The Chronicles of Elantra Bundle

by Michelle Sagara

  “Marya?”

  “Kaylin, thank the gods!”

  Marya was a midwife. Which pretty much said it all.

  Kaylin reached for her pack. “Where?” she said.

  “Stevenson Street. It’s Worley’s old house.”

  “How long do I have?”

  There was a small, stressful silence. Silent answers were always the worst. Had she been home, it would be a five-minute sprint, a fifteen-minute jog. She wasn’t anywhere that close.

  “Marya—I’m not at my place.”

  “I gathered. The mirror had trouble.”

  Kaylin cursed mirrors. And Barrani. And time.

  “I’ll be there,” she said quietly, yanking her boots on under her nightdress. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell her to—to stop pushing. To stop doing anything. Do you have worryroot?”

  Marya’s nod was brisk. “Everything we can do, we’ve done. The baby’s not—”

  Kaylin lifted a hand and shattered the image. Her way of saying she was on the move.

  She dressed quickly and sloppily; she looked like a walking human crease. Her hair, she shoved back and staked. It wouldn’t hold through a real run; it would have to do for now. She stopped for a moment as a glint of light at her wrist was caught in a downward spark by the mirror’s reflective surface.

  Caging her power, opulent and ancient, the bracer that had been both gift and bane, its jeweled surface cool and distant. She could hear Marcus now. She had her orders: it was not to come off.

  And she had her imperatives. She couldn’t wear it and do what—what probably needed to be done. With a grimace, she touched the stones in a sequence that was so familiar she couldn’t consciously say it out loud. A loud click, and it opened. She dropped it on the floor.

  It would find its way back to its keeper, sooner or later—and at the moment, that keeper wasn’t Kaylin. That much thought she spared before she ran to the door. The next thought was for the guards that stood outside of it.

  She almost tripped over the men who now barred her way.

  They were both beautiful, both perfect, and both utterly impassive. She snarled something in very rude Leontine.

  They failed to understand. This could even be because they couldn’t, although she wouldn’t have bet money on it. “I don’t have time for this!”

  But she did. The baby didn’t. The mother didn’t.

  They exchanged a glance. She lifted a hand to her cheek, and drew back in surprise; the mark was hot. She hadn’t even seen it in the mirror, in the brief glance she had given herself before she’d tried to flee the room.

  “We are not empowered to let you wander alone,” one of the two Barrani said. She looked at him carefully.

  “I have to leave. Now. You have your duties,” she added, “and I have mine. But I will never forgive you if you keep me here, and I will never forgive you if any delay you cause costs me.”

  The man’s gaze never wavered. But he drew his sword and nodded at the other guard. “I will accompany you,” he said. “Where will you go?”

  “To the upper city,” she replied, pushing past him.

  “The ferals—”

  She knew. It just wasn’t allowed to matter. Not for the first time—and not for the last—she wished she was an Aerian; she could fly above the reach of ferals with ease, had she but wings.

  She started to run, stopped, and turned to look at the guard. “What is your name—no, what should I call you?”

  A dark, perfect brow rose. “Andellen,” he said at last, as if she’d asked him something that had never been asked by another living creature. Or not one who wanted to stay that way.

  “Good. Andellen. I don’t know the Castle. I need to get out. Can you lead me?”

  He nodded. Whatever hesitation he had shown had vanished the moment he had agreed to accompany her. He was stiff; he wasn’t at all like the Barrani Hawks she knew. He spoke High Barrani, and he chose a sword as his weapon; the Hawks usually used a very large stick.

  He also wore armor.

  But the armor didn’t seem to slow him down, or if it did, it didn’t matter; he was moving at a speed that Kaylin could barely match.

  They made the vestibule, and Kaylin gritted her teeth as she passed through the portal and into the world.

  There was no time for conversation. They made a lot of noise as they ran, and that was bad. It was dark, although the skies were clear enough that the moon provided light. For them, certainly. For the ferals, as well.

