The Chronicles of Elantra Bundle

by Michelle Sagara

  “What,” Marcus said, shaking her arm, “did you think you were doing?”

  “I was going to show him—”

  “I know what you were going to do, you idiot.”

  Usually when you know the answer to a question, Kaylin thought sourly, you don’t waste time asking it. But she was smart enough not to say so.

  “The mages—”

  “Kaylin, there are one or two who do know some of the particulars of your past and the marks you bear. They don’t know who you are. They just know that we know how to find you. They know that Lord Grammayre has chosen to take personal responsibility for you or your subsequent actions, and that he has been granted—gods know why—Imperial dispensation for his claim. They don’t know you’re a Hawk.”

  She snorted. “It’s the Hawklord. Could I be anything else?”

  “Dead,” he said quietly.

  Severn sat heavily on Marcus’s desk. He had nothing to offer, and he kept his hands to himself after that initial contact. But he was stone silent, and although he had never been much for chatter, his silence was all wrong.

  She was drawn to it. Then again, she’d tried to kill him the first time she’d seen him in the tower, so that probably didn’t say much.

  “Tiamaris knows,” she said quietly. “And if he’s not an Imperial mage—”

  “He’s not.”

  “He’s not a Hawk.”

  “He is, according to the Hawklord, exactly that. He is honor-bound to leave all information he gathers within our ranks in our ranks.”

  She started to speak and Marcus growled. “It’s clear you don’t understand the Dragon caste,” he said, as his claws extended.

  “You understand them,” she countered, “and it’s not making you any more comfortable.”

  He hissed. It was the Leontine form of an angry sigh. “I understand Dragons well enough to know that their presence is trouble. They don’t like to follow. They lead. It’s in their blood.”

  “Is that why there are so few of them?” she asked, flippantly.

  His silence turned that flippancy on its ear.

  “Yes,” Severn told her, when it became clear that the answer was beneath Marcus. “That’s exactly why.”

  “Something happens to the rest,” she said slowly. It wasn’t exactly a question.

  “Something happens to the rest,” he agreed.

  “I’m not happy about his placement,” Marcus added.

  “I’d guessed.”

  “But it seems that he has become fond of you.”

  Given Tiamaris’s perpetually dour expression and his utter lack of patience with her, this came as a bit of a surprise. “How does he treat people he doesn’t like?”

  “He probably eats them.” Marcus shrugged.

  “That would break at least three laws.”

  “Not really. Suicide isn’t illegal.”

  “And being disliked by a Dragon is on record as a form of legal suicide?”

  Marcus snorted.

  “Got it.”

  “Callantine is an ass,” Marcus added, shifting the conversation. “He’s serious about his work, and he’s good at it—but he’s a mage, and he cares a lot about reputation and prestige. Mostly his. Don’t trust him.”

  She nodded.

  He rolled golden eyes. “Kaylin—”

  Severn stood up. “I’ll take her,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere. Not here.”

  “Good. Her stomach is growling.”

  Kaylin flushed. “I didn’t have time to eat—”

  “You could try waking up in the morning like the rest of us.”

  “Yes, Marcus.”

  “Get out of my sight,” the Leontine added. His claws had found purchase in his desk, and by the looks of them, they were about to add a new furrow or four to its surface.

  “Yes, Marcus.” She started to walk away, turned, and added, “can I be given access to the old records?”

  He didn’t even ask which ones. “Yes. But study them in Grammayre’s tower. Don’t study them anywhere else.”

  “But the Hawklord—”

  “Will say yes.”

  She really didn’t want to see that discussion. She beat a retreat as quickly as possible, and only when she was out of Marcus’s sight did she realize that she’d tacitly agreed to be led somewhere by Severn.

  They stopped outside of a tavern that Kaylin dimly recognized from her walking rounds. It was far enough from home—hers—that she’d only been in it on the one or two occasions when the tavern’s owner had seen fit to call in the Hawks. Given that it was only once or twice, she figured it was a fairly quiet place.

  “I eat here a lot,” Severn told her, as they stood beneath the faded sign that listed on uneven chains above their heads. The sign might once have been decent; years of sun, rain and the occasional rowdy teenager had done their damage. The name, however, could still be read—by those who could read. The Spotted Pig.

  “A lot?”

  “A lot.”

  “Which is your way of telling me not to do anything embarrassing, right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Which means?”

  “I won’t start a fight if you don’t.”

  He shrugged. But the shrug was stiff, and his smile was a jerk of lips, more reflex than expression. She told herself she didn’t care. Sadly, she’d been telling herself that a lot in the past couple of days, and it was beginning to grate on her nerves.

  Everything was.

  Severn entered the tavern, and she entered behind him, like a shadow. Like, in fact, the shadow she had once been, when he had been safety—and more—in the fief of Nightshade. She stopped walking, but he didn’t notice.

  The Tavernkeep came out from behind his bar. “Severn,” he said, with a broad smile. The smile lasted until the man was close enough to see Severn’s face. Kaylin couldn’t, but she didn’t need to.

