* * *
Hanson, the Hawklord’s personal aide, looked about as happy as Tain had, but with mortal variations.
“If you’re going to do such a good job imitating a hangover, you should just give up and go out drinking with the rest of us,” Teela told him.
“Thanks, but I like my limbs where they are. On most days.” Clearly this wasn’t one of them. “You’re here to add to my workload?”
“Marcus said the Hawklord wanted to see us.” Kaylin stepped out from behind Teela.
“I question the use of the verb, but yes, it appears that he feels it necessary to speak with you before you escape the Halls of Law.”
“We’re heading out to Elani.”
“Normally you’d have my sympathies. Today, you have my bitter and undying envy. He’s not having a good day. If you could avoid asking stupid questions or demanding answers he is not allowed to give, you might still be on track for promotion at the end of the interview.”
* * *
The Hawklord’s eyes were a midnight blue when Kaylin and Teela entered the Tower. Lord Grammayre was standing in front of his mirror; the mirror was reflective, not active.
“Did you speak with Nevoran before he left the Halls?” was the first question out of his mouth. “Did he tell you what he witnessed?”
“No. I didn’t ask.”
“I am almost shocked. The prisoner, according to Nevoran, was approached by a friend.”
“A friend, or an acquaintance?”
“Let us say a former friend. He knew the man, and had known him for a number of years. The man in question often has odd jobs for him.”
“Legal jobs?”
“Not all of them. Most of them, however, are. Before you ask, this information was volunteered by the prisoner, not the interrogator.”
Kaylin looked slightly offended at this preemptive correction. “Nevoran is Tha’alanari. He understands the laws involving disclosure better than almost anyone here.”
“Yes. Well. Hawks have been sent to question the friend. Regardless, the prisoner was offered the job for a sizeable sum of money. He was told that he was to do exactly what he did with Margot.”
“Was he supposed to kill her afterward?”
“No. That was not part of his original remit.”
Kaylin frowned thoughtfully at the tone of the Hawklord’s voice. “You think someone else was going to kill her and he was supposed to take the fall for it?”
“I think that likely.”
“Did he ever speak to an Aerian directly?”
“No. He spoke only to the go-between.” The Hawklord waited.
“You think an Aerian was present.”
“Yes. It would not be the first time some form of invisibility has been used. Nevoran is entirely caged by the man’s perceptions, and he perceived nothing. He was slightly confused—the amount of money seemed high for the job at hand. He was also slightly suspicious.
“But if our unknown adversaries could command Aerians to assassinate Moran dar Carafel, they could not command Aerians to steal the bracelet that the man held. It would be safer—by far—to command Aerians to steal the Emperor’s crown. While he’s wearing it.
“I have spoken with Master Sabrai of the Oracles. No one approached the Oracular Halls with a similar request—but to speak with the Oracles requires the tacit permission of the Emperor. Again, it is unlikely that permission would have been forthcoming.”
“Why do they care about Oracles at all?”
“That would be the question. At the moment, it is the only question worth asking.” At Kaylin’s expression, the Hawklord continued. “The facts as we know them are simple. Someone Aerian wants Moran dar Carafel dead. The reasons are less clear. On the surface of things, if Moran dies, the power of the praevolo returns to the race. But it is not a predictable return; I cannot see why or how her death would be of use.
“But clearly, it is of enough use that assassins have been sent against her.” His eyes lightened a touch, although they retained their base blue. “They will not find willing volunteers again while she lives. She has declared herself in a way that is undeniable.”
“How so?”
“She can wear the bracelet.”
“Pardon?”
“She can wear the bracelet. Did she not tell you?”
Kaylin frowned. “Are you telling me that no one else could wear it?”
“That is exactly what I’m telling you.”
“But—it didn’t feel like magic to me.” Kaylin felt the ground give way beneath her feet. She had taken the bracelet—which was technically against the rules—and handed it to Moran. “What—what does it do to Aerians who aren’t praevolo?”
The Hawklord did not reply. But he didn’t glare her into stammers and eventual silence, either. “I am not of significant enough import in the Southern Reach to know that for fact. What I know is what the rest of the Hawks and Swords know; it is based in story and perhaps even myth, not fact. I dislike story and myth as the basis for an investigation.
“But I understand that, in some ways, they have a life of their own. In the stories I was told while a child in the Reaches, and in the stories that the rest of the Aerians here were also told, anyone presumptuous enough to claim it died. The praevolo was said to be incorruptible; he—or she—was the heart of all the flights. The rest of the Aerians were not.
“When our ancestors escaped our dying world—and the reasons for its death vary between tellers—it was the praevolo who preserved our gift of flight. If the praevolo flew, the Aerians flew.”
Kaylin nodded; this was in keeping with what she’d been told.
“Modern theory, of course, considers this to be a metaphor.”
“What else does modern theory say?”
“It varies. The current thought is that Aerians require a base level of actual magic if their wings are to function as more than mere decorations. The praevolo would, in this scenario, be an Aerian who has the ability to contain that base magic within a local area. They would radiate enough magic that the wings could function. They are essentially a repository of power. The magic required is like sun or rain,” he added. “It is an essential part of the locale. Elantra, and the Empire, has that magic. There are two known places that do not.
