Cast in Peril

by Michelle Sagara

  She couldn’t. “I see a lot of bark.”

  Severn drew a small knife from his belt.

  “Please tell me we don’t have to bleed on the tree.”

  He cut the mound of his left palm in answer. It was a clean, shallow cut.

  “I do not believe the Barrani. And they’re worried about signing a guest book?”

  He placed his palm against the bark of the tree and Kaylin watched as the trunk began to fade from view. In its place she could see a long hall that stretched from where they were standing into a distance that ended with one forbidding door. Before she could say more, Severn turned to her and handed her the knife. He took a step forward.

  She didn’t even try to follow him. The instant his feet were on the other side, in the hall, the hall vanished; the tree returned like a particularly unwelcome morning. She lifted her hand, gritted her teeth, and opened her left palm.

  The small dragon leapt off her neck and shoulders and attacked Severn’s knife. Kaylin nearly dropped them both, because he’d landed on her right hand. When she attempted to pull the knife away from his little, snapping jaws, he breathed on it.

  She watched as the knife’s blade melted.

  Two things occurred to her. The first: this knife hadn’t been cheap. The blade was hard enough to keep a decent edge—Kaylin hated the grinding sound of blade against stone—but worked in some way she didn’t understand that prevented rust, and Severn was quietly attached to it. He was not going to be happy. He wouldn’t say a damn word, either.

  Second: the blade wasn’t molten; it wasn’t even hot. The steel dripped and elongated, flowing toward the ground as it separated entirely from the knife’s handle. She cried out and tried to catch it, dropping the now bladeless handle in the attempt. Only as the liquid metal pooled in her palm did a second thought catch up with her, and by then it was too late.

  But the metal wasn’t hot. It wasn’t even warm. It was cool, shiny in the golden glow of tree light.

  “Gods damn it,” she said to the angry, small dragon. “Why did you do that?”

  The small dragon hissed, his wings folded flat against his back. He still clung to her right arm, though. He made a squawking noise that managed to sound entirely pathetic, and she surrendered. “Look, I’m sorry. Don’t make those eyes at me. This was important to Severn, and he doesn’t have many important things.”

  The small dragon then launched itself off her forearm, where he alighted on the fallen handle. Catching it in his claws, he flew back up, but this time, he landed on her left wrist, just above the cool, metallic puddle in her cupped palm. He let the hilt go; it landed on top of the liquid and sunk a bit. Kaylin wasn’t even surprised when he then nosed around that hilt to reach the small, silver pool, although the squelching noise it made was a bit revolting.

  But the small dragon did something—snort, breathe, it was hard to tell—and she felt the metal squirm. She held her breath as it began to shift in place, sliding over her palm and the stretch of her fingers. It lengthened farther, hardening as she watched, until it was once again the shape and weight of a blade. It was also attached to the hilt.

  It didn’t look like the same knife, mind. But at least it was a knife. She gripped the hilt tightly in her right hand. “Shall we try this again?”

  The small dragon hissed, and Kaylin decided his answer was no. “Look, I don’t want to spend the night sleeping under the wheels of a carriage, and I’m sure as hells not going to sleep in those seats.”

  Hiss. Wings extended for good measure.

  “You have a better idea?” She reached out and splayed her hand against the tree’s bark. Nothing happened. “I can’t just stand here pounding on the trunk. Severn’s probably getting worried, and if he isn’t—”

  “I am.”

  “—Teela is.” Kaylin turned around to face Teela.

  “What, exactly, are you doing, kitling? I understand it was a long day for a mortal, but you’re more than accustomed to long days, and you don’t normally spend time talking to yourself. At least not out loud.”

  “I’m talking to the dragon.”

  “And he’s answering?” Her tone was so flat, Kaylin couldn’t tell whether or not the question was sincere.

  “Not precisely. He doesn’t seem to want me to cut my hand.”

  Teela looked down at the dragon, who dug claws into Kaylin’s exposed skin. Given she was wearing the bracer, he had to stretch a bit to find it.

