?” Mandoran asked. He was the only Barrani Kaylin had ever met who spoke almost exclusively in Elantran, her mother tongue. She was fine with it; the Barrani Hawks at the office often slid into Elantran when looking for appropriate phrases. She could see that neither the Arkon nor Lord Nightshade considered it a plus.
“Not yet,” Kaylin told him as he appeared at the head of the stairs, a few steps up from Annarion. They shared no blood, no family line, but they were more kin than Annarion and Nightshade, who did.
Annarion turned a glare on Mandoran. Kaylin had no doubt that he also had words—but he kept those words private. It was Mandoran who usually dragged the rest of them into that private conversation by answering the unspoken out loud.
“What?” he said, continuing this trend as he met Annarion’s chilly glare.
“Perhaps,” the Arkon told the foyer at large, “we will attempt to convene an informal, intimate dinner at a third location. This one appears to have become dangerously crowded.” He turned, and then turned back. “It is dangerous when dream becomes reality, Calarnenne. But I, too, have had the lost returned to me. It has complicated my life enormously—but it has given me both hope and joy.”
Kaylin highly doubted that there was much joy to be found between Nightshade and Annarion, but kept this to herself; Annarion’s glower made it clear enough that her words would have been superfluous.
Nightshade, however, looked surprised. As the older Dragon walked back toward the parlor, he said, “Thank you, Lannagaros.”
* * *
“You know him?” Mandoran asked, heading down the stairs and leaving Annarion frozen on them. “You met him after the end of the wars?”
“Between,” Nightshade replied, meeting Mandoran on the level of formality Mandoran had chosen.
“Between?”
“You did not fight in the wars,” Nightshade said, voice chilly. He was watching his brother. “But the war transformed you regardless. We fought. We survived.”
“He’s a Dragon.”
“Yes. Good of you to notice.” He exhaled. “After the second war, there were no dreams of glory left in those of us who had survived. The Dragons destroyed much of our ancient lands—and we, in turn, destroyed their clutches, their flights. But we did not do so for our own individual purposes. We were commanded, and for the most part, we obeyed. Those who did not...” He shrugged. “The practice of making outcastes differs greatly among the various races. The Barrani model is more similar to the human one than any other.
“Lannagaros and I had much in common. Were it not for the war, we might have done our exploration, our researches, side by side. He is learned and knowledgeable in ways that I am not. He was a formidable opponent; he was cunning, canny and unpredictable.
“At the remove of centuries, that Dragon and I have more in common than I have with most of the Barrani of my acquaintance. We have shared similar experiences, have experienced similar losses. I almost killed him once,” he added, smiling. “It taught us both respect.”
“I am never going to understand my own people,” was Mandoran’s almost morose reply. “Helen said we can use the small dining room.”
Kaylin wasn’t aware that they had one.
“We didn’t, technically,” Helen said. Nightshade was not a guest in the way the Dragons or the Hawklord were. And Mandoran and Annarion were residents. “It is a small room meant for family, and was used for regular meals. We don’t use it often because at the moment, the house is so full; it’s not very roomy.” Her disembodied voice paused. “Mandoran, I don’t think your presence is needed.”
“Of course it’s not,” was his cheerful reply.
“I don’t think it’s actually wanted, dear.”
“No? Well, I suppose I could go say hello to the Emperor. Or Kaylin’s boss. I’ve heard a lot about him, but I’ve never met the man.”
Kaylin was almost frozen to the floor.
Mandoran laughed out loud. It was both a wonderful sound and an annoying one. And that probably summed up Mandoran in total: wonderful and annoying. “It’s a joke. Given the lectures we overheard Helen giving you, it’d be as much fun as pulling teeth. My own teeth,” he added, as if this wasn’t clear.
Kaylin breathed again. She turned to follow the Arkon, and then turned back to touch Nightshade’s sleeve almost hesitantly.
He looked down at her, because he was taller.
“You could try being honest,” she told him softly.
“Why do you assume I have not been?”
“I’m not saying you’ve lied to your brother.” She didn’t think he had. “But you—you don’t tell him everything. Just—try. What is there to lose?”
Annarion was silent.
To Annarion, Kaylin said, “The Arkon says you remind him of your brother when he was younger. I think he liked your brother.”
“And now?”
