“Yes,” he said, although she hadn’t asked. “He considered strongly seconding you to his service for the use of your healing gift alone. But arguments were made on the behalf of the Hawks, and he has chosen to relinquish your service.” Tiamaris rose.
“Lord Grammayre?”
“He is waiting for you, Kaylin. When you are ready, he will still be waiting.”
She felt a pang of disappointment.
“He is a Lord of Law,” the Dragon told her gently. “And although you saved the city, the city still moves beneath him, and his duty is still clear.”
She settled back into her bed, weary.
Severn came into view. “Tiamaris,” he said firmly.
“I know. I have already tired her.” The Dragon rose, but he stopped a moment and carefully arranged the flowers in the vase he had also had the foresight to bring, since she didn’t own one. “But Corporal, I think you could also—what is the phrase? Ah. You could use some sleep.”
“I’ve slept,” was the cool reply. It didn’t invite further commentary, and the Dragon gave a very Dragon-like shrug.
On the fourth day, Kaylin stood and walked around the confines of her cramped apartment. That she could, without slipping on laundry piles, was a testament to Caitlin’s dislike of mess. The kitchen was also—in as much as it could be—spotless. Kaylin was torn between delight and chagrin.
“Let me guess,” she said to Severn, who was never far from her side. “She cleaned the mirror, too.”
“It’s gleaming,” was his reply. “She had something to say about the fingerprints all over it. I won’t, however, repeat it.”
“Have you even been home? I mean, to yours?”
He said nothing. Answer enough. She walked in circles until her legs hurt. This didn’t take as long as she would have liked. Four days.
“This is the worst it’s ever been,” she said, almost to herself.
“Fighting Dragons will do that to you.”
“Was I?” she asked him, as she sat heavily on the side of her bed.
“Were you?”
“Fighting Dragons.”
He was silent.
On the fifth day, walking wasn’t hard. She dressed herself, and she took the cloth down from the mirror, partly because it was one of her only two towels, and she was tired of feeling dirty. She washed herself while Severn stepped out of the apartment, dried her hair and then put her clothing back on. She chose the street uniform.
When Severn returned, she was ready for him. His brow rose slightly when he saw what she was wearing. “Are you strong enough?” he asked.
She nodded quietly. “If I don’t look at something besides these damn walls, I’ll go mad.”
He nodded, and fell into step beside her, at least until she hit the door. She paused there.
“Severn?”
He nodded.
“Thank you.” And then, because she didn’t want him to misinterpret it, she added, voice low, “for the children.”
His expression didn’t shift, and that was a sign. He was waiting now, and guarded. But he surprised her; after a moment, he said, “Which ones?”
It hurt.
He flinched, because she must have. One of these years, she’d learn to control that.
Steffi, Jade. She wanted to cry. Didn’t.
“You saved the world,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “Then. That’s what Tiamaris said.” She struggled with the rest of the words, because she had never ever thought she would say them. “I couldn’t have. I would have let the world burn in black fire. I would have died first.” Her eyes were a little too wide, but they had to be; they were filmed with water, and she hated tears.
He was cautious. Silence followed.
“Why didn’t you kill me instead?” She had to whisper. She couldn’t speak. “If I had died—no one’s saying it, but I know—it would have been over.”
“It might have been over,” he replied, the words drawn out of him slowly, as if he didn’t want to release them. “But Tiamaris thinks it unlikely; he said it was more likely that some other child would bear the marks instead, and it would have started all over.”
But she shook her head. “You couldn’t have known it, then. Why? Why them? Why not me?” The heart of the only question that remained for her. She had never thought she’d ask it; could almost believe she was still asleep, and in the grip of the worst of her nightmares. “They were children.”
“We were all children,” he told her. And then, because the discussion demanded more, he added, “Do you really not know?”
And she did. But she couldn’t stop herself. She wanted him to lie. Realized it, and hated herself for the weakness. “You saved the world,” she said again, but weakly. It sounded like pleading to her.
Because it was.
He said, “I’ve only ever lied to you once, and I can’t lie to you now. I’m sorry.” He started to walk away.
“Severn!”
The open door was between them; he stood on the other side of the frame, a third of a lifetime away.
“Don’t. Don’t tell me that you did this for me.”
“If killing myself would have helped, I would have done it,” he said, voice low, eyes narrowed. “I almost did. But I was too old to be a sacrifice. It was going to be Steffi or Jade, and either of them would have done to you what Catti’s death would have done. They didn’t suffer,” he added, but he closed his eyes and turned his head as he said it. It was more of a prayer than a statement; as much of a plea as she had ever heard him make.
“I’m sorry,” he added, in a bitter, bitter voice that aged him. Aged them both. “But the truth, Kaylin? I grew up in the same fief you did. I didn’t give a damn about the rest of the gods-cursed city; they didn’t give a damn about us.
