She hesitated. “I’m not leaving for three days. Four. One of those.”
His eyes finally shifted color, heading to a bronze that still seemed cheerful considering the past two days.
“Don’t you need it?”
One brow rose. “Kaylin.”
She took it and glanced at the table; he cleared his throat. Only Marcus would have been louder. Giving in, she set it around her neck. “It’s a thick, heavy chain,” she told him, tucking the pendant into her shirt, where it was hidden from casual inspection. “If it gets caught on anything, I’ll be asphyxiated. Or break my neck.”
“Don’t get it caught on anything, then. I will not take offense at your desire to hide my pendant while you are in the Palace—or in the City limits. You will, however, wear it while in the Court of the West March.”
“Yes, Sanabalis.”
“If you are humoring me with the intent to ignore my order at a safe distance, the ability to light a single candle after months of effort has clearly gone to your head.”
She was silent.
“Private Neya, bearing that pendant while you are within the heart of the Barrani old forests was my condition for allowing you to leave this city. It serves as a warning to the Barrani should they desire to be less than civil. I do not expect you to avail yourself of its particular properties; even at that remove, it would be considered a diplomatic disaster.”
“More of a disaster than breathing fire at most of the High Court this afternoon?”
“Yes. You are not the Emperor. You will wear it, or you will find yourself without employ upon your return to the City.” He vacated his chair and turned to Severn. “Corporal.”
Severn rose and bowed.
“Well, I guess that settles that,” she said when the door closed. She took a chair near food that was cooling.
“He did say it was an order,” Severn replied, joining her.
“He’s also said he’s not directly in the chain of command.”
Severn chuckled. “He’s larger, meaner, and vastly more knowledgeable. You’ve been in the Halls too long if you think that counts for nothing.”
“I’m wearing it, aren’t I?”
“Not happily. I’m not certain why you’re objecting.”
“It’s an open declaration of ownership.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Dragon ownership. I can’t think of much that’s more likely to annoy Barrani Lords who don’t spend all their time in the shadow of the Imperial Palace. I have the kyuthe ring. I don’t think I need the implied—and distant—threat literally hanging around my neck.”
“The man who can take away your pay does.”
“Fair enough. I wish you were coming,” she added as she began to eat.
“Oh? Why?”
“Cowardice. I hate being the only mortal in a gathering full of Immortals who think killing each other cleverly is the height of good manners.”
He laughed. The small dragon startled at the sound of the laughter and left his shoulders to hover in the air above the table between them. When he decided it was safe—if he truly felt threatened—he once again perched across Kaylin’s shoulders.
“It’s not just that,” she continued when he’d settled down enough that she could readjust the fall of her hair. “It’s this.” Lifting her hand, she brushed her fingers across Nightshade’s mark. “The Barrani here are all used to it by now. I don’t know how the Barrani we meet in the West March are going to react. Here, Nightshade is a fieflord before he’s Outcaste. There, I’m not sure it’ll matter as much.”
“The Lord of the West March declared you kyuthe with full knowledge of that mark.”
She nodded, pensive, and Severn exhaled. “I’m going.”
“You can’t. Nightshade said—”
“He will understand the change in circumstances.”
“We’re not speaking about the same Lord Nightshade, obviously.”
“I won’t be present as a Hawk.”
Chapter 10
The silence was sudden and loud. Severn didn’t break it, but he met her gaze and held it—not the way cats do and not as a challenge; it was less comfortable, and more vulnerable, than either.
“This is about the missing Arcanist,” she finally said. Her throat felt dry.
He nodded.
“The Emperor was angry.”
“Demonstrably.”
She gave up on food and pushed herself away from the table, toward the edge of the large embroidered rug that lay beneath it. “Why you?” she demanded, although she kept her eyes on her feet.
He said more nothing. This time, the edges of the carpet held her attention; he finally said, “You did say you’d like me to—”
“As a Hawk, Severn. As a Corporal of the Hawks.”
“I am a Corporal of the Hawks.”
“Marcus didn’t order you to go to the West March.”
Silence. Then: “No. I’ve taken a leave of absence.”
No doubt with pay. She tried to cling to the petty resentment; it was too thin to support her.
“Kaylin.”
She turned, palms out, as if she were begging. “Why you?” She knew what it meant. He was going as a Wolf. He was going as a hunter. He’d received orders to kill—someone. Imperial orders.
“I’ve been to the West March before. I survived.”
“You weren’t hunting an Arcanist—” She paused. Looked at him. “You were.”
He said nothing. This time it was, if not comfortable, expected. “I survived.”
“And that scar?” The scar that hadn’t existed in their lives in the fief of Nightshade was white.
“I survived.” He walked toward where she stood, and placed his hands over hers; his were very warm. Or hers were cold. “I don’t intend to die there. This time, if things get dangerous, you’ll have my back.”
She slid her fingers through his and tightened her hands. “Only if you let me know when you need me. I’m not a Wolf.”
The door opened before he could reply. Bellusdeo strode into the room, her stiff skirts making as much noise as her feet did. She stopped, noticed their clasped hands, and snorted. Loudly. “Corporal.”
