Cast In Courtlight. Michelle Sagara
honorary Hawk, was so … prim and proper it was hard to imagine he could ever do anything to offend his Lord.
“Lord Tiamaris was the last student I chose to accept,” he added. “At my age, students are seldom sent to me.”
“Why?”
“I am the Court of last resort, Kaylin. If I judge a mage to be unteachable, or unstable, no one else will take him.” “Because he’s dead?” Again, the Dragon was silent.
“In your case,” Sanabalis continued smoothly, after the momentary silence, “you could have offended a full quarter of the Magi before you reached me. But because of the unusual nature of your talents, that was not considered a viable option.” He reached into his robes and pulled out a candle.
She wilted visibly.
“This is like, very like, Barrani,” he told her as he set the candle on a thin base and placed it exactly between them. “If you fail to learn it, you lose the Hawks.”
“And my life.”
“I am not convinced that they are not one and the same. I will take you,” he added quietly. “If you are wearing your bracer, you may remove it.”
Kaylin froze. Well, everything about her did but her eyes; they flicked nervously down to her wrist. Which was just wrist. The artifact, golden and jeweled, that could somehow dampen all of her magical abilities? Not there. She had a good idea where it actually was, too. “I’m not wearing it.”
A pale brow rose. “I believe the Emperor’s orders in that regard were quite clear.”
She swallowed. Being in trouble was something that she lived with; she always was. Getting the Hawklord into Imperial trouble was something she would almost die to avoid.
And Sanabalis was good; he didn’t even make the threat. She would have to watch herself around him, inasmuch as that was possible.
“I had to take it off,” she told him, swallowing. “Last night.” It wasn’t technically true, but it would have to do.
“Ah. The midwives?” His eyes were gold; one brow was slightly above the other, but he chose to accept her words at face value.
“They called me in. I can’t do anything when I’m wearing that bracer. I certainly can’t deliver a baby that’s—”
He lifted his hands. “I am squeamish by nature, I would prefer you leave the feminine nature of your nocturnal activities unspoken.”
She wanted to ask him to define squeamish, but thought better of it.
“Where is it now?”
“At home.”
“Whose home?”
She cursed. “Is there anything about me you didn’t ‘investigate’”
“No.”
And sighed, a deep, short sound that resembled a grunt. “Severn’s. Corporal.”
He nodded. “Very good. Get it back. I will overlook its absence, since you wouldn’t be wearing it during these lessons anyway.” He paused. His eyes were still liquid gold, and his expression had never wavered; there was some deep sympathy lurking in the folds of his face that she didn’t understand.
And she wanted it.
“Lord Grammayre has been very cooperative, he has aided me in every conceivable way in my investigations. I believe he would like you to survive these trials. Inasmuch as the Lord of Hawks can afford to be, he is fond of you. And inasmuch as it is wise, he does trust you.”
And you, old man? she thought, staring at the candle that was unremarkable in every way. Dull, white, mostly straight, with a small waxed wick, it stood in the center of the table.
“Not yet,” he replied. “And if you wish to keep your thoughts to yourself, you will learn to school your expression. I’m old, and given to neither sentiment nor tact. If I trust you, in the end, it will because you’ve earned it.
“And I understand you, Kaylin Neya. You value nothing that you have not earned. You want it, covet it, hold it in some regard—but you don’t value it.” His face lost its perpetual smile, and his lower lids fell, exposing his eyes again. “Begin with the shape of fire,” he told her quietly.
What the hell shape did fire have, after all?
It was going to be a long lesson.
Or it should have been.
But the West Room had a door, and when the door swung wide, Kaylin jumped out of her chair. Literally. She had a dagger out of its sheath, and she was moving to put the table between herself and whatever it was that had slammed that door into the wall.
Her brain caught up with her body, and she forced herself to relax, or to mimic it. It was hard when the door was full of bristling Leontine.
Sanabalis, however, had not moved an inch. As Kaylin stilled, as she took in Marcus in full fury, he lifted his chin an inch or two. “Sergeant Kassan?” The inquiry was about as friendly as a rabid feral, but a whole lot politer.
“You’re wanted,” Marcus said to Kaylin, ignoring the mage he’d told her not to offend. “Tower. Now.”
“The Hawklord?”
“No, the tooth fairy. Go.”
“I believe the lesson will have to wait,” Sanabalis said, rising.
On any other day, that would have been a good thing. But Kaylin had to walk past Marcus, and Marcus seemed disinclined to actually move his bulk out of the door. His fangs were prominent.
“Marcus?” she dared as she approached him.
He turned red eyes on her, and she flinched—which was always a bad thing to do around a Leontine. But his eyes lost their deep flare of red as he saw her expression. “No,” he said curtly, the single word a raw growl. “It’s not about you. Yet.” He stepped aside then, and she ran past him. The office seemed quiet, which was usually a bad sign—but not when Marcus was in a mood. When that happened, the word that best described the room was empty. This wasn’t, quite.
She caught Caitlin’s expression; it was frozen on her face. The rest of her had retreated to a safe distance. It was an art that Kaylin could appreciate and couldn’t master; she didn’t try.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
Caitlin only pointed to the far door, the tower door, and shook her head.
Kaylin practically flew up the stairs. Fear did that; it shoved exhaustion into a small corner for later use. Given the previous night, it was going to see a lot of use.
The door, thank whatever gods the Hawklord worshipped—if he did—was already open; he was waiting for her.
Standing beside him was a tall, elegant stranger in a fine, dark dress the color of mythic forest. She wore a small tiara, with an emerald that would beggar small houses to own, and her slender arms were gloved in a pale green that echoed the dress.
Her hair, Barrani black, was loose; it fell past Kaylin’s immediate vision. Barrani hair wasn’t worth noticing; eyes were. Hers were blue. But they were an odd shade of blue, not the dark, deep sapphire that marked so many of the Barrani; these were almost teal.
Kaylin couldn’t recall seeing that shade before, and it made her nervous.
The Hawklord, however, was grim, and that was perversely calming. Kaylin started to bow, and he cut her off with a gesture. Formality was out.
“Kaylin,” he said, his voice a shade grimmer than his expression, “your services are required.”
She stared at him blankly. Something about the woman was familiar. Something—“Teela?”
“She hasn’t gotten any