“I did it for me. Because even then, I wasn’t willing to lose you.”
He stepped back, stepped toward the stairs. Turned to meet her gaze briefly. Briefly was enough. He had sat by her side while she slept; he had watched her, stood guard over her, made her drink and eat and sleep.
And he knew, as he left, that that time was gone.
She stood, numb, in the door, her hand rising to grip the frame, as if without it, she would fall, the floor would swallow her, the blackness destroy her.
She would have welcomed it, and because she would have, it didn’t happen.
Clint and Tanner were on duty at the front entrance. She wondered when the Swords would start their rotation; she didn’t like them as much, but she wouldn’t, being a Hawk.
“Kaylin,” Clint said. But he didn’t say more. Her expression was not the usual harried terror of someone about to be late for her own funeral, and he knew her pretty well; he knew what it meant. He shifted the pole-arm into his left hand, and he reached out with his right, touching her shoulder. Gripping it for a moment to offer what words wouldn’t.
She forced a smile, and knew how bad it looked when he grimaced. “Don’t even,” he said, with a wry—and genuine—smile of his own. “You’ve missed a bit of work,” he added. “And a bit of excitement.”
“What kind of excitement?”
“Oh, the usual.”
She thought about dates for a minute, and then her brows rose. “Festival duty,” she said, as if the words were worms, and she had accidentally put them in her mouth.
“Smart girl,” Tanner said, lifting his helm as if it were a hat. “And you missed sign-up.”
She groaned. “Does the fact that I had a decent reason give me a bye?”
“Does it ever?” Clint’s laugh was natural, rich and resonant. The laugh she loved. She straightened her shoulders, found that it wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be, and shed a bit of gloom. “If I have to cover the tables,” she said, adding a few choice Aerian words as decorative color, “someone is in deep trouble.”
“You might have some say—the list isn’t quite finalized.”
“Isn’t quite?”
“Caitlin has it, but it’s not due u
p until the end of the day.”
Given that day had already half-passed, she swore and sprinted up the steps. Stopped, turned back and buried her fingers in Clint’s flight feathers.
His expletive was a joyful sound to her ears, although she wouldn’t repeat it in polite company.
She burst into the office, and was ashamed to admit that the run up the stairs and down the halls had winded her. Which meant, of course, that she wasn’t damn well going to admit it.
Marcus looked up as the doors swung behind her. His desk was a pile of paperwork, and he growled at her, his hair standing slightly on end. “You see this?” He said, his mock anger laced with real annoyance.
She nodded politely. Which was safest.
“This is the result of your little outing in the fiefs.”
“All of it?”
“Every last damn bit.” His claws bit desk as he pushed himself out of his chair.
“Well, you know what they say.”
“No good deed goes unpunished.”
“Exactly.”
“The Leontines don’t say that, Private.”
She shrugged, but managed to grin. It wasn’t even forced.
“Kaylin.”
She didn’t answer. The shift in his voice, the way his growl curled round the syllables of her name, was serious. “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it.
“For what?”
“For making you worry.”
“Good. I have one favor to ask of you.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t make me worry again.”
“Yes, sir.”
He reached out, his claws sheathed. But his hand stopped short of her face, and settled in her hair instead, ruffling it. Or, more accurately, pulling some of it free from its binding. “You did well,” he told her. High praise, from Marcus. In fact, it was the only kind of praise he offered. Short.
“It wasn’t just me—”
“But you’re late again, and the Hawklord is waiting.”
“You could have mirrored—”
“Someone keyed your mirror off. You might want to fix that.”
Someone. Severn. She said, because it was safe, “Where’s the Festival duty roster?”
“Caitlin has it. And bribes are illegal.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get out of my sight.”
“Yes, sir.”
She made her way to Caitlin’s desk, got intercepted by Caitlin and hugged so tightly breathing was in question. But when Kaylin pulled back, she did what Marcus hadn’t: caught Kaylin’s face in her hands, and pulled it up. Tsked at the dark circles under the youngest of the Hawk’s eyes. “You aren’t sleeping,” she said, making an accusation out of concern.
“I’ve done nothing but sleep for the last—what is it? Week?”
“Then take two.”
“Ha. After I sign up.”
Caitlin shrugged. “You’re such a ground Hawk, dear,” she said, with an affectionate smile. She held out a small sheaf of papers. Kaylin took them. Cursed when she saw what was left, and then fell silent when she saw her partner assignment.
Tain.
She hesitated, and Caitlin, old hand, could read the hesitation as if it were perfectly executed Barrani. But she waited in silence while Kaylin continued to flip through those papers, looking for a name. She looked up at last, when she couldn’t find it.
“He’s still a Hawk?” she asked.
“He’s still a Hawk,” Caitlin replied, not asking who Kaylin meant. “But the Wolf Lord has asked to speak with Lord Grammayre about his disposition. There’s every chance—if office gossip is anything to go by—that Severn will be back with the Wolves before the week is out.”