  “Bad day?” The man asked, turning back to the bar. He didn’t wait for an answer. Proof, if she needed it, that Severn did eat here a lot; the man certainly understood his mood well enough, and he wasn’t offended by it.

  “It was,” Kaylin told him quietly.

  The man stopped at the only obvious entrance to the liquor cache behind the bar and stared at her. After a minute, he frowned. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

  She pointed at the small white and gold Hawk embroidered on her tunic; she hadn’t bothered with full surcoat because the walking beat wasn’t hers today.

  “Never forget a face,” he said, with no modesty whatsoever. “Are you with Severn?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Take your regular table,” the man told Severn’s back. As Severn was clearly moving with a purpose, Kaylin figured this was just formality; she wasn’t wrong. But the man walked over to her, extended a large, callused hand, and smiled. Broad smile. All teeth present. “If you’re a friend of Severn’s, you’re welcome here.” His voice matched his smile; it was a little too loud, a little too friendly, and somehow completely genuine.

  But he lowered it a little as he leaned closer. “But given that I’ve never seen the two of you together, let me give you a bit of advice, girl. What’s your name?”

  “Kaylin,” she told him. “Kaylin Neya. Private. Hawks.”

  “Right. I’m Burlan. Burlan Oaks.”

  It sounded like a street sign. Or an intersection. “You made that up, right?”

  “Smart girl. But not too smart. Look, I know a bit about Severn—as much as anyone here does—and I’m telling you that today is not the day to spend time in his company. You turn around and go home. He won’t hold it against you; he doesn’t have that kind of temper. But I think he needs to sit at that corner table on his lonesome for a while.”

  “Probably,” she said wryly. “But if I walk out that door, he won’t. Sit there,” she added. “I’m a Hawk. I can take care of myself. But thanks for the warning.
”

  Severn was absolutely silent. The silence was just…unnerving. She stared at the side of his face; at the pale white line that traveled from his ear to the underside of his chin. Ferals had given him that.

  She remembered it clearly; it was the first time she had ever used the power to heal, and it had been entirely by accident. Now? If it happened today, and she could touch him before the bleeding stopped, he wouldn’t even bear the scar.

  But she wouldn’t heal him.

  She stared at her hands, forcing her eyes away from his face. “This would have been a luxury,” she said, without thinking.

  “You haven’t eaten his cooking yet. Don’t be so quick to judge.”

  She looked up; a smile had creased his eyes without touching his lips. It was there and gone. “Severn—”

  He said, “You haven’t changed.”

  “And you have?”

  “Not much.”

  There was a lot of awkward silence.

  Burlan—she really wanted to know the name he’d been born with, because she couldn’t imagine it could be worse—dropped two large bowls in the center of the table, and followed them with spoons and large rags that were so uneven it took Kaylin a minute to recognize them as napkins. If that’s what they were. She eyed them dubiously.

  Her stomach was less picky and more embarrassing. She ate just to shut it up.

  But as she was chewing—and the meat in the very heavy stew was surprisingly free of fat, gristle or bone—something occurred to her. “Severn, when exactly did you request your transfer?”

  He watched her eat for a while before he picked up his spoon. Which meant, of course, that he wasn’t going to answer.

  “It was after the first new death, wasn’t it?”

  He chewed slowly. As if he were counting.

  “How did you know about it?”

  “It’s not a secret.”

  “It’s an open secret. It’s not talked about much, not even in the Hawks. The Wolves were sent out hunting—we’d know, if they were sent into the fiefs. Hell, the Swords would know. How?”

  “Just eat, Elianne.”

  “Kaylin.”

  “Kaylin, then.”

  “You were waiting.” It was an accusation. She couldn’t help it. All of the anger that she had kept in check in the examination room had turned inward, and her anger had a bad habit of hanging around.

  “This is not the place,” he told her quietly.

  “This is as good a place as any.” Not true. Not true at all. She bit her lip. But his silence, his lack of expression, were more than she could comfortably handle. And she thought she’d passed through the examination with flying colors. “You knew. You knew it would start again.”

  “No,” he told her, continuing to eat with deliberate, slow movements. “I didn’t.”

  “You suspected.”

  “And you didn’t?” Scorn. The first display of real emotion he’d shown yet. Wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but it was better than nothing.

  “No.”

  “You were hiding,” he said. “You’ve always been good at that.” “It was after the first death,” she repeated, ignoring his comment.

  He gritted his teeth and nodded.

  “How long have you known that I’ve been with the Hawks?”

  “Long enough.”

  “How long?”

  “Six years.”

  She put her spoon down. Soup splashed over the flat rim of the bowl. “Six years?”

  “About that.”

  “And you never said anything?”

  This time, his smile was all edge.

  She hesitated, and then said, “All right, I deserve that. You knew I’d try to—”

  “Yes. I knew.”

  “I didn’t know you were a Wolf.”

  “You weren’t looking for me.”

  “No. I thought I’d left you behind.”

  “You did,” he said quietly. “But you came to the Hawks looking for something. You found it,” he added bitterly. “And I had no place there.”