  Fighting ferals usually involved a lot of running, but that took time. She made her way straight toward the Ablayne, and the single bridge that crossed it, praying silently. It’s funny how someone who couldn’t follow the names of half the gods in Elantra could pray with such conviction.

  At her side, the Barrani guard ran. He glanced at her only when she stumbled, but did not offer her any assistance; she found her footing and continued, thinking of Worley’s house. Thinking of how best to reach it. Thinking of only that.

  It helped.

  When they reached the bridge, she exhaled, a long, slow movement of chest. The bright and dark moons across the water were a benediction. The guard, on the other hand, didn’t have the grace to look winded. Had she the energy, she would have whiled away time in idle hatred for all things Barrani; as it was, she looked up at him once. His expression, being Barrani, gave nothing but ice away.

  Which was good; had he intended to stop her, it would have looked worse.

  She started to adjust her pack, and Andellen surprised her; he grabbed it instead. His hair flew in the stillness as he shouldered its weight, but he said nothing.

  And she let him do it. As if he were Teela or Tain.

  She led now, and he followed; he probably knew the entire city by heart, but the only roads he usually traveled were those ruled by Nightshade. She wanted to ask him how often he left the fief, but she couldn’t spare breath.

  Wasn’t certain he would answer if she could.

  The streets were now lined with stalls; there were men and women beneath the low glow of torches and the high lamps that decorated the skyscape; they would work all night, and well into morning, decorating, carving, nailing or sewing as the Festival season required. This was their best chance to make money for the year, and if sleep suffered, it suffered.

  They noticed her as she ran past, but that was probably because of Andellen. He didn’t wear a uniform. He wasn’t a Hawk. And a smart person didn’t get in the way of a running Barrani.

  She made it past her apartment, turned the corner, skidded and fell; she rolled to her feet, cursing like a Leontine—and in Leontine—and kept going. Five minutes passed like a lifetime. And it wasn’t her life.

  And then, two rights, one short left, and three small buildings, and she was there. A lamp was hanging by the side of the door, the dark, glowing blue of the midwives’ beacon. She leaped up the three warped steps and pushed the door open; it wasn’t locked.

  Marya was waiting for her. Her eyes were dark, and her face was that kind of pale that speaks of whole days without sleep. “Kaylin! She’s in the—” Her dark eyes rounded when she saw what followed Kaylin in.

  “Marya,” Kaylin said, half shouting as she grabbed the midwife’s hands before they picked up the nearest candlestick, “he’s with me. I don’t have time to explain. He won’t touch anything. He means no harm.” She could not force herself to add, trust him.

  Before Marya could answer, a thin, attenuated cry carried the distance of still room and closed door. A younger woman, fingers clutching the frame of the door for support, appeared as the door swung open and slapped the wall. “Marya—she’s started to bleed—”

  “Kaylin’s here,” Marya said, her voice pitched low, but pitched to carry. “Kaylin’s here now.”

  And Kaylin pushed past the poor girl and into the bedroom. “Get water!” she shouted as she ran to the bed. “Drinking water!”

  But Marya was already in motion, a comfortable, busy blur. Mar
ya had worked with Kaylin before; she would know what was needed, and when.

  Kaylin took the hand of the woman whose eyes were beginning their slow slide into shock. She pressed her free hand up and against the stretched, hard curve of belly and winced as the body told its story.

  Late. She was late. She could feel the rupture.

  She looked up and met the eyes of a young man that she didn’t recognize; he was so white he was almost green. “Get out,” she told him. He shook his head, mute, his defiance the product of fear.

  “Marya—”

  “Gerrold, come away,” the midwife said, her voice above Kaylin’s back. “Now. Your wife needs her privacy.”

  “But she—”

  “Now.” A mother’s tone. With just the edge of anger in it—and at that, the right kind of anger. Pity, compassion, or fear would have watered the command down so badly it wouldn’t have worked—but Marya had confidence in Kaylin.