“In theory, were Moran’s wings whole, she could fly in either of those places. And in theory, if she were present, we could join her. But only then.”
“And the bracelet, in modern theory?”
He grimaced, but his eyes lightened enough that she could see the gray in them. “In modern theory, it would be a repository—a complicated repository—of magic. It cannot be used by any but the praevolo. Anyone else who attempts to wear it is destroyed by the influx of magical energy. It is not, according to story, subtle or pretty.”
“So...Moran had the wings.”
“Yes. But she did not have the bracelet. She did not wear it. It was the only test of her legitimacy that could be offered, and she declined to take it.”
“And now that she’s wearing it...”
“Yes. To the Aerian Hawks, Moran dar Carafel is the praevolo now. Arguments could be made in the past—and were—that without that proof, she just had unique wings. Those arguments have now been slaughtered.”
“Did she know what she was risking?”
“What do you think, Private?”
“I think I understand why Hanson thinks Elani looks good today. If, somehow, the Arcanists have isolated a way to capture, to direct, the power of the praevolo, Moran’s death would mean that they could choose a suitable host.”
“Yes.”
Kaylin considered this. “They want information about the possible future because if it doesn’t work, they fear disaster?”
“That would be
my assumption. Go back to work.”
“I’m still stuck on the Shadows.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I mean—” Kaylin exhaled. “Shadow is magic, of a kind.”
“Now you are crossing into dangerous, theological territory.” His eyes were blue again.
“But it is. It’s like fire or water or earth or air—but not elemental in the same way. Gilbert was Shadow. Gilbert’s power was of Shadow. But he wasn’t inherently evil. What if Shadow is the magic?”
Teela cleared her throat. Loudly. She saluted the Hawklord and dragged Kaylin out of the room.
* * *
“I don’t understand why that was a bad question.”
“Given the Imperial Laws, the existence of the fiefs, the Towers and their fieflords, you don’t understand why it was a bad question? The Emperor allows lands that are not his in the very heart of his hoard, to defend and protect against Shadow, and you don’t understand why it was a bad question?” Her words were sharp; her voice was soft.
The small dragon squawked.
“But what if—what if we’re not looking at Shadow the right way? What if the Shadows we fight don’t represent all Shadows? Humans sometimes kill people, but not all humans are murderers. Barrani can prey on mortals, but not all Barrani do. I mean, the list could go on and on. What if Shadow is like that?”
“You are not going to tell the Hawklord that you believe that the power of the praevolo is based in, or upon, Shadow. Just...don’t. Things are politically ugly enough as is, even for mortals.”
“All right. I won’t. But—do you think I’m wrong?”
Teela exhaled. “Kitling, did I mention political ugliness?”
“Yes.”
“I do not think you are entirely wrong. There is a distinct possibility you may be right, which is profoundly disturbing. Shadow is not the only transformative magic—or perhaps, as you’ve said, we don’t clearly understand its power. What controls Shadow, what attacks from Ravellon, is one thing in many parts, but Gilbert was not of it.
“If you did not despise Arcanists so much, that is the place I’d start my inquiries.”
“No way. If they haven’t thought of it themselves, they’ll start. Arcanists can take anything and make it worse. For us.”
“And that leaves the Arkon.”
“I’d rather talk to the Arkon.”
* * *
Talking to the Arkon involved a delay. Kaylin mirrored the Imperial Library from Caitlin’s desk on the way out to patrol Elani. She then went in search of Bellusdeo, whose unofficial position had become bodyguard to Moran dar Carafel.
Given the destruction of the infirmary, Moran was at large, or should have been. In practice, Moran had commandeered a conference room meant for larger gatherings of senior Hawks. It was a space that had been designed for quiet, at least from the outside. Magic was woven into the carpets that lined the scratched floors and the cushions that covered the chairs. Those chairs had been dinged and scratched, but they were solid enough that the damage was entirely cosmetic. Even Marcus would have some trouble disposing of them the Leontine way.
Bellusdeo was standing by the door when Kaylin peered into the room. Moran had some supplies—no doubt wrangled out of the quartermaster—on the large table. There were no beds, but the infirmary had been empty of patients when the bomb had exploded. The gold Dragon looked up.
“I’ve asked to speak with the Arkon,” Kaylin told her. “And if he says yes, I’ll be heading directly to the palace from work.”
The Dragon nodded, half her attention on Kaylin. The other half was on Moran. “You know,” she said quietly, “if I had had people of her caliber under me, I could have—”
“Ruled the world?”
Bellusdeo shook her head, her expression going pensive. “Maybe saved it.” She shook herself. “Why do you need to speak with the Arkon?”
“It’s about Shadow. Teela says it’s political.”
“I see. I’m certain he will speak with you.”
“You want to come, too?”
“Yes, I think so. We will have to detour to see Moran safely home.”
Kaylin nodded and left.