Kaylin nodded, as if the words made sense. And they did. Bitter sense.
“Kaylin, dear, don’t crumple those. I don’t have another copy.”
“Sorry.”
“I know. You always are.” Caitlin hesitated, and then added, “The Hawklord is waiting for you.”
“What have I done wrong this time?” But the words were uninflected. Severn. Wolves.
It was best. For both of them. The past was too damn much of a tangle, and it was a tangle of brambles, thorns without roses. She set the papers on the desk and turned at last toward the far door. Toward the Tower steps.
The climb was longer than it had ever been. She had to stop twice, and was glad that there was no one beside her; the guards at the doors on every landing didn’t appear to notice her sad lack of endurance.
The Tower door was closed. The mark upon its center, ward against intruders, waited for her hand. She lifted her palm wearily, barely noticing magic’s bracing slap. The doors slid open, and she crossed the threshold, looking up only after she had cleared them.
Lord Grammayre stood in the Tower’s center, his arms folded, his eyes narrowed. “You’re late,” he said. As if this were just another day.
And it was. She was a Hawk. She had made that choice. The world didn’t stop for her tragedies; it didn’t stop for her past. It didn’t stop for anything, and that was a good thing.
“Sorry, Lord Grammayre.”
He raised a pale brow. His wings unfolded beneath the domed ceiling slowly and deliberately. But his arms remained folded across his chest, like closed doors. She stood there, feeling seven years younger.
“The Lord of Wolves came to visit this morning,” the Hawklord said, breaking her silence. Adding weight to it.
“Oh.”
“He has requested the transfer of Corporal Severn Handred.”
“Oh.” Because her mouth was hanging half-open, she added, “Does he know?”
“Severn?”
She nodded.
“He was present.”
“He’s going back to the Wolves?”
“Kaylin Neya,” the Hawklord frowned. “What have I told you about drawing conclusions?”
She stared at him blankly. This didn’t change the direction his mouth was curving in.
“Very well. Since you did not disgrace the Hawks this time, I will excuse this almost intolerable display. I said that the Lord of Wolves requested the transfer. I said that Severn was present. Where, in those words, did I say that he had returned to the Wolves?”
“But—but…”
“I leave it up to you,” the Hawklord told her, his voice strangely neutral.
“But it’s not my life.”
“No. It’s not. It was, however, the Corporal’s only request, and given the success of the mission, I acceded. You are considered to be on active duty,” he added, his voice softening.
The words barely registered. She bit her lip. Wanted to be older, tougher, more resilient. It was the weakness, she thought. The backlash of using the power.
Lies.
She looked at the circle on the floor. Avoided it.
His wings were at their full extension, and he slowly lowered his arms. “Fledgling,” he said, in Aerian.
And she looked up at him, wordless, unable to control her expression. Without another word she crossed the floor, closing the gap that separated them in the only way she knew how.
His arms caught her first, enfolding her; he bent over her, the difference in their height evident by the way his shoulders curved. Her hands came up to touch the Hawk emblazoned across his chest, and she bowed her head into her fingers, closing her eyes and welcoming this very different darkness.
His wings folded around her like a soft wall.
“I don’t want him to leave,” she whispered.
He could probably feel the words more clearly than he could hear them. But his lips were beside her ear as he bent, protective now, as if she were in truth not yet ready to fly without guidance.
“I know, Kaylin.”
“But I don’t—”
“Hush.”
“I don’t think I can just forget—”
“You can’t, Kaylin. Don’t try. You are not Barrani, and you are not Dragon. Because you are neither, time will help,
and only time.” He paused. “I will give you whatever time it is in my power to give. I will deny the request of the Wolf Lord.”
She hated tears.
Hated them.
But the Hawklord didn’t. He held her, in the height of his Tower, and for a moment, she pretended that she believed in the safety his arms offered.
Cast in Courtlight
by Michelle Sagara
www.LUNA-Books.com
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
In the old days, before the Dragon Emperor—sometimes called the Eternal Emperor by those responsible for toadying—had invested the Halls of Law with the laws which governed the Empire, angry Dragons simply ate the idiots who were stupid enough to irritate them. Or, if they were unappetizing, burned them into a very slight pile of ash.
Ash had the advantage of requiring little to no paperwork.
Marcus Kassan, Sergeant for the Hawks—one branch of officers who served in the Halls of Law—stared gloomily at a pile of paperwork that, were it placed end to end, would loom above him. At over six foot, that was difficult. The desire to shred it caused his claws to flick in and out of the fur of his forepaws.
The desire to avoid annoying Caitlin, the woman who interior office, which set schedules, logged reports, and prepared duty rosters and pay chits, was just slightly stronger. In their personal life, Leontines disavowed all paperwork, usually by the expedient of chewing it, shredding it, or burning it, when it wasn’t useful for the kits’ litter.