  And the poor man? He had nothing. He tried to stand. Stumbled. Kaylin wondered if he was going to pass out. Better if he did.

  Without another word, she drew her knife. It wasn’t clean, but it would have to do. She heard a stifled scream from a long, long distance away; heard Marya’s angry words attempt to drown it out.

  And then she gave herself over to the sound of two beating hearts; one labored and slow, the other so fast and soft it could barely be heard at all.

  Two hours later, she was finished.

  Marya caught her hands, and forcibly broke all contact with the young woman who sat in the bed. Kaylin could hear the sounds of infant cries; could see the bundled—and cleaned—baby resting in its mother’s arms. The wound—what there was left of it—was new and raw, but it wasn’t bleeding.

  “The—the father?”

  “He’s there, in the chair,” Marya said in the soothing voice reserved for the injured. “He was a bit upset about the knife, dear,” she added. “We had to restrain him.” She paused, and then added, “Your man was most helpful, there.”

  “My man?” Kaylin shook her head. “Who—” She turned her head sideways, which was much more effort than she would have liked, and saw Andellen. “He’s not my—he didn’t hurt him, did he?”

  Marya shook her head. “Not much, at any rate. I think he’ll have a bruised jaw, but dear, he simply wasn’t listening.”

  Kaylin could imagine. Blood had that effect on most people. She tried to say as much, and Marya took the opportunity to trickle water into her mouth. “It’s not for me—”

  “You should see your mouth.” There was no point in arguing with Marya. “I’ve made sure she drinks,” Marya added.

  “Tell her—”

  “Later, dear. There will be a later, thanks to you.” She paused, and added, “It’s a girl.”

  “Oh. Good.” There wasn’t much else one could say to something like that.

  Kaylin tried to rise, and her knees locked.

  “There’s a chair for you, if you need it. I sent Darlene home. She was…a little upset herself.”

  “Did she see the baby?”

  Marya nodded, the smile never leaving her face. It was a slight smile, and framed by etched lines, but it was like bedrock. You could stand on a smile like that.

  “She’ll know better next time,” Marya added quietly. “This is only her third birthing. She’s never been at a birthing when we’ve had to call you before, but she’s a smart girl, a solid apprentice. She’ll learn.”

  Kaylin forced herself to stand. “Gods willing,” she said, keeping her tone polite and professional, “she’ll never have to see it again.”

  “Aye, gods,” Marya said with a shrug. She turned her attention to the mother, and then frowned at the poor young man in the distant chair, his dark hair splayed flat against his forehead, his skin still winter-white, except where it was purple. “I forget what it’s like, with the first babe. Gerrold, come help with your wife. She needs to drink a lot of water, and she’s likely to be a bit weak. You’ve saved any money, make sure she gets meat, and not that terrible stuff the merchants are pawning off on foreigners either, understand?”

  He nodded. Kaylin highly doubted that he’d heard anything more than his name. She made her way toward the chair that Marya had produced, but before she could sit, Andellen was there, all six feet of him.

  His armor looked damn odd in the very small room.

  “Kaylin Neya,” he said quietly, “it is time that we returned.”

  She nodded. But she couldn’t quite stand.

  “Leave her be,” Marya said, her voice a slap.

  “You serve your master,” the Barrani replied, “and I, mine.” But his words were shorn of contempt, and if they weren’t respectful, the lack of contempt said something. What, exactly, Kaylin was a bit too tired to figure out. Later.

  “She doesn’t have a master,” Kaylin told him.

  “What did he say, dear?”

  Kaylin shook her head. “It’s Barrani.”

  “I recognize the language.” Marya was too tired to keep disdain from her words. “And them that’s polite use language other people can understand when they’ve got company.”

  “The Barrani aren’t famed for their manners for a reason, Marya.”

  “Well, they could start learning. It’s never too late, and it’s not like courtesy ever killed anyone.”

  Kaylin almost laughed. What could she say to Marya that would make sense of this armored stranger? That he was one of the fieflord’s personal guard?

