“Marrin!”
Marrin’s dry chuckle almost made Kaylin cry.
“You’re a Hawk,” the mother of the foundling hall said, pulling her hand back and raising it to brush Kaylin’s hair from her forehead. “But you’re still one of my kits. Don’t forget it. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
“Except Marcus?”
Marrin said something rude in Leontine. The equivalent of men, and in that tone of voice.
“I have to go back to the fiefs. We found her there,” she added. It was hard, with Marrin, to be less than open. “And the answers are there as well.”
“Answers? To what questions?”
“The ones about me.”
“Kaylin—does this have anything to do with that mark?”
Kaylin self-consciously raised a hand to cover her cheek. “You noticed.”
Marrin snorted. “Flowers are not your style.”
“Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know. But—I’m going back to the fiefs. Catti’s marked. And until this is over, she’s not safe.”
Marrin’s eyes narrowed. “This has something to do with your marks?” She had never asked before.
“A lot,” Kaylin replied.
“Will you take that young man with you?”
“Young man? You mean Severn?”
“The one you were having the…argument with.”
Kaylin laughed. Only Marrin. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Without him, Catti would have died.”
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Marrin, there is so much I want to tell you—”
Marrin’s great, furred arms caught Kaylin and drew her close. Heart-close. “I’ll tell the children,” she said softly, her voice a sensation along the top of Kaylin’s skull. “You go and do whatever it is you need to do.”
“Am I off report?” Kaylin stood in front of Marcus’s desk. Marcus, for once in his life, seemed to find paperwork of interest. Either that, or he was considering some new way to shred it.
“I didn’t put you on report. Take it upstairs.”
“He wants to talk to me?”
Marcus met her eyes. His paw pads were moist; she knew this because he placed one over her hand. “Good work,” he said quietly. “And yes.”
“The Arcanists?”
“Apparently they were suddenly concerned with something that came up in idle conversation.”
Kaylin winced.
“You must learn not to let arrogance goad you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re still on report.”
“Yes, Marcus.”
“Good. Go on.” He lifted his hand; she still felt the tips of his claws against her skin as she started her way toward the Tower stairs.
Lord Grammayre had done her the kindness of leaving the door open. She approached him with the grovelling diffidence of a criminal as he gestured them shut behind her, half-expecting that she’d once again end up in that damn circle.
“Rise,” he said, his tone of voice conveying an irritable get up. She didn’t wait to be told twice. Usually, on the other hand, she didn’t wait to be told once, which was often a bit of a problem.
To her great surprise, Tiamaris was in the tower, waiting. He was once again kitted out as a Hawk; the bronze armor was gone.
“You were supposed to go to the Palace.”
“I went.”
“But you—”
“Kaylin.”
She looked back to the Hawklord.
“Lord Tiamaris’s business is his own, and I trust you have learned enough today to understand why.”
“Yes, sir.”
His left wing flicked. “Lord Tiamaris?”
“I believe that we require her presence in this investigation.”
“Clearly, if you seconded her while she was suspended.” If he was annoyed, he was also amused. He could cross that line with little warning and less cause, so Kaylin decided to keep quiet. He turned to the mirror. “Records.”
The mirror flared. The light was unusual, even for a mirror, and after a moment, the Hawklord spoke his name.
And she saw Catti, surrounded by robed men. From Catti’s viewpoint. It was impossible for Kaylin to keep her hands from her daggers; she didn’t even try.
“These are the men you saw?”
She nodded grimly, watching them.
“Records,” Lord Grammayre said again. The scene shattered in an abrupt shift. She recognized the image that coalesced, although it wouldn’t look that way again for some time: It was Catti’s room, but it wasn’t empty. There were men in it; they were also robed.
The walls tilted. Catti screamed. Red light filled the room.
“Magic?” She asked.
“Yes,” Tiamaris replied. “Magic. Records, hold.”
The image froze, the corner of the ceiling at the wrong angle. The Dragon pointed, and she could see—but barely—that one of the intruders held something crystalline in his hands. The source of the light. “Play.” It was gone.
She wondered just how much useful information they could get from this; Catti was struggling wildly, and faces went in and out of the mirror’s view. Catti was a foundling, and all grand dreams notwithstanding, she wasn’t a Hawk; she couldn’t see as a Hawk saw; couldn’t expect that if she survived, anything that could be pulled out of her viewpoint might be useful.
The light grew intense. In the distance, Kaylin thought she heard growling. Marrin’s.
“The same men?” she asked quietly.
“Possibly. There are fewer.”
“If they had tried to kill her there—”
“The timing,” Tiamaris said quietly, “was not right. They could kill her there, if her death was to be instant.” He walked over to the mirror, held out his palm. It shifted again.
“Can you hear them?”
She nodded. “But I…don’t understand what they’re saying.”
“No. It isn’t Barrani.”