“Now doesn’t matter. But—I think he likes him now. Which surprises me. A lot.” This was true. She could not recall the Arkon speaking of Nightshade with any affection in the past. “I’d appreciate if you two didn’t start yelling at each other until after the rest of the guests have left.”
* * *
“No,” the Emperor was saying when Kaylin made the door frame. “She is not boring. I will concur. I will also, however, point out that if you are bored, you are too unoccupied. I am seldom bored, and I do not require excess excitement.”
Bellusdeo laughed. Kaylin froze again; she felt like she’d spent a lot of the evening frozen in place. “It’s not excitement, not precisely—but you never know exactly what is going to happen if you’re with Kaylin. And some of it requires the whole of my concentration and power just to survive, which can be exhilarating.”
“You cannot possibly expect that I would find that appealing?” The Dragon Emperor seemed mildly offended. “Were I to be in such a position, my city, my Empire, would almost certainly perish.”
“My understanding is that you are correct. But she is Chosen, Darranatos. She has some part to play—or perhaps several—before she dies.”
“Agreed. I have accepted her presence amongst my Hawks. My Hawks appear to have survived it.”
“She is, and has been since she was allowed to formally join the force, exemplary in her work. She is not terribly adept at politics, because she cannot see it as part of that work,” the Hawklord said, clearly part of the conversation.
“Then perhaps your situation,” the Emperor said to Moran, “will be of some aid in that regard. Apologies,” he added, “for implying that that is the only benefit of it.”
“No apologies are necessary, Your Majesty. I think where Kaylin Neya is concerned, we are probably too protective. We see her, and we remember her as a child—Aerian, Leontine, human, it doesn’t matter which variety. Only the Barrani are different in that regard, except Corporal Danelle. Her view tends to carry the rest of the Barrani Hawks, on the other hand.”
Kaylin slunk out of the doorway, but not into the room. She was trying not to be mortified, and failing.
“They mean well, dear,” Helen said. “They are not speaking poorly of you, and they wish you no ill. At times it is helpful, in informal situations, to have something in common. What they have in common—with the exception of the Emperor—is you. But the Emperor has evinced some flexibility where you are concerned that Bellusdeo thought he couldn’t.
“Do not feel embarrassed that people care for you.”
“It’s not the caring that’s embarrassing. It’s the thinking of me as a child part. I know how to handle myself in the
city streets. I’m not helpless, and I’m not ignorant. Maybe I was, when I was thirteen—but that was then.”
Helen, however, had something other than Kaylin’s personal dignity on her mind. “Did you hear, dear? Bellusdeo called the Emperor by his given name. That’s a very positive sign.” Kaylin couldn’t see her—Helen’s Avatar was in the parlor, after all—but she didn’t need to. She could hear Helen’s beaming smile. “But I’m not certain now,” Helen added, her voice softening.
“Not certain about what?”
“I’m not certain the Emperor is right for her. Or rather, that she is right for the Emperor.”
“Helen, you’re giving me whiplash. Right for what?”
“As a mate, dear.”
Kaylin was never going to understand her house. She personally agreed with the sentiment, but couldn’t follow the path Helen had taken to arrive at it.
“He has his hoard,” Helen explained.
“Well, yes—it’s us.”
“Yes, dear. But Dragons do not share.”
“He’s sharing the entire Empire.”
“No, dear, he is not. The Empire is his. There is very little room, in Dragon thought, for ours.”
“But Tiamaris shares the fief that bears his name. He shares it with Tara.”
“Is that what you think?” Helen asked, obviously very surprised.
“I’ve been there. I’ve seen them. He does share.”
“Kaylin, he doesn’t.”
“You haven’t seen them.”
“I’ve seen what you see. I see what you’re seeing now, when you think of them. You think that he cares for Tara—and he does. But, Kaylin, Tara is his hoard. He does not share her.”
“He shares her with the rest of the fief,” Kaylin argued.
“No, dear. I understand how you have arrived at your conclusion, but no. You are misinterpreting what you see.”
“How?”
“He understands Tara. He understands why she was created. He understands what went wrong for her. He does not intend ownership to be complete and impersonal—that is not the way Dragon hoards work. He allows the fief to share her time and her attention because it is what she requires. It gives her both joy and strength. The Emperor does not—and in my opinion, could not—see Bellusdeo the way Tiamaris sees Tara.”