Cast In Shadow

Her head hurt, and she didn’t want to think. But she made the effort. “The tattoo,” she said faintly.

“Yes. It is the only living thing I—or any one of us—has seen that speaks of the Old Ones. It is why you have always been of interest.”

“Have I?”

He said nothing, then.

In the dark of the fief’s streets, shadows moved. They were pale white, a blur of motion that hunched three feet above the ground. Severn cursed.

Kaylin was still dressed in the finery of Nightshade, but she wore her daggers again; she hadn’t bothered to change, because there was no privacy, and she wasn’t up to stripping in front of everyone. Severn had taken her clothing. “What?” she asked. Too sharply.

“It’s the ferals,” he said.

She really cursed. She had always been able to outcurse Severn.

In the moonlight—the bright moon—she could see that Severn was right: the ferals had come out to play. And if the Hawks weren’t bloody careful, some poor child would come out in the morning—to play—and would discover what the ferals had left behind.

She’d done it herself, once or twice. Whole nightmares remained of those experiences.

“Severn?”

He was already unlooping the long chain. “There’s only two,” he said softly. Nothing in his voice hinted of fear. Nothing in his posture did either. She wondered if he had changed so much that he felt none.

She hadn’t.

Tiamaris set her down. “Don’t move,” he told her grimly. Her hand had already clutched a throwing knife; it was out of her belt, and the moonlight glinted along one of its two edges. But her hand was weak, and she knew she didn’t have the strength to throw true. Wondered if this was the fieflord’s way of getting rid of her.

Her eyes were already acclimatized to the moonlight. She could see the four-legged lope of the creatures that dominated the fief streets at night. They were not numerous; they didn’t have to be. If you were lucky, you could weather the stretch of a night and never see one.

Unlucky? Well, you only had to see them once.

She hadn’t seen them as a child. But later?

Later, Severn by her side, she had. She was caught by the memory; she could see Severn now, and Severn as he was. The seven years made a difference. The weapon that he wielded made a bigger one.

Hand on dagger, she stood between Tiamaris and Severn, and she waited. The quiet growl of the hunting feral almost made her hair stand on end; it certainly made her skin a lot less smooth; goose bumps did that.

The ferals weren’t as stupid as dogs. They weren’t as lazy as cats. They weren’t, as far as anyone could tell, really animals at all. But what they were wasn’t clear. Besides deadly. She felt the tension shore her up. Found her footing on the uneven ground, and held it.

The last time she had faced ferals, she had stood in Tiamaris’s position, and between her and Severn, a child had cowered. Lost child. Stupid child. But still living.

She didn’t like the analogy that memory made of the situation.

Severn waited, his chain a moving wall. He wasn’t even breathing heavily. He spoke her name once, and she responded with a short grunt. It was enough.

The ferals leaped.

They leaped in concert, their jaws wide and silent. The moonlight seemed to cast no shadow beneath their moving bodies, but then again, it was dark enough that shadows were everywhere. Severn’s chain shortened suddenly as he drew it in, and then it lengthened as he let it go.

Feral growl became a howl of pain; a severed paw flew past Kaylin’s ear.

Tiamaris had no like weapon; he waited.

The feral that had leaped at him landed feet away, and it bristled. Tiamaris opened his mouth and roared.

That, Kaylin thought, wincing, would wake the entire damn fief. But she watched as the feral froze, and then watched, in astonishment, as it yelped and turned tail. Like a dog. Had she really been afraid of these creatures?

The one facing Severn lost another paw, and then lost half its face. It toppled.

“Kaylin?”

She shook her head.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “Where there are two, there are likely to be more.”

But Tiamaris said, softly, “Not tonight.” He picked Kaylin up again, and he began to move.

They crossed the bridge over the Ablayne in the moonlight. The Halls of Law loomed in the distance, like shad-owlords. “Kaylin,” Tiamaris said quietly, “the Hawklord will be waiting.”

“All right,” she said, into his chest. “But I’d better be getting overtime for this.”

If Kaylin slept—and she did—the Halls of Law never did. The crew changed; the guards changed. The offices that were a conduit between one labyrinth of bureaucracy and another, however, were empty. She was grateful for that. Severn had cleaned the blade of his weapon, and he’d looped it round his waist again. But he didn’t leave.