She frowned. “It sounds like—”
“It is, to the best of my knowledge, a dead dialect. There will be similarities, however. If you heard the language spoken at length, you would probably understand half of what was said.”
Dead dialect for dead Barrani. Made sense to Kaylin.
“Why aren’t we allowed to speak about this?”
The Hawklord and the Dragon exchanged a glance.
“Look, it isn’t like we haven’t fought corpses before. We’ve certainly had our run-ins with outcaste mages, and this wouldn’t be the first time someone has used the dead.”
“Did these strike you as the usual type of corpse?”
Given that the usual type of corpse was, all arguments aside, on a slab on its way to its family or the burner, Kaylin had to shake her head.
“Did they actually look dead?”
“With Barrani, it’s probably hard to tell. They’re perfect most of the time; I don’t see why a little thing like death should get in the way of making the rest of us feel ephemeral and ugly.”
He smiled.
Tiamaris did not. “How did you know that they were dead, Kaylin?”
She thought about it for a minute. Or longer. “They were slow,” she said at last.
Tiamaris raised a brow. His eyes, however, were gold.
“For Barrani, they were slow. There were thirteen of them. I have a feeling that fifty wouldn’t have stopped you—” She caught the Hawklord’s expression and shifted direction rapidly. “But the four that had Catti should have been able to kill her well before Severn reached her.”
“True. But not, I think, the answer.”
“I don’t know,” she said defensively. “I’ve seen dead Barrani before—admittedly not often—and no, these ones didn’t look like corpses. They just didn’t look…alive.”
“You see, Grammayre? Kaylin,” he added, “have you ever healed Barrani before?”
She frowned. “No.”
“Ah.”
“What’s that supposed t
o mean?”
“I am not certain. I think, however, that some part of the power that you use for healing has made you sensitive in ways that others would not be. If Severn had been asked, he would not have tendered your answer. To him, they might have been slow, but they wouldn’t have been dead.”
“But you knew.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. And grimly. “I knew.”
“It has to be better news than live Barrani. For one, we’d probably all be dead if they had been.”
Lord Grammayre said, “It is not better news.”
“I kind of guessed that. I don’t understand why.”
“I am not entirely certain myself. Elantra is mere centuries old, and it is clear that the history of the times before its rise are now deliberately murky.”
“Tiamaris?”
“The Barrani can die,” he said quietly. “Of old age. It happens, but it happens seldom. Their age is not reflected physically—the death might go undetected by all save Barrani, otherwise. But when it happens—and I cannot think of a single such incident in the past three hundred years—the body is destroyed by its kin.”
“So…what you’re saying is they have no soul?”
He grimaced. “I am not going to ask you whether or not you studied religion when you were schooled here.”
“I learned everything that was practical.”
“Clearly your definition of what is practical needs some refinement.”
She shrugged. He was obviously right, and love of argument only extended so far.
“That there was one such dead would be cause for concern among the Barrani.”
“Why? Is it like a disease or something?”
“It is indeed exactly like that.”
Her open mouth stayed that way, deprived of words.
“But I believe more insidious. There are stories, in human lore, of creatures who, while dead by any reasonable definition, create more dead. Records?”
“Vampire,” the mirror answered, in a crisp and uninflected authoritarian tone.
“Ah. Yes, that is the word I was looking for. Unlike the corpses that walk—or shamble—these vampires were possessed of cunning.”
“And strength, and speed, and the ability to, oh, turn into bats or wolves or rats.” Kaylin snorted.
“The Barrani dead are not unlike that. While we do not believe they can reliably transform themselves into another form, they retain memory, and they offer something to the living in return for death.”
“What? What could they possibly have to offer someone who’s already going to live forever anyway?”
“That, Kaylin, we do not know. And there is not a single Barrani who would willingly answer the question, if they even know the answer. From your impertinent comment, Lord Evarrim knows that at least one such creature exists. It would not be a stretch to assume that there are more.”
“There were more.”
“And that they might indeed be old, if they are dabbling in the magics of the Old Ones.”
She was silent. After a moment, she said, “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“She wasn’t a good classroom student,” the Hawklord said drily, “but there was a reason we allowed her to graduate in spite of that.”
“Yes,” Tiamaris said, ignoring the Hawklord. “There is something I’m not telling you.”
Which meant that he wasn’t going to. She rolled her eyes, shoved her hands in her pockets, and looked at the two men. “We’re going back to Nightshade,” she told them.
“Given your success while you were suspended,” the Hawklord replied, “I am inclined to put you back on the duty roster. Yes,” he added softly. “If there are answers, it is in Nightshade they will be found.
“Before you leave, however,” Lord Grammayre continued, “there is one thing that I wish to ask you both.”
Kaylin looked up. In fact, looked at anything but the circle at the Tower’s center.
“Lord Grammayre?”
“The Tha’alani reading was, of course, expertly handled. It gave us details that we would never otherwise have—in particular the making of those marks—and the method of travel from the foundling hall.”