  “I don’t suppose he told you why?”

  “No such luck. To be fair, I don’t much like the idea myself. I don’t sign a ledger in my own blood.”

  “You don’t stay in inns.” It was true. “And it’s blood, not name.”

  “You wouldn’t be signing your True Names in a ledger, Teela.”

  “Even the casual names can be manipulated for information if enough people know or use them.”

  “But not blood?”

  “Kitling, the Consort is waiting. You can probably be excused if you stand out here all night; Barrani expect a certain amount of ignorance from mortals. I, however, cannot. Give me your hand.”

  The dragon squawked. It was a louder, more forceful sound than the usual one. It almost had timbre.

  Teela lifted one dark brow. “I see. If you have an alternative?” She glanced at Kaylin and added, “I cannot believe that I am speaking to the creature. You are a terrible influence, Private Neya.”

  “Sorry. On the other hand, I’d kind of like an answer to the same question.”

  The dragon lifted its neck and bared fine, slender teeth.

  “A better answer. One that makes sense.” To Teela, she added, “Why do your wards need blood, anyway? The wards in the High Halls don’t.”

  “This is a very different magic,” Teela replied. “But it is a magic that guarantees a certain privacy and safety. The Shadows surrender no blood that the great ones recognize as living.”

  “It must be different. It doesn’t make my arms itch.”

  Teela chuckled. “Kitling?”

  Kaylin raised the knife slowly, and the small dragon snorted. He pushed himself up, off her arm, and toward the trunk of the tree, as if he would attack it. It would have been almost comical, had Teela not drawn such a sharp, silent breath. “Do not let him breathe on it, Kaylin.”

  And she was supposed to stop him how? But Teela’s tone was deadly serious. Kaylin took a step forward; the dragon was hovering very close to the bark. Before she could grab him, he reached out and bit it.

  * * *

  Teela relaxed, for a value of relaxation that wouldn’t pass muster in the corps. Kaylin stiffened. She’d seen what had happened when he’d bitten Severn’s knife. But after a few very tense seconds, the tree had not melted or turned to a liquid version of itself; its light had not shifted or dimmed in color. When Kaylin reached out to touch bark, it was solid and rough beneath her palm.

  She started to speak and forgot what she’d been about to say; the tree began to fade.

  Teela was utterly still as she watched the very unusual door open. Only when it remained that way did she draw breath again. “Fail to mention this,” she told Kaylin.

  Kaylin nodded as the dragon flew back to her shoulders. He seemed smug, although she wasn’t certain why she thought so; his expression hadn’t really changed all that much, although his eyes were slightly more lidded.

  “And don’t just stand there staring. I told you, the Consort is waiting.”

  * * *

  The halls were even taller than they had appeared when Severn had stepped into them. She could only see the ceilings at the farthest point, where a closed door waited. To see them above her head, she had to look so far up she had problems maintaining her balance. Frowning, she looked at the floor instead. It was pale; she’d thought it was gray, but the light in the halls was markedly different from the light on the other side; it was almost white.

  Bending, she touched it. “It is stone.”

  Teela nodded. “If you coul
d save your inspection for a less inconvenient time, it would be greatly appreciated.”

  Reddening, Kaylin rose and straightened out the skirts of the dress she wore. “Are the walls stone, as well?”

  “No.”

  “The ceiling? I’m walking, Teela.”

  “No.”

  “Does this door want blood, as well?”

  “No. It is not a traditionally warded door.” The Barrani Lord frowned. “Or rather, it is not a ward in the sense that you know it. Anyone who has entered the hall should be able to pass through the doors, but anyone unfamiliar with these halls who has entered them tonight offered the great tree some of their living blood. I am not entirely certain how the door will regard you.”

  “I was willing, Teela. He wasn’t.” She glanced at Severn’s knife. In the brighter light of the hall—a light, it had to be said, that didn’t seem to have a source—the knife was markedly different in shape: longer and narrower. It wouldn’t fit the sheath it had come from.

