The Chronicles of Elantra Bundle

by Michelle Sagara

  He stilled. “The Council was suspended for three days.”

  “Ah, my apologies. The Lord of the West March has been most insistent.”

  “The Lord of the West March, Lord Anteela?”

  “Even so.”

  “I had heard rumors—”

  “The High Court is always home to rumor, Lord Evarrim. Some even concern the Arcanum, and I am certain that you would be the first to decry them. In this case, rumor is unfounded, but it was spread quickly, and its ramifications have yet to be felt.

  “I am pleased to see you,” she added, her eyes blue-green. She was amused. And angry. “I have no doubt the Lord of the High Court will look favorably upon your presence.”

  Lord Evarrim was silent for a few minutes.

  He was even silent when his gaze engaged Kaylin’s. The look reminded Kaylin that engagement had more to do with military actions, in Lord Evarrim’s presence, than any sort of romantic fulfillment.

  “Why is this mortal standing before the High Halls?” He spoke in a tone of voice that would have been more suited to asking about the composition of the slime clinging to the undersides of his boots. Except, of course, being Barrani, there never was any. At least not on the boots.

  “She is an officer of the Law,” Teela replied with a shrug. “And, as you are no doubt aware, I have pledged my service to the Lord she also serves. She is not conversant with the ways of the High Court.”

  “She could not be, she is mortal.”

  “Indeed. And because she is of inconsequential rank in the service of Lord Grammayre, she was unaware that I had taken a leave of absence for the High Festival. She merely sought to deliver a message.”

  “It is death to walk these halls,” Lord Evarrim said to Kaylin.

  “She will not walk them,” Teela replied. Kaylin had remembered Teela’s command, and kept her mouth shut. It was difficult. Although Lord Evarrim did not, in fact, wear a smug or superior smile, the effect of his words implied such, and she wanted to wipe it clean.

  But she was also attached to living.

  “You may go,” Lord Evarrim told Kaylin.

  Severn’s hand was suddenly attached to the small of her back. She forced herself to smile, and nodded. He led the way to the stables in which the carriage had been housed.

  “He knows,” Severn said quietly.

  “Yes. I’d like to think he’s stupid. But even I don’t have that much imagination.”

  Severn opened the door; it was blue-and-gold, and the paint was new. Not even Teela at the driver’s seat had damaged it. Kaylin had never been in an Imperial carriage before, but she was damn impressed with the workmanship. The wheels were still attached, after all.

  “I’ll take you back to the Halls,” he told her as he helped her inside. “And I’ll drive the main roads.”

  “You’ve driven a carriage before?”

  He nodded.

  “When?”

  “Three years ago. And no, I’m not going to say why, so don’t ask. You shouldn’t even be awake.” He paused. And then, his eyes the dark they always were, he lingered in the door. “How did you wake him, Kaylin?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure I understand it myself.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “I’m not lying,” she said quietly. She was staring at her arms.

  “I didn’t say you were lying to me.”

  “Thanks.”

  He closed the door very quietly, and she felt the slight spring of the wheels as he mounted the driver’s bench.

  CHAPTER 7

  When Kaylin woke up, she was in the infirmary, staring at the back of Moran’s speckled wings. They were moving up and down. Moran was seated on a backless stool, grinding something with a pestle. Kaylin felt instantly well. The very thought of any of Moran’s potions or unguents usually had that effect on the Hawks—or Swords or Wolves—who were unfortunate enough to be offered them.

  Where offered was kind of like “ordered to take,” but with more force.

  Moran wasn’t a Leontine, but she did have ears. She turned, the seat of the stool swiveling neatly. “You’re awake,” she said.

  Kaylin nodded. “How long have I been out?”

  “An hour and a half. Corporal—”

  “Could you just call him Severn?”

  Moran lifted a brow. “Severn, then. He brought you in. I examined you, you look like shit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But not the type that sleep won’t cure. More,” she added darkly, “than an hour and half’s worth, although I’d be obliged if you gave me back the bed.”

  Kaylin sat up slowly, and swung her legs toward the floor. In all, she did feel better. If running a marathon and being near to collapse was better.

  “The Hawklord wants to see you when you’re awake. The Sergeant wants to see you first. They had a few choice Leon-tine words about precedence, but I believe the Sergeant won.” She shook her head. “It’s been less than a month, Kaylin. If I told you to take a leave of absence, would you listen?”

  “See these fingers? See these ears?”

  “Ha-ha. You’re a Hawk,” Moran said with a shrug. “Try not to visit so often, hmm?” She slid off the stool as Kaylin managed to gain her feet. Moran’s usual frosty expression thawed. “I won’t tell you not to go to the midwives,” she said quietly. “I won’t ask you to live with that. But there’s a damn Dragon Lord in the office, and his butt seems fastened to a chair. Marcus’s chair,” she added with a grim smile. “In case you failed to pay attention in Race class—”

  “Moran, please?”

  “Dragons are trouble. Arguments between Grammayre and Marcus are trouble. Barrani are trouble, and the Arcanum is trouble. Mixing them has to be worse. I might have failed to mention that Lord Evarrim was here until about forty-five minutes before you arrived.