“That is not, from the fire left in its wake, a suitable method of travel, Grammayre.”
“No, it is not. That is not the pertinent question. Catti was aware of your arrival because it made a good deal of…noise.”
Tiamaris nodded.
“She was not, however, aware of how you made that arrival.”
“No.”
“Kaylin, the Lords of Law have sealed the watchtower, and at the moment, the Imperial aides are examining it closely. It appears that a large hole was made in the external bearing wall.”
She cringed.
“You were under strict orders. Where is the bracer?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I see.”
“Lord Grammayre, I will take responsibility for my intervention. She could not locate Catti while wearing the bracer.”
“Nor could she destroy the outer wall.”
Silence. Kaylin looked at the perfectly stiff Dragon face, and she was surprised. Tiamaris hadn’t mentioned the destruction of the wall.
But Lord Grammayre was the Hawklord. “Kaylin.”
“I’m fine.”
“That in and of itself is cause for concern. I have seen the wall,” he added quietly, “and the power it would take to destroy that wall resides in the hands of very, very few.”
She said nothing. But in a contest of silence, she was always going to lose. “I wasn’t out of control.”
“No.” He hesitated. “But even had you been, you would have felt its effects even a year ago.”
“I do feel them, I just don’t—”
He lifted a hand. “There is power in you,” he said softly, “and it is growing. Be cautious, Kaylin. If you find the bracer, put it on. You are too emotionally involved in this.” His wings stretched out. “If time were not of the essence, I would keep you here. But that, I think, would be costly. Go. Take Severn with you, if you can get Moran to release him.”
She hesitated; something Tiamaris had said had taken a few minutes to work its way up to her conscious thoughts. “Tiamaris?”
His gaze was lidded, opaque.
“You said they couldn’t kill her there because of the timing?”
He said nothing.
“And the timing’s today.”
It was the Hawklord who nodded, his eyes dark with something like sympathy. And rage. “Fly,” he told her softly.
CHAPTER 18
Moran looked up when Kaylin entered the infirmary. Her brows gathered, and her forehead creased in its most frequent expression. “Which part of two days rest was unclear?”
Severn sat up, which deepened the lines around Moran’s pursed lips. He started to speak a name, and stopped; it wasn’t Kaylin.
“We don’t have two days,” Kaylin told the medic. “If we’re lucky, we have two hours.” And she’d wasted hours already.
Severn sat up, swinging both legs off the bed.
“He won’t be at his best,” Moran said, her voice shifting slightly, her oddly speckled wings flicking at her back. From Moran, this was almost miraculous.
“How much off his best will he be?”
The medic’s wings flicked again. Kaylin winced. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to tell him to lie down. And one short day ago? She probably wouldn’t be here at all.
“Nightshade?” Severn asked, retrieving what remained of his clothing. It wasn’t pretty. “Where are my weapons?”
Moran’s left wing rose toward the far corner, and Kaylin retrieved Severn’s sword, chain, four daggers and belt. They weren’t exactly light.
“The quartermaster is swearing his head off,” she added, “but not at you.”
“I wasn’t there.”
She laughed.
He frowned. “Kaylin?” Apparently it was the wrong sort of laugh.
“They have to sacrifice someone else.”
She nodded bitterly. “Today.”
“There’s not much of today left.”
“There’s sun.”
“Do they need it?”
“Sun? How the hell should I know?” She took a deep breath, and added, “Tiamaris is waiting for us.”
“Where in Nightshade are we going?”
“I don’t know. I—what I did to find Catti I can’t do for anyone else. And there’s going to be someone, Severn. I—”
Moran’s pursed lips parted. She stepped over to Severn, helped him kit up. From her cupboard of poisons, she brought out a small jar; liquid sloshed within the ceramic container. She glared at Severn until he opened his mouth, lifted the lid, grimaced at the smell and poured a large amount of what was causing that grimace into Severn.
Who gagged, but swallowed.
She put the lid back on, her frown etched around her eyes. “Kaylin.”
“Moran?”
“Bring what’s left of him back here, got it?”
Tiamaris met them on the steps of the Halls. She saw his back first; he was gazing fiefward, his hand across his eyes. The sun was heading toward the horizon.
He started to move when they reached him, and neither Severn nor Kaylin had much to say; they hit the streets in a slow jog, rattling like tin cans. Well, Severn did. Luckily, stealth was not an issue.
They all wore the emblem of the Hawks. Had they been thinking, they’d have ditched that—but they weren’t about to turn around for something as trivial as dress. And it was a sign of the day that it was a triviality. Kaylin paused at the foot of the bridge, staring at the moving waters of the Ablayne as if she could read them. She freed her hair, pulled it back more tightly, twisting it into an almost uncomfortable knot, and exposing as much of her face as she could in the process. She shoved the stick back through its center.
“If mages were actually useful,” she said, as she turned from the water and toward the fief, “they’d make hair things that actually keep the hair in.”
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