The guards at the interior door were Aerian. Clint wasn’t one of them, but she recognized the older men. They were a bit stuffier than Clint, but she liked them anyway.

“Holder,” she said.

He raised a brow. “You went on a raid dressed like that?”

“I wasn’t on a raid.”

“Oh, even better. Look at your cheek. It’s—” he frowned.

“It’s stopped bleeding,” she offered, but she had grown quiet herself. In the fiefs, it had seemed disturbing to bear a mark—but it had also seemed natural in a fashion that now entirely escaped her. Holder’s dark eyes narrowed. “Hawklord’s waiting for you,” he said at last, lowering his weapon. “And you’d better have one helluva good explanation for him.”

She nodded and went through the doors. Or rather, Tiamaris did, carrying her. Severn trailed behind.

When they reached the main office, she was surprised to find Marcus still on duty. He was not, however, surprised to see her, which made Kaylin look up at Tiamaris with unguarded suspicion.

“I sent word,” he said quietly. “I made use of one of the mirrors in the castle.”

“But the mirrors in the castle can’t possibly be keyed to—” She saw his look and shut up, fast.

“You got her out,” Marcus said, his words a growl. He was tired. Tired Leontine was better than angry Leontine—but only by a whisker. His were bobbing.

“In a manner of speaking,” Tiamaris replied coldly.

Whatever existed between the sergeant and the Dragon was always, Kaylin thought, going to be an issue. But this time, Marcus let him pass without comment.

Severn stopped, though. “I’m not going up,” he said quietly. “I’ll wait for you here.”

“I’ll be a while,” she replied, without much hope. “Go home.”

He met her gaze and held it. And she remembered that she’d never really been able to tell Severn what to do. Oh, she’d always given him orders—but he’d chosen which ones he wanted to follow, and ignored the rest. She would have said as much, but he was angry. Tense with it, waiting to spring.

“Kaylin,” Marcus said.

She shored herself up so she could look over Tiamaris’s shoulder.

The Sergeant snorted. “You shouldn’t be in the fiefs. Tell the old bastard I said so.”

“Yes, sir.”

The tower passed beneath her. It was interesting to see it from this perspective; interesting and a tad humiliating. “I can walk,” she muttered.

“You will have to, soon enough,” Tiamaris replied. He climbed the stairs without pause until he reached the doors that were, as always, guarded. Here he paused and set Kaylin on her feet.

She recognized neither of the two Aerians, and this was unusual. But one, grim-faced, nodded to Tiamaris. “The Lord of Hawks is waiting,” he said quietly. “He bids you enter.”

Tiamaris nodded.

Kaylin stared at them both for a moment, and then she moved past the guards and placed her palm on the door’s seal, grimacing. Great way to end a very long day.

But the Hawklord must have been waiting, because the door rolled open, untouched. Startled, she watched before she remembered that two strangers were staring at her. Then she squared her shoulders and entered the room. Lord Grammayre was indeed waiting, but not in the room’s center; he stood, instead, in front of a long, oval mirror on the east side of the rounded wall. Their eyes met in reflection; his were cool.

Bad, then. There were days when she could actually make him smile. Days when she could make him laugh, although his laughter was brief and grudged. There were also days when she could make him raise his voice in frustration. All of these, she valued.

None of these would happen tonight.

“Lord Grammayre,” she said, bending stiffly at the waist before she fell to one knee. She had to place a hand on the ground to keep her balance; in all, it was a pretty poor display.

Tiamaris, in theory a Hawk, did not bend or kneel. He offered the Hawklord a nod that would pass as polite between equals. “Lord Grammayre,” he said quietly.

“Tiamaris. You almost lost her.”

Tiamaris said nothing.

“Kaylin. Rise.”

She rose. She hated formality in this tower more than she hated almost anything—because formality meant distance, and distance was the thing he placed between them when something bad was about to happen. Usually to her.

“Kaylin, I wish to ask you what happened in Castle Nightshade.”

She nodded.

“You will come to the center of the circle before you answer, and you will stand there until I have finished.”

She grimaced, but that was all the resistance she offered.

Tiamaris surprised her. “Give her leave to sit,” he said quietly. “If she is forced to stand, I don’t think she’ll make it through the interview.”

“She is a Hawk,” the Hawklord replied coldly. A warning.

“She is a human,” the Dragon replied.

The Hawklord’s pale brows rose slightly, and he glanced at Kaylin. After a moment, his wings flicked; it was the Aerian equivalent of a shrug.