The word was a curt dismissal. Kaylin, annoyed, opened her mouth; Severn tightened his grip on her hands. “You’ll know.”
She shook her head mutely, unwilling to let go of his hands. Severn was a Hawk. He wasn’t a Wolf anymore. But the Wolf Lord intended to send him to the West March on a long—and dangerous—ground hunt.
“Kaylin,” he said, smiling, “I can’t feel my fingers.”
She looked down; her knuckles—her hands—were almost white. “Promise,” she said while Bellusdeo fumed in the background.
“I promise. Let me leave before Bellusdeo becomes angry.”
“Too late,” Bellusdeo snapped.
Kaylin knew that these were technically joint quarters, but the Dragon’s attitude annoyed her. Kaylin had put up with weeks of Bellusdeo’s intrusive presence and had even lost her home to it; she felt she was owed a little leeway. But she also knew the Imperial Palace favored ill-tempered Dragons over justifiably annoyed humans. She let go of Severn’s hands.
The small dragon wuffled in her ear. He then began to eat her hair, and she lifted her hands to disentangle his jaw. She also let her hair down—he squawked—and put it up again more carefully. He snapped at the stick instead. “Don’t eat this,” she told him, glaring. “This is the only one I have.”
“I’m sure you can get a dozen more,” Bellusdeo told her as she shoved a chair away from the table and sat. “Just ask the Seneschal. They owe you something.”
“Technically, they don’t. The Emperor is not held responsible for the illegal actions of his subjects; the damages done by said subjects are therefore not his responsibility.”
“You’re quoting legal scripture at me?”
“The laws of the Norannir may have been different.” Kaylin turned to Severn, who was waiting, his hands behind his back. �
��I’ll see you tomorrow?”
He nodded. He looked tired, to Kaylin—and Severn almost never looked tired.
* * *
“What,” she asked Bellusdeo, after Severn had left them, “is annoying you?”
“Imperial Court etiquette.”
Kaylin grimaced. Fair enough. She glanced in the direction of the door. “If you’re not sick to death of talking to Dragons, I have one more stop before I’m done for the night.”
“And that?”
“The Arkon. He sent a message before dinner arrived, ‘requesting’ my presence in the Library at ‘my earliest convenience.’”
Bellusdeo looked at her hands, which were now in her lap. In a much more subdued tone of voice, she said, “I’m sorry.”
Kaylin tried for humor. “The Arkon isn’t your fault.”
One golden brow rose in an arch. Bellusdeo wasn’t biting. “You don’t deserve this. This Palace, these Dragons, the loss of your home. If I were—” She shook her head and seemed to lose about three inches of height as she sank farther into the chair. “I have no lands here, no currency, and very little power of my own. There is nothing I can do to—”
“There’s nothing you need to do. You’re not to be held responsible for criminal activities, either, unless they’re yours.” Kaylin tried to find a smile and was surprised at how easily it came to her face. “Let me go talk to the Arkon. If you hear him shouting, you can come and rescue me, and we’ll call it even.”
“Or I can go with you to prevent it.”
Kaylin winced. “You really haven’t spent enough time with the Arkon,” she said as she headed toward the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
* * *
The Arkon was in one of the almost featureless rooms in which none of his precious collection was housed. This room contained a table, four chairs, and walls that rose like the upper half of a sphere; there was no obvious aperture in the ceiling, but it otherwise reminded Kaylin of the height of the Hawklord’s Tower. There was a mirror on the wall; it had a very workmanlike frame, and wood could be seen in small patches where gold leaf had worn thin.
“Private Neya,” the Arkon said. His eyes were bronze.
“Arkon,” she replied, tendering what she hoped was a perfect bow. It was certainly a better bow than she would have given a month ago; if she’d learned nothing else from Diarmat, she could now bow in a way that wouldn’t embarrass Imperial Guards. If, on the other hand, the Arkon even noticed this improvement, he hid it well.
“I see you’ve brought the glass dragon.”
She nodded.
“Good. I expected to see you somewhat earlier, as did Bellusdeo.”
“I was in the High Halls. There was an emergency meeting of the High Court,” she added, “because the Emperor apparently breathed fire on some of its Lords.”
“I imagine they survived it.”
“They did. They were happy about the survival, but less than impressed with the fire.”
The Arkon nodded. “I have been informed that you intend to leave the City. With the small dragon.”
Kaylin nodded. Sanabalis had strongly implied a meeting of the Dragon Court had taken place over that very issue.
“I see you are wearing Sanabalis’s seal.”
It was hidden. Clearly, it was designed to be recognized by other Dragons—without actually being seen. “He won’t let me leave without it.”
“Good. Why, exactly, are you going to the West March?”
“Wasn’t that discussed?”
“Some nonsense about a debt owed an informant was mentioned; I am not interested in hearsay. Why are you going?”
“It’s not hearsay. In return for information about the Imperial Exchequer and the Human Caste Court, I’m to go to the West March. In theory, I’m to accompany Lord Nightshade; in practice, given Teela and the Consort are also going, I’m not sure what’s going to happen.” When the answer seemed to darken the color of his eyes, she said, “Given the events of today, I’m not even sure it’s smart for me to leave the City. People have been disappearing from the fief of Tiamaris. We’re pretty sure we’ve figured out how.”