  The door, however, did roll open as Teela approached it. It opened into a round, low hall. Archways much smaller than the door and lower than the ceilings surrounded the wall’s perimeter, leading into cloisters in the distance. The floor itself, however, was occupied by one large table; it was a rounded oval, around which elegant, tall-backed chairs had been placed. Food was spread from one end of the table to the other, and several silver pitchers stood between the plates. None of the food had been disturbed—or touched, by the look of it.

  At the head of the table, the Consort sat, her hair a white spill down her shoulders. Her eyes, even at this distance, were a remarkable shade of blue when she turned to look at the new, late arrivals. If the floor had opened and swallowed Kaylin, she would have been grateful.

  “Lord An’Teela. Lord Kaylin.”

  Teela nodded.

  Kaylin, on the other hand, resorted to the use of knees. She fell to one and bowed her head so low her chin touched the space between her collarbones. “Lady.”

  “I trust you had little difficulty finding the entrance? Lord An’Teela was concerned, although Lord Severn seemed to manage, and he seldom leaves your side.” Kaylin, on one knee, was acutely aware that half the room had stopped talking. She assumed they were now watching her; she didn’t check. She also didn’t lift her head; she waited.

  This was the Barrani version of standing in front of Diarmat’s desk at attention, the difference being she didn’t hate the Consort. She hoped, some day in the near future, the reverse might once again be true.

  After fifteen minutes, talking resumed in the hall; voices rose and fell. Clearly, Kaylin abasing herself in front of the Lady of the High Court only had brief amusement value.

  Barrani at their most political often spoke in the most pleasant, soft voices. Their laughter—and they did laugh—was cool and almost musical to the ear. On the very rare occasions Teela’s voice had become so pleasant, she was at her most dangerous; one step away from killing. Not a killing rage—the Leontines had cornered the market on that. The Barrani just seemed to get more and more chilly. If it wasn’t for the color of their eyes, they might even seem to be growing more friendly, not less.

  Teela left Kaylin on the floor, presumably to take a seat at the table.

  The Consort began to speak, but not to Kaylin. I’ve survived this before, she told herself. The small dragon seemed content with his perch of more supine-than-natural shoulders; he didn’t hiss, didn’t squawk, and didn’t unfurl his wings.

  Dinner continued; she could hear the enticing sound of cutlery, of glasses moving and sometimes clinking. She was hungry, and having spent most of the day in cramped quarters, she wanted to move. But she stared at the floor and her foot instead. She’d done this before.

  The Consort continued to speak to the Lords of the Barrani Court. If she glanced in Kaylin’s direction at all, she didn’t spare the time to say the single word that would allow Kaylin to rise. Kaylin did not rise. Her leg cramped; her hips stiffened. She waited. Music began to play somewhere to her right. A stringed instrument, joined, in time, by a flute.

  This helped. It didn’t make a difference to her empty stomach, but it did lessen the impact of the noise it made.

  I take it back. This is worse than Diarmat. It was more subtle than Diarmat, but as the time stretched on, it was infinitely less pleasant.

  When the Barrani began to leave the table and the hall, she lowered her face a few inches, inhaling and exhaling deeply, as if this were an entirely physical endurance exercise. It was. She knew, at that point, that dinner was out of the question. If she wanted food, she would have to rise. If she rose without a word from the Consort, the last hour, or longer, had been a total waste of time and effort.

  The hall emptied. The music ceased. Kaylin’s head was still bowed, but it felt about four times heavier than it had when she’d first knelt. She closed her eyes and began to recite legal metrics, the earliest and most important of her lessons with the Hawks.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder; she didn’t move.

  “She’s gone,” Severn said. “They’ve all left the hall for the evening.”

  She considered, briefly, remaining in this posture until they returned in the morning.

  “There’s still food left.”

  And abandoned the idea. Her legs wobbled as she rose; Severn offered her a hand, and she took it.

  “The Consort did notice,” he told her as he led her to the table. The food left here made it clear that the Barrani didn’t consider food an important commodity. Then again, she’d never met a starving Barrani.