She made her way to the brass circle embedded in stone; she knew what it was for. “Don’t cast until I’m in it,” she whispered.

If he heard her, he didn’t show it. But he did wait.

He approached her, and stopped. His feet grazed the circle as he reached out to touch her cheek. “This is a Barrani mark,” he said.

She said nothing.

“Nightshade.” The word sounded a lot like swearing. But colder. “Why?”

“He thought it would protect me.”

“I doubt that, Kaylin,” the Hawklord replied. “I doubt that very much. Tiamaris, can it be removed?”

“Not easily,” Tiamaris replied. “And not at all without the permission of the Lord who made the mark. Not from a human.”

Kaylin heard the distinct that you don’t want dead that he didn’t say.

“The likelihood of that permission?”

“In my opinion? None whatsoever.”

“As I thought.”

“I can probably cover it up,” she offered. She’d become good at that over the years; black eyes and red welts never made the office staff feel secure.

Tiamaris shook his head. “Grammayre, have you taught her so little?”

“I have taught her,” the Hawklord replied, distinct edge in the words, “what she is willing to retain.” To Kaylin, he added, “The mark can be hidden from mortal sight. The Aerians might not recognize it. Most of the humans won’t. But the Leontines will smell it, and the Barrani? You could cut off your cheek and they would still know. Don’t,” he added, as if it were necessary, “try.”

He lowered his hand, but did not leave her; instead he reached down and lifted the arm that was bound by the bracer. He looked at it, and then he touched it carefully, and in sequence, his fingers dancing over the gems as hers had done.

It didn’t open; it was a different sequence. He frowned. Stepped out of the circle. She reached out without thinking and grabbed both his hands; she was that tired. His brows rose a fraction; she felt the rebuke in the expression, and she forced her hands to let go.

But as he stepped outside the circle, his expression softened slightly, allowing a trace of weariness to show. “I trust you to tell me the truth as you perceive it,” he said quietly. “But I do not trust the Lord of Nightshade. The spell is not a punishment.”

He lifted his hands, and his wings rose with them, until they were at their full span. Like this, she found the Hawklord beautiful in a way that she seldom found anything beautiful. And he knew it. Had always known it. This was as much mercy as he was willing to offer. It shouldn’t have made a difference, but it did.

He began to question her, and staring at his wings, at the particular length of his flight feathers, she answered him.

She told him of the Long Halls. She told him of the forest. And then, haltingly, she told him of the room beyond the trees. The circle that surrounded her turned a distinct shade of gold each time she finished speaking.

But when she spoke of the pillar of blue flame, he lifted a hand.

“Kaylin,” he said softly, “are you certain?”

She nodded.

“Tiamaris?”

“She has seen what none of the surviving Imperial mages has seen,” the Dragon said quietly, his flawless Barrani tinged with caution. “I am intrigued by her words, but I do not doubt them.”

“Why?”

“You know well why. She bears those marks.”

The Hawklord nodded grimly. “But what do they signify? Why does she bear them?”

“That has always been the question, Grammayre. The answer is of concern to the Emperor.”

“I know. Kaylin—show me your arms.”

She lifted them; they shook.

Tiamaris walked over to the circle’s edge, but he did not cross it. He did, however, frown. “I wish to see visual records,” he said, distant, his eyes a pale gold.

The Hawklord frowned in turn; he gestured at the mirror and spoke three words in quick succession; the mirror began to glow. Kaylin really hated mirrors.

The surface of this one shimmered and shifted; when it cleared, she was looking at her arms writ large; the Hawklord wasn’t short, and it was his mirror. Tiamaris looked at the mirror for some time, and then looked down at her arms. “They’ve changed,” he said softly.

The Hawklord frowned. He came to stand by the side of the Dragon, and he, too, examined the symbols that covered Kaylin’s inner arm from wrist to elbow. “It’s subtle,” he said at last, “but you are correct.” He looked at Kaylin, his eyes clear, almost gray. Magic.

“Aside from the mark of the outcaste, I see no difference in her,” he said at last.

“Remove the bracer, Grammayre, and look again.”

The Hawklord hesitated. Then he shook his head. “Not yet,” he said quietly. “Kaylin, you have done well. Go home.” He paused, and then added, “Do not remove the containment until I give you orders.”

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