Читать книгу Cast In Flight - Michelle Sagara - Страница 11
ОглавлениеThe table was silent for a good five minutes. This was almost miraculous for a house that contained Kaylin and Mandoran. Kaylin was willing to swallow words; she was too ill at ease to speak without thinking, and her thoughts were so tied up in the Aerian problem she didn’t have any left over to waste on not offending Barrani.
You will not offend me. No one but Kaylin could hear Nightshade’s voice, a reminder—probably deliberate—that they were bound by his True Name. She started, flushed and met his gaze. His eyes were much greener, but given his seating, not green.
You have this thing about dignity and proper respect. All of you do, except Mandoran, Kaylin replied.
I was long considered overly tolerant among my own kin.
How many of those that believed this are still alive?
His eyes widened. She’d surprised him. And amused him; the two expressions chased across his face, easing the lines of tension slightly. A few. At least one of them is at this table now.
He could only mean Teela. Kaylin’s gaze swiveled toward her, and veered at the last minute. Too late. This amused Nightshade, as well. It had never been Kaylin’s life’s ambition to amuse Lord Nightshade.
“I hear,” he said gravely, “that you had an eventful morning.”
She nodded, glaring at Mandoran. Mandoran shrugged his lazy, bored shrug. It was too long, too indolent, and too graceful to properly be the fief shrug that he was trying to copy. “Annarion was worried.”
“Don’t try to shift blame,” Bellusdeo said. “You were bored.”
“Well, I was until the street cracked,” Mandoran replied with an unrepentant grin. “Pursuit was interesting, as well. Everything else has been a letdown.”
Nightshade glanced at his brother, who was glaring at Mandoran silently, but not, Kaylin was certain, wordlessly.
“Annarion said only that there had been an attack, a possible assassination attempt. Did he not refer to Lord Bellusdeo?”
Mandoran snorted. “No. I’d understand it if someone tried to kill her.”
Maggaron was destroying cutlery in the sudden tension of his grip. His very large grip. No one spoke.
Interesting. Who was the target? Nightshade asked Kaylin.
She really hated Mandoran at the moment.
And that is interesting. You lie even when no one else can hear you.
Someone can always hear me, she shot back.
I have been somewhat occupied of late. Your Helen does not trust me at all. She is willing to tolerate me, but only for Annarion’s sake. She does, however, bear obvious fondness for him. I am therefore guarding myself on two fronts, and even this conversation is likely to annoy her immensely.
He was probably right.
I cannot hear your thoughts when you are in your home.
You can hear them now.
Yes, and that is unexpected. I am not certain why she allowed my words to reach you. Perhaps she hoped that it would make the rest of the discussion less awkward.
What discussion?
He chuckled, although his face was perfectly composed. You did not answer my question.
Not mine to answer. She thought of Moran—just a brief flicker of awareness of how little Moran wanted to be the subject of any discussion. And of course, that stray thought was enough.
But she hadn’t expected the stillness that spread out from Lord Nightshade. She’d thought him still and composed when he sat; she’d thought him still and composed during the opening salvos of what promised to be a less-than-comfortable dinner. He was frozen now, for one long minute that threatened to spiral out of control, taking what little sound and light there was entirely out of the room.
“What,” Nightshade said, “are you doing housing the lllumen praevolo? Have you lost your mind?”
* * *
Kaylin wondered, briefly, why he’d asked the question out loud.
“I thought it best,” Helen replied. “I am somewhat occupied at the moment, and I did not feel that dinner conversation would become difficult. I apologize for my lapse in supervision.”
Kaylin realized two things then. First: Nightshade would no longer be able to speak with her through the bond of True Name; Helen had killed that avenue of private discussion. Second, and more troubling, that Helen had allowed it to begin with. Kaylin didn’t believe that the lapse, as she called it, was accidental. Nor did she think that Helen truly believed that the conversation would not be difficult, given the way she clearly felt about Nightshade.
Her house had lied to her. What she couldn’t understand was why—and just in case Helen was listening in, she made it clear that she didn’t need to understand why right this very second. Later would do, if they all survived the meal.
“What did you say?” she asked Nightshade.
“I asked if you had taken leave of your senses.”
“Before that.”
“Illumen praevolo?”
They were the exact words Lillias had spoken. Lillias had been fragile, nervous, afraid. Nightshade was none of those things. “Yes, that. What does it mean?”
“It means nothing to humans,” he replied. His eyes were a glittering blue, hard as sapphires as they absorbed the room’s light. “It means much to Aerians. Was it the Illumen praevolo who survived the assassination attempt?”
“Yes.”
“They do not belong here.”
“Thanks, but it’s my house. My castle. I get to decide that.”
“Did you know, before you offered shelter?”
Kaylin was irritated. “What do you think?”
“I think you were ignorant.”
“Good. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, tell me why you think she doesn’t belong here.”
“She?”
Damn.
“How did you even come to meet her? I suppose I should not be surprised; you are certainly acquainted with the Lady and with Lord Bellusdeo.”