  “Did her eyes get any greener?”

  “Not appreciably, no. Why did you take so long?” he added.

  She froze. She had forgotten Severn’s knife. The small dragon attempted to move most of his body so it was out of Severn’s line of sight.

  Severn raised a brow; he’d noticed, of course.

  Exhaling, she handed him the knife. “This is yours. I’m sorry.”

  He glanced at it. “That’s not my knife.”

  “It’s what’s left of your knife. Mr. Small and Squawky wasn’t keen on my cutting my hand and bleeding on the tree. I had your knife—I’m really, really sorry—and he bit the blade.”

  He lifted the knife and examined it carefully as she continued to speak.

  “The blade melted after he bit it.”

  “Melted?”

  “Yes, but not because it got hot. It just…melted. It turned into silver liquid. I know you really liked that knife. I wasn’t happy. He knew I wasn’t happy. So he—he tried to change it back. This was the result.”

  Severn was now examining the edge of the blade—by shaving some of his arm hair. “It’s sharp.”

  “It’s too long for the sheath. I’ll buy you a new one the minute we get back to the city.”

  He gave her the “with what money?” look.

  “I’m not paying rent this month.”

  He turned his attention back to the knife. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep this.”

  “It’s yours anyway.” She looked, with longing, at the food on the table, but didn’t touch any of it. “You’re not angry?”

  “You’re not the one who destroyed it. The small dragon appears to be trying to hide, on the other hand. Did he let you cut your hand with this knife?”

  “No.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “He bit the tree. I’m thinking of letting him attack a few door wards when we get back.”

  Severn smiled. “Not advisable,” he told her, picking up a plate and putting it firmly in her hands.

  “Oh, probably not.” There was fruit on the table. Some cheese. Different hues of wine, which she decided not to touch. There was bread in very odd shapes, some meat that she assumed was venison, because there weren’t a lot of cows or sheep here. “Teela wasn’t happy.”

  “No. I don’t imagine she would be. She told you to keep this to yourself?”

  “More or les
s.”

  “It’s good advice.”

  “I know. You don’t count,” she added as she began to eat.

  * * *

  There was no Seneschal, no innkeeper, and no native guide to lead them to their rooms after Kaylin had finished eating. There was, in fact, no one in sight except Severn. “Is it always like this?”

  Severn nodded.

  “What happens to the dishes?” There didn’t appear to be much in the way of an obvious kitchen, either. Kaylin assumed it was beyond one of the many evenly spaced archways.

  “You’re a Lord of the High Court. Dishes are not your concern.”

  “Right. Do you know where we’re supposed to be staying?”

  “Not yet. Watch this carefully.” He left the table, left the circular floor, and headed toward the first of the open arches. She followed, finding the utter absence of noise disturbing. It wasn’t that she liked hearing catfights, dogfights, and drunks singing off-key, to name a few, but they were a constant intrusion that reminded her that she lived in the City. There was no city here.

  The small dragon rubbed her left cheek with his nose; his eyes were wide opals. He, like the room, made no sound. Severn’s feet did. So did hers. She tried to lighten her step. He passed the first arch and headed toward the second, following the subtle perimeter the exits made.

  When he approached the fourth, the floor beneath his boots began to glow. It was a light very similar to the gold shed by the trees that served as sentinels and doors. “This way,” he told her, following that light. It expanded a yard beyond his feet, no farther, but it continued to hold that position as he walked.

  “You’re sure I’m allowed to go this way?”

  “Look at your feet.”

  She did. The floor beneath her boots was the same gentle gold as the floor beneath Severn’s. “If I weren’t supposed to go this way, there’d be no light?”

  He nodded.

  “Have you ever tried just walking through a random arch?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “I survived. If a Wolf is hunting here, and he has permission to enter, this is not the place to attempt to make the kill. Ever.”

  She fell silent, grateful for the moment that the path they were following was the same, and uncomfortable with his example. She ignored it, because it wouldn’t lead either of them anywhere she wanted to go tonight. “Does it work differently for Barrani?”