  Andellen, however, chose to take no offense at the old woman’s words.

  “We could stay at my place,” Kaylin told him. “It’s night in the fiefs. We were lucky enough to miss the ferals the first time.”

  But Andellen did not reply; he was watching—of all things—the babe.

  “Andellen?”

  The Barrani shrugged. “You are too weak to walk,” he said at last. It was the first sign of hesitance that she had yet seen him show. “I will take you to your home.”

  Five minutes passed like three hours. Kaylin wanted to sleep off the healing on the nearest stretch of cobbled stone that didn’t have merchanting crap all over it; the problem was finding one. Well, that and the big Barrani who herded her forward every time she looked like she might fall. He took care not to touch her; it seemed odd. Had she been with Teela or Tain, they would have given up on her half a block past, and carried her the rest of the way. Oh, she would have cursed them in at least three languages, but they were used to that.

  Andellen gave her space.

  He made certain that anyone whose curiosity was stronger than their self-preservation instinct also gave her space, and she finally reached the door of her apartment. She fumbled with the key and dropped it twice, while he watched, impassive. Waiting.

  She tossed out a few recreational Aerian curses, just to keep in practice, and made a third attempt at the lock. This time, it worked.

  The stairs looked very, very steep from where she stood. She made her way up them, hanging on to the rails until she ran out of railing. Her door was there. She was surprised that it was open.

  And more surprised when she saw who was waiting in the room. Severn, in the moonlight. He’d even opened the shutters, the bastard.

  Andellen was behind her. She knew this because the stone of Severn’s expression shifted into something a lot less friendly.

  “When did I give you a key?” she muttered.

  “You didn’t.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Waiting.”

  Sarcasm took too much energy. She stumbled over the threshold. Andellen followed.

  Great, she thought, they’re going to fight. I’ll lose the apartment.

  But…they didn’t. Nothing made sense. Severn was stiff, and obviously angry, as he made his way toward her.

  “Waiting?”

  “Someone sent word,” he said as he caught her. His hands were cold. And stiff.

  “The fieflord entrusts her t
o your care,” Andellen’s voice said. She didn’t actually see him. Couldn’t. She could see the hollows of Severn’s collarbone, and they were the whole of her vision.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said in her ear.

  “Not my blood,” she replied dimly. “But the baby was a girl.”

  It was the last thing she said, and she thought she smiled.

  Sunlight was the bane of her existence.

  Mirrors were also the bane of her existence. And the inside of her mouth? That was bad, too. Her eyes were crusted together, her arms felt as if she’d been doing chin-ups in the drill yard, and her legs—well, never mind; they were worse.

  The mirror was snarling. Covered, and snarling.

  The glare of the damn sun made her glad that opening her eyes was difficult.

  “Kaylin Neya!”

  No one, she thought bitterly, should have to wake up to that voice. Marcus Kassan was in a mood.

  “Kaylin, take the bloody cloth off the damn mirror and answer me!”

  “Coming,” she managed, and rolled over.

  Either her bed had changed shape significantly over the course of the night, or someone else was in it. She jumped up, hit the open shutters with the back of her head, and cursed in loud and angry Leontine.

  Which, of course, Marcus heard. It certainly added color to his reply.

  Severn lay on his side, propped up on one elbow. His hair fell over one eye, and the scar along his cheek was white in the sunlight. He didn’t look sleepy.

  “How long have you been here?” she hissed as she crawled off the bottom edge of her mattress.

  He shrugged. “Long enough.”

  “Why didn’t you answer the damn mirror?”

  “The Sergeant is in a mood,” he replied. He sounded almost amused. But he didn’t look it, so she didn’t hit him.

  There were rules that she tried to follow when she undertook a healing of any difficulty—and chief among those was Don’t Crouch; crouching for hours at a stretch almost destroyed her knees. Unfortunately, emergencies tended to drive common sense out of her head, as if it were something sheeplike.