  “I do not want to see you on Red’s slab. I especially don’t want to have to deliver you there myself, all right? Humor a selfish woman, Kaylin.”

  Kaylin swallowed and nodded.

  Lord Sanabalis was, in fact, in Marcus’s chair. Moran had the gift of bardic embellishment, but then again, there wasn’t much need for it. Sometimes truth really was stranger than fiction. The Dragon’s eyes, however, were a shade too orange for comfort. He saw her well before she reached the desk, and he raised his lower membranes over those eyes.

  “Private Neya,” he said, rising.

  “Where is Marcus—Sergeant Kassan?”

  “He is currently speaking with Lord Grammayre. I took the opportunity to rest old legs.”

  She almost snorted. Dragons lived forever; age was a matter of cosmetics. She wondered why Sanabalis chose to appear aged, but was too smart to ask. “If you can breathe fire,” she said instead, “Marcus would be much obliged if you happened to hit some of that paperwork.”

  Sanabalis raised a white brow.

  “You have already missed our first lesson,” he replied. “And I am a busy man.”

  “Which is why you’re still here.”

  “I can see why the Imperial Order of Mages found you difficult.” He stood. “But I am at least as stubborn as you think you are. Perhaps more—I have the advantage of experience.

  “You will be wanted, but I will wait. I believe Sergeant Kassan is almost here.”

  “I don’t hear—”

  Marcus strode through the arch that led to the tower. The fur around his face was standing on end in a way that exposed the softer, whiter skinfur, and his eyes were all the wrong color. But she noticed the fangs first.

  She lifted her chin almost automatically, exposing her throat.

  “Neya!” He growled, and leaped the distance that separated them. The fact that a Dragon happened to be in the way didn’t seem to occur to him, but he must have known, because there was no collision. Which was almost too bad; Kaylin’s natural instincts had taken over and she was calculating the odds of a scuffle and the attendant empty office. Luckily, she could in fact bet an
d stand still at the same time.

  Claws touched her exposed throat. She felt each one press against the skin, as if testing its give. She wasn’t afraid; there was no point. Marcus had drawn blood a time or two—some of it hers—but although office legend spoke of the bodies he’d left on the floor, she’d never actually seen them.

  His claws receded into pads, and she felt the soft side of his paws against her throat before he at last withdrew them. His eyes were yellow and bright, but his lips once again curled protectively over his fangs. Where protectively referred to her, and not to his teeth.

  “You’re alive,” he said gruffly.

  “More or less. If it helps, I feel like crap.”

  His gaze skirted her cheek with a question. She shook her head. “No trouble.”

  “Teela kept an eye on you?”

  “You could say that.”

  “No violence.”

  “You could say that, too, but it would be a hell of a lot less accurate.”

  “Did you start hostilities?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then there was no violence.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Hawklord is waiting.”

  “Yes, sir.” She started toward the tower.

  “Private?” Oh, he was in a mood.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Did you happen to meet Lord Evarrim of the Arcanum while you were at the High Hall?” High was said in exactly the wrong tone.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “Not a word, sir.”

  “Good.” He paused. “Lord Sanabalis thought it wise to engage the Arcanist in conversation. It was…interesting.”

  She turned to look at Sanabalis, whose eyes were now thoroughly gold. The Dragon winked.

  The Hawklord was standing beside the mirror, his hand spread against its surface. The surface showed no reflection. This wasn’t an act of vanity; he was accessing records. But when Kaylin entered the room through the open door—open, twice, in one week—he let his hand drop instantly, and the surface broke in a wave that ended with silver, bright and flat.

  “Kaylin,” he said, meeting her gaze in that reflective surface before turning to face her. “I see you’ve returned.”

  She nodded. Lord Grammayre disliked the word sir on general principle, understanding its value as a distancing tool. When he was inspecting his men, he expected to hear it; when he was not, he expected actual information.

  “The difficulty?”

  “It was…resolved.”

  “How?”

  She winced.

  “Let me tell you the rumors that came to the tower.”

  She nodded.

  “The younger son of the castelord was, by all accounts, dead. Is this accurate?”

  She shook her head.

  “Was he dying?”

  She hesitated. “I…I don’t know.”

  “Teela seemed to think so.”

  “He looked—to me—like he was sleeping. But not so much with the breathing.”

  The Hawklord winced slightly at her use of language. And switched into Barrani, the bastard. “Was he wounded in any way?”

  She was silent. At another time, he would have been angry. That he wasn’t said much about his understanding of the Barrani High Court. Which, given how little he was present there, was impressive.

  “And now?”

  “He’s an arrogant son of a bitch. When I left, he was giving orders.”

  “Good. Have you been informed that—”

  “Lord Evarrim was here?”

  “I see that news travels.”

  “If it’s bad.”

  At that, the Hawklord smiled. Winter touched his eyes and lips, leaving the former gray. Ash-gray. “He has set a petition in motion,” the Hawklord told her quietly.

  “With who?”

  “The Emperor.”

  “And this would be about me?”

  “Indeed it would. He was not pleased when you were not here.”

  “He’s never pleased.”

  “I doubt that, Kaylin. But I hope you will never have cause to be disabused of your notion.”