* * *
When Kaylin and Teela returned at the end of the day, Moran was adjusting a standing mirror that she must have commandeered from somewhere. The sergeant clearly wasn’t comfortable with the lack of beds or a proper desk, but fortunately, there had been few visitors to Moran’s improvised infirmary that day—only three, and none of them had been Aerian. One, a new Sword, had had his foot broken—but not crushed—by a horse. A horse that was meant, of course, to be used by the Halls of Law. Kaylin privately felt a deep sympathy for him; he, like Kaylin, had not been raised in an environment where money—and land—was a given, and had therefore never learned to ride.
Moran’s angry energy and the need to martial her forces—such as they were—deserted her as the group made their way home. Her wings were drawn in tight; her shoulders were bunched together, as if to ward off blows.
Helen was waiting for them at the open doors. She handed Moran a mug and the Aerian took it with silent gratitude.
“Come,” Helen told Moran. “I think a bath—and a change of clothing—is in order. You are praevolo, but here, the regalia is not necessary. There are no more tests to pass or fail today.” To Kaylin, she said, “The Arkon sent you a message.”
“He mirrored?”
“Yes. He has, I believe, rearranged his personal schedule to include time for you, and asks that we ask Bellusdeo to cause less fire. I’m not sure I understand the request.”
Bellusdeo snorted a small stream of smoke. “He has clearly become addled with age if he thinks that was a fire. I’m almost of mind to set something alight just to remind him of the difference.”
“Please don’t.” Kaylin rushed in to wedge the request between Bellusdeo’s annoyed sentences. “I am interrupting his work. He hates that.”
“He also hates to be left out of anything that might—just might—require his expertise. Honestly, I think we would have been better off visiting Tiamaris.”
Given that Tara’s job was to guard against any incursion of Shadow, Kaylin wasn’t nearly as confident. “We’re going to be late.”
“Yes, probably. But if I show up at the palace in full armor, there’ll be a ruckus, and I don’t feel like dealing with that today.”
* * *
By unspoken agreement, the bomb at the office was not to be mentioned, but Kaylin wasn’t stupid. It would be on Records, and an investigation or ten was currently underway. There was about zero chance that the Emperor did not know what had occurred. There was a higher chance that the Arkon had managed to avoid the information.
Kaylin, with Bellusdeo as sole escort, walked to the Imperial Palace. It was closer to her new home than her old one, but given how little she generally enjoyed her visits, she didn’t consider this a plus. Bellusdeo, however, seemed calm. The informal dinner that Kaylin had dreaded had, in the end, all interruptions aside, had a positive effect. Bellusdeo no longer went orange-eyed at the mention of the Emperor.
Lord Emmerian was waiting for them in place of the steward, a young page by his side. “Lord Bellusdeo,” he said, sweeping a very Barrani-style bow.
“Lord Emmerian. The Arkon has now sent you out as a glorified page?”
Emmerian’s grin was rueful. “The Arkon? No. Some rumor has reached the Court of the morning’s...excitement.”
“And you were sent to make sure that I was materially unharmed.”
“Indeed. The Emperor was not best pleased, and has been martialing the full force of his concentration.”
“He is not investigating, surely. That is what the Hawks are for.”
“Ah, not investigating, no. But there were some c
oncerns, when the report was delivered—verbally, by the Lord of Hawks—that he would fly himself out to the Southern Reach and reduce the Caste Court and the dar Carafel flight to such small parts none of it would ever be found again.”
“I’m somewhat partial to that idea myself, at the moment.”
“Yes. The Arkon felt you might be.”
Bellusdeo’s eyes lightened, and a grin caused the corners of her mouth to twitch. “And so he sent you to head me off?”
“To escort you, Lord Bellusdeo,” was the grave reply, although it seemed to Kaylin that a smile lurked in the Dragon’s eyes. “I am not certain why, but he believes you have a mercurial and unpredictable temper. I have never seen you destroy things in a sudden rage; nor have I heard stories or rumors that have any merit in them.”
“He knew me when I was just out of the shell,” she replied.
“Perhaps that would explain it. Will you tell me a little of your current work with the Hawks?”
“I am not a Hawk,” was Bellusdeo’s careful reply; she had just given Kaylin the side-eye. “But I have been given permission to accompany Lord Kaylin while she does her duty. My laws were similar in spirit, but there are material differences in their execution; I felt that this would be the best way to learn about the Imperial Laws.” She took the arm he offered, and they preceded Kaylin down the hall toward the Imperial Library that was the Arkon’s den.
* * *
The Arkon was frazzled—or at least his hair was—but on closer inspection, his eyes were almost gold. Some hint of orange had shifted their hue, but it was slight, and it vanished as he caught sight of Bellusdeo. “I honestly do not see the point in rumor,” he told her, nodding to Emmerian.
“There is a reason it is called ‘rumor’ and not ‘fact,’ Lannagaros. I have survived much, much worse than a tiny, mortal bomb. And far more Shadow than the bomb is reputed to contain.”
At that, the orange that had nearly disappeared returned in full force.