  Something about the way he said the words killed the anger. And she needed it. “Who’s doing this?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know. But I’m a Hawk now…you’re a Hawk. We’ve both learned enough to earn that rank. This time, things will be different.” He spoke the words as if they were a promise.

  But this time was built on last time. She closed her eyes. “I’m not ready for this,” she said quietly.

  “I know.”

  “I was happy here.”

  “I know. It’s why I stayed with the Wolves.”

  It wasn’t the answer she was expecting. But she was no longer certain what to expect. She picked up the spoon and played with it. “Were you?”

  “Was I what?”

  “Happy with the Wolves.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not a happy person,” he said after a moment had passed.

  “Why did you join them?”

  “Why did you join the Hawks?”

  She shook her head.

  “Don’t ask me to share what you won’t.”

  She nodded. Fair enough. “You’re right about the food,” she added with a grimace.

  He continued to eat. She tried not to backslide into the examiner’s room. Memory was treacherous.

  But not, apparently, just hers. Severn put his spoon down. “Come on,” he said quietly.

  “You’re not going to finish?”

  “I’m finished.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and waited.

  She followed him; the tavern wasn’t empty, and the streets weren’t empty either. But no one went near Severn, and by extension, Kaylin was likewise avoided.

  They didn’t walk far. They came to a squat, two-storey building, and Severn stopped at the door. He took out a key, slid it into the lock, and twisted it. Looked back at her as she realized that she was standing just outside of his door.

  “This is yours?”

  He shrugged. “Not all of it.”

  “It’s…bigger. Than my place.”

  “You wanted to talk,” he said quietly, pushing the door open. He waited. Something about his expression was off; she’d never seen it there before.

  “Severn?”

  “No,” he said, waiting. “I won’t talk about anything you don’t want to talk about.”

  She nodded, then, and walked past him into the open hall. Stairs led up at angles, and a wide arch separated the front room from the hall. Her brows rose. “They’re paying you a helluvalot more than they’re paying me.”

  “I was old enough to be a Wolf when I joined them.”

  She didn’t ask him about the shadows. Because she wasn’t certain she wanted to know. Being a Shadow Wolf—a Shadow anything—was a tricky business. It meant that you could do anything at all at a simple command. And that you were trusted to do it only then.

  Not all of the men and women who lived in the Shadows lived up to that trust. She’d seen it, as a Hawk.

  And she knew what Severn was capable of.

  “If this is neater than my place, I’m leaving.”

  “You know where the door is.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Boots?”

  “Leave ’em on if you want. I don’t care.”

  “Tell me someone else does your cleaning.”

  “Someone else does my cleaning.”

  “Liar.”

  “You didn’t say it had to be true.” He led her into what would have been a sitting room in a large home; she’d seen them before. It was, sort of. There was a fireplace here, and grates. There was a long couch, and a functional wooden one; there was a table just one side of the window. The window, even though it fronted out onto the street, had no bars.

  The colors were subdued, and Kaylin noticed that this room lacked a mirror of any size. She hesitated until she noticed the carpet beneath her boots, and then she cursed and took them off.

  “Why did the Wolves let you go?”

  “I asked.�
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  “That’s it?”

  He shook his head. “The Wolflord and the Hawklord are not the same. The Wolflord knew why I asked, and he granted the request. He was not at all certain the Hawklord would comply. Kaylin, what are you doing?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He had taken care, she realized, to put distance between them; when she had perched in the corner of the couch, he had taken the wooden chair. He left it now, crossing the carpet to kneel by her side. Well, to kneel on the carpet to one side of her feet. He was a lot taller than she was.

  He caught her hands in his, and only when he did did she realize that she’d been fussing with the cuffs of her shirt. “My arms are itchy,” she said, half-apologetically.

  But he didn’t immediately let go, and his expression didn’t sink into the familiarity of exasperation. He met her eyes, his gaze intent; Hawk’s gaze. Moreso than hers would ever be.

  “Let me see,” he said.

  “See what?”

  “Your arms.”

  She nodded, and he carefully undid the buttons that held the cuffs together. He pushed the right sleeve up to the bend of her elbow, turning her wrist gently so that the marks were exposed to the light in the room; it was mage-light, not fire, and it was steady and bright. Or as bright as he wanted it to be. He really was making more than she was.

  But she forgot to resent it when she heard the single word he spoke. He set her arm down gently, but she felt the sudden tension in his hand; he rose, walked over to the chair, grabbing its broad back in either hand, as if to steady himself.

  She almost cried out when the wood cracked.

  Almost. But she looked at her arms instead, at whatever it was he had read there, and she froze.

  The marks were different; the writing was slightly thicker, the swirls almost smudged. “It’s—it’s changed.”

  “Yes,” he said, without looking at her. “It’s changed.”

  And she knew that he’d both expected it, and feared it. “Severn—”

  “It was all for nothing,” he said bitterly, and he turned, then, shoving the chair to one side, his gaze intent, almost wild.

  “All for—” She stood. “I don’t—I have to go.”

  He said nothing at all as she grabbed her boots and fled; she was three houses down the street before she stopped to put them on.