  “What’s the nature of the petition?”

  “It involves the dead Barrani.”

  “The ones who served the—”

  “Outcaste, yes.” The word was sharp; a warning.

  “Well, what about them? I think they’re all dead.”

  “They were already dead.”

  “Well, not moving as much, at any rate.” She shrugged.

  “It will be of interest to the High Court Council,” Lord Grammayre said quietly. “The Emperor is aware of the facts. Very few others are.”

  She nodded.

  “I expect—eventually—to be summoned to Court by the Barrani castelord.”

  “But he’s not your castelord. You don’t have to—” She stopped. “Do you?”

  “I am not compelled to present myself, no.”

  “You will.”

  “This is a difficult city to govern, Kaylin.”

  “You’re not the governor. The Emperor is.”

  “The Emperor has not been summoned. He has not been invited, either.”

  She frowned.

  “I wish you to make yourself absent, if possible.”

  “Because you think they’ll ask for me.”

  He reached over to the mirror, and it moved beneath his hand.

  A Barrani in very fine robes began to speak. And speak. And speak. Kaylin’s attention started to wander, but the words Kaylin Neya drew it back.

  “They want me to go with you.”

  “I would say they want you, period. I don’t matter.

  “Lord Sanabalis is waiting for you. Continue your lesson for the day. No one will disturb you while you are in his company.”

  “And after that?”

  “Go back to your temporary domicile.”

  Kaylin frowned. The frown turned on edge. “You knew.”

  He said nothing. It was very Barrani of him.

  “This is a delicate situation,” he told her quietly. “And you are not there as an officer of the Law…you are there as a guest. Although I do not expect you to understand this, there are worse places to be.”

  “You asked him, didn’t you?”

  “Kaylin, understand that you are accusing me of not only communication, but also cooperation, with one of the more notorious crime lords in Elantra. I will assume that you are exhausted, and your lack of critical faculty stems from that exhaustion. Is that understood?”

  “But you—”

  He lifted a hand. “I am happy to hear that rumors about the ill health of the castelord’s son were unfounded. Go.”

  Lord Sanabalis was waiting.

  He didn’t speak when she met him; he merely gestured to the West Room, and she took her lead from that gesture.

  The lump of waxen candle sat on the table. Kaylin glared at it, and if, as the saying went, looks could kill, it would have been molten. If, however, the rest of the world was being turned inside out, the candle as a fact remained standing. Too bad.

  “Kaylin,” Sanabalis said quietly.

  She frowned and looked up.

  “You appear…fatigued.”

  “Welcome to my life,” she muttered.

  He lifted a pale brow. And she sighed, and gave in with as much grace as she could muster. “I’m dead tired.”

  “Better,” he told her. “Let us set the candle aside for the day. You appear to harbor it some animosity, and if my reports are to be believed, you have even been known to attack one. With a long knife.” He swept the candle to one side.

  She shrugged. “I’m not allowed to carry a sword in the West Room.”

  The answer fizzled somewhere between Kaylin’s mouth and the Dragon Lord’s ears. “The Lord of the West March,” he said quietly.

  She shook her head.

  “I am senior advisor to the Dragon Emperor. You are aware of this. You should also b
e aware of the fact that while I undertake other duties, none of those duties supersedes my responsibility to the Emperor.”

  She nodded.

  “I am fully capable of demanding your cooperation. I have only to speak with Sergeant Kassan or Lord Grammayre, and you will be obliged to speak freely.”

  She was thinking about the Hawklord as he spoke. And cursing him silently in every language she knew.

  “If I am forced to that,” Sanabalis continued calmly, “it will be a matter of official record.” The last two words hung in the air, as if written there for the benefit of the dim. As she was the only other person in the room, it was hard to find a good way to take it.

  She thought about the Hawklord again, and modulated the cursing into something less harsh. Slightly. She wondered if he ever stopped thinking.

  “I wasn’t at the High Court as a Hawk,” she said quietly. “And according to—”

  “Elantran Law was designed at the whim of the Emperor. It was, it can even be said, designed for his benefit. With some effort, the Law can be changed. I would not, however, suggest that it would be without difficult ramifications in future.”

  She shrugged and tipped the chair back on its hind legs, depositing her feet on the table. She also folded her arms across her chest, tucking her chin down as she did. “I get it.”

  “Good. Demonstrate what your understanding is worth.”

  “I was invited to the High Court as a guest.”

  “Indeed. An honor seldom granted the mortal. You accompanied the Hawk called Teela.”

  She nodded.

  “Teela has an interesting background. I would not have thought to find her among the Hawks.”

  “She suits the Hawks. She seems out of place at the High Court.”

  “Does she?”

  Kaylin thought back. But not very far. She shrugged.

  “The Lord of the West March was…sleeping. I woke him at Teela’s request.”

  “Sleeping?”

  She shrugged again. The old Dragon’s eyes did not shade into orange; they were gold. And gold was both power and comfort here. “I thought—I don’t know why, but I thought he’d been poisoned.”

  “And you think otherwise now?”

  “Poison leaves damage,” she said carefully. “I’ve seen it before. Red—”