“She’s not like the Lady,” was Kaylin’s flat and certain reply. “And she’s not like Bellusdeo, either.”
“No. She is not, but she occupies a central, singular place for the Aerians, as the Consort does for the Barrani, or Lord Bellusdeo for the Dragons. It should not surprise me,” he said again, “but it does.”
“Do you know what her role is?”
“We will trade information, perhaps. How did you encounter her?”
There was a beat of silence before Kaylin exhaled. “She works in the Halls of Law.”
His eyes shifted from blue to a very surprised gold, a color she very seldom saw in Barrani. “You must be mistaken.”
“I think I know the Halls of Law, and I think I know a sergeant when I see one. She works in the Halls.”
“A...sergeant.” He closed his eyes; when he opened them again, they had reclaimed the color blue. It was a lighter shade than Teela’s. So was midnight sky. “No wonder they tried to kill her. This has happened before?”
“Not while she’s been a sergeant.” Kaylin set her cutlery down and folded her arms, tilting her chair back on two legs. She wasn’t hungry, and while that didn’t usually stop her from eating, she wanted to concentrate.
“Never?”
“Not that I know of, no. But I’d say ‘never’ covers it.”
“Ah. And before that?”
“It’s not in Records.” She stonewalled. He couldn’t read her mind now. He couldn’t see her thoughts. “Why would you expect that this wouldn’t be the first attempt?”
He smiled. “Because she is living here, Kaylin. Perhaps you do not understand why this is a crime in the minds of the Aerians.”
“Some of the Aerians.”
“As you say. Why does she not dwell with her kin? Why does she choose menial employ? She is Illumen praevolo.”
“And I’m the Chosen,” Kaylin shot back. “But I need to eat.”
“The Chosen does not mean to humans what your Aerian will mean to the Aerians. Perhaps it should.”
“It certainly should,” Bellusdeo interrupted. “She is not treated with nearly the respect her burden is due.”
Kaylin lifted a hand in Bellusdeo’s direction, and the Dragon fell silent. She probably wasn’t happy about it, but Kaylin didn’t check; she was watching Nightshade as if he were the only person in the room.
“Do your Aerians not speak of it?” Nightshade asked her.
“No. And I can’t ask them.”
“And she does not explain?”
“No. She thinks it’s not safe for me to know.”
He smiled; it was winter, but beautiful. “And so you come to me.”
“I didn’t—” She exhaled and regrouped. “Yes. Yes, I’m asking you.”
“Has it occurred to you that your companion may be correct? No, don’t answer. You will say yes, but mean no. It is vexing. If you wish to know how I come by this information...” he began.
“I know how.”
“Ah. I forget. Yes, you probably do. The praevolo is not a position like the Consort within the Barrani. To become Consort, there are tests. Tests of the Tower. Tests of the Lake. Failure does not always mean death, but the closer one comes to success, the higher the possibility of death becomes. We are not, like humans, a people to whom children come quickly or easily; the risk of death can be a strong deterrent.
“But it is the line’s risk to take. Your friend did not have the distinction of determination or choice. She was born to it. It has been an essential part of her nature since that birth.”
Kaylin nodded, trying not to be impatient. Or not to be obviously impatient, at any rate. “I understand that part. I don’t understand why it’s significant. I don’t understand what it means.”
“As I have said, to humans, it means nothing.”
“She’s not a human, and she’s living here.”
“How much do you feel you have a right to know?” he asked, almost gently. It was gentleness from Nightshade that she didn’t trust. His violence, his arrogance, his intimidation were things that were obvious threats. “If she does not wish you to know, and it is her secret, her life, how much do those wishes count to you?”
There was a disgusted snort—a sergeant’s sound—from the doorway; everyone looked up. Moran stood in the frame, arms folded, eyes a blue that almost matched Teela’s in shade. “Lord Nightshade, I presume.”
He raised dark brows.
“You were the Barrani who marked Private Neya?”
Kaylin almost stood; Annarion’s expression had drifted from mild interest into disgust and anger and disappointment.
“It is not one of my many titles,” came the cool reply. He was staring at her, at the rise of her wings, or her one wing, at the bindings that kept the other more or less safe and in place. “Is it you?”
“Don’t ask questions when you already know the answer.”
“Among my kin, it would be considered polite.”
“We’re not among your kin here.” She glanced at Annarion. “We’re in Kaylin’s home. And Kaylin has never entirely grasped the intricacies of manners.” She entered the dining room as a place—with a stool—magically appeared for her at the table. It was beside Kaylin, and required some minor shuffling.
“I asked you,” Moran told the private, “to stay out of this.” She didn’t sound enraged. She sounded disappointed, which was worse.
“They tried to kill you.”
“Believe that I’m aware of that.”
“I’d like them to never try again.”
“And I’d like to have normal, healthy wings and a living mother,” Moran said with a shrug. “We don’t always get what we want, especially when it comes to the big things.” She glanced at Nightshade. “You were about to explain to the table what the praevolo is.”
“But you are now here; your knowledge has precedence.”
Moran shrugged again. The gaze she leveled at Nightshade was about as warm and friendly as Teela’s. “My view is colored. If you’ve heard about the Illumen praevolo, you didn’t hear about it from the Caste Court or the Upper Reaches; you heard about it from the rank and file. I’d like to know what they think.”
“You’ve never asked?”
“No. It’s not something that is ever discussed in the Halls. By any Aerian.”
“Very well, if you have no objections.”
“My objections have rarely counted for so little.” She shot Kaylin a glance, and Kaylin flushed the color of guilt. There was so much awkward tension in the room, it might as well have been a fractious office meeting with the Lords.
“This is not the world to which the Aerians were born.”
“No.”
“It is the world they reached, in an era long past, through a stretch of endless sky, the etande, as it was called.”
Moran was staring at the side of his face, her brows slightly furrowed.
“They had their reasons for leaving their home.”
“The World Devourer?” Kaylin asked.
“No, nothing so immediately deadly. You are aware that the Aerians’ flight is...improbable? They are, in build and general density, almost human. The activities that do not depend in any way on flight are not hampered by physical strength or build. Their wings, were they attached to the body of similarly weighted avian, could not achieve flight.”
Kaylin frowned. No, she hadn’t been aware of that, and she wasn’t in a great hurry to claim her ignorance.
“They are not magical creatures. In an absence of any magic, they will not cease to exist. They will, however, cease to fly.”
Moran was really staring at the side of his face now, but the midnight of her blue eyes had drifted into an early shade of clear night sky while she listened.
“So...their world ran out of magic?” Kaylin asked.
“Yes.”
“And our world is more magic-rich?”
“Yes. Understand that in a world without magic, door wards and streetlights would not function. In order to utilize magical energies, there must be some sort of conduit—in most cases, training. But not in all.”
“And the Illumen—”
“Yes, the importance of the praevolo in this escape was critical. It was the duty of the anointed to find a different world; the Aerian ancestors entered the etande without a compass.
“The praevolo is said to have preserved the power of flight for the people, and the praevolo followed a trail that only they could see; it led to this world. It is here they arrived—a world of Dragons, Barrani, humans, Leontines.
“And here, too, there was Shadow.”
“Too?”
“I believe—although I am not certain, as the legends were somewhat garbled—”
“That it was Shadow that drove the Aerians from their first home,” Moran said quietly. “At least that is most of our tale. The Shadows deprived our wings of flight.”
“You are skeptical?” Nightshade asked her.
“Yes, actually. The Shadows seem a thing of magic, to me. But it’s possible that, to destroy Shadow, the ancestors found some way to destroy magic. I don’t think they understood what the cost would be, and I think that the Shadows did wane in that world. But the people could not survive—not as they had.”
“Ah. And so, indirectly, the necessities of war with Shadow did cause the death of flight.”
Moran nodded.
“So the praevolo was born during that time?” Kaylin asked.
“It’s complicated,” Moran finally replied. “Understand that we have legends and tales; we’re not Dragons. We don’t have ancient Records to which we can refer. I’m not sure that born is the right word.” She hesitated. “It’s the word that’s been used. In theory, the praevolo is born to the Aerian people at a time of great need or great conflict. But I believe, even in the tales that are handed down, that the first praevolo was born then.”
“You don’t think born is the right word?”
“I was born. I wasn’t created. There was no cabal of ancient, powerful mages standing beside my mother as she conceived me; there were none in the birthing rooms where I was born.” Her smile was wan. “When I first encountered Records in the Halls, I searched them. And I went outside of the Halls, searching. I wanted information.”
“Were you not told anything about your wings?”
“I was told a great deal,” Moran replied. “I heard times beyond count that I was unworthy of the gift I had been given. I was told constantly about humility, chief among the characteristics I was to develop to be worthy.”
“Yes, of course, dear,” Helen said, although no one had spoken. She carried a drink—a hot drink, in a very mundane mug—to Moran, and set it in front of her, where lazy swirls of steam rose.
“I asked, in the beginning, what I was to be worthy of.”
Kaylin leaned forward, hurting for the child that Moran had been, and hoping it didn’t show. No one wanted pity, and Moran was not that child now.
“I was told that to prove my worth, I was to respect the authority of the Caste Court. They were wise and learned and of course, deserved their positions by consequence of birth. I was a bastard, illegitimate, and my father refused to step forward to claim kinship with me. I still don’t know who he is,” she added, staring at the rising steam as if reading some fortune in it. “I doubt I’ll ever know.”
“Would it make a difference?” Teela surprised Kaylin by asking. “Before you reply, I feel it necessary to point out that I killed mine—and I spent centuries building enough of a power base that I could survive doing so. He murdered my mother.”
Moran took her time digesting this information; it wasn’t information the Barrani who worked in the Halls would ever think to share. Her wry grin, and eyes that were now drifting into a more normal Aerian gray, cut