“I assume this is not the normal kidnapping the Halls of Law were meant to deal with?”
“No.”
“And it differs how?”
Kaylin exhaled. “The Barrani Arcanist suspected of being responsible for Bellusdeo’s attempted assassination appears to be involved.”
“Why,” he asked in the severe tone of voice reserved for a busy man who’s forcing himself to tolerate interruptions, “is his affiliation with the Arcanum relevant?”
She bit back the extremely sarcastic retort that came to mind. “I recognized the signature of his spells.”
“I see. Continue.”
“He either created or made use of a portal extant in Tiamaris.”
“A…portal.”
“Yes. Tara said it led to the outlands. It seemed very much like Shadow magic to me.”
The irritation fell away from the Arkon’s expression. “The outlands? You are certain that is the word she used?”
“Yes.”
“Did this portal occur in the border zone?”
Kaylin was surprised. “No. The portal—behind a warded door—exists in the fief of Tiamaris, very close to the border between Tiamaris and Nightshade. Tiamaris has said he’ll petition the Imperial Order for volunteers to study it.”
The Arkon rolled his eyes. “You are certain that the Arcanist—”
“The signatures that marked the door were the same as the sigils left in the wake of the Arcane bomb.”
“I will send someone, with Tiamaris’s permission, myself.”
“Why?”
“It cannot have escaped your notice that the Imperial Order has discerned one signature at the sight of the detonation, not the two you claim to have seen. I wish to send someone who I consider competent to examine the door to ascertain that there are two sigils.”
Kaylin frowned. “You don’t think there are.”
“I do not think he will find two, no. I would, however, prefer to be proved wrong in this case.” He rose. “The Barrani fugitive in question was not—in theory—to be found within City limits.”
“The fiefs—”
“Are not within those limits, yes. But we did not use simple hearsay to determine this. If he chose to remain in the border zone, this would explain much. You will be traveling to the West March.”
“I’m going to listen to a True Story that the Barrani—not the Dragons—tell. That’s all I know.”
The Arkon rose. “You will carry the small dragon with you. If Lord An’Teela is correct, it is, by circumstance of birth and emergence, a familiar. I have spent the day attempting to extract information of a less dubious nature from my personal archives. I have also taken the liberty of consulting with records not accessible to the Imperial mirrors. It would be preferable if you honored the informant’s request next year—I believe the event is annual.
“I am aware, however, that this reasonable advice is not to be followed, and I do not even have the satisfaction of placing blame at your feet. It is vexing.” He raised a brow. If Dragons weren’t famous for their lack of humor, Kaylin would’ve guessed he was joking, or at least trying. “I have therefore summoned you here to give some small warning. There is a danger to you. If, as suspected, the creature is a familiar, he is not, yet, yours.”
She glanced at the small dragon’s face, which was easy because he was attempting to head-butt her nose. “He seems to be.”
“He is attached to you, yes. But there is something complicated about the owning of a familiar that is not clear to me. There appears to be some challenge, not only in the summoning of a familiar—and there are four tales that hint at resultant disaster—but also in retaining the familiar. In one of the older tales, a Sorcerer of possible Barrani extraction by look summoned a familiar at great personal cost.”
“Possible Barrani extraction?”
“The racial term was not used; no race was mentioned. There are two images accompanying text that is only barely decipherable, and the proportions of face, hands, and height are in keeping with the Barrani. I am willing to admit that this could be a function of artistic interpretation; some of the symbols on his robes and in his hands—yes, in, not on—are not clear enough to assign.” The Arkon cleared his throat. “The relevant passage implies heavily that the summoned creature did not consider the summoner worthy. Records: first and second images.”
Kaylin frowned. In the first image—or what she assumed was the first image—stood a man in long robes; they were a blend of white and gold, and words had been written across the hem and the trailing edge of extremely impractical sleeves. “His hair’s the wrong color for Barrani.” It was the color of burnished copper.
“Indeed. I did not say the assumption was definitive. He is not, however, Dragon, and I do not think him human.”
“It’s a painting,” she pointed out.
“It’s probably a children’s story. Attempting to glean useful fact from it is almost madness, but unfortunately at the moment, it’s all we have. I did not ask you to examine the images in order to critique my findings. I draw your attention to the second image.”
She frowned. The man in his white, runed robes, with long hair and eyes that seemed glittering blue—not, in Barrani, a good sign—was also depicted in the second image; he was no longer, however, alone. “What’s that?” Kaylin asked.
“A very good question. I believe the artist is attempting to render the familiar in its incomplete state.”
“He looks nothing like mine.”
“No.”
“In fact he—or it—looks like a large tear in the painting.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, according to the legend—according to what I could decipher—the Sorcerer failed the familiar’s test.”
“My familiar has a shape.”
“At the moment, yes. It is not clear from the context of the story whether or not the familiar had a prior shape before this scene occurred in the narrative.”
“What happened after this scene?”
“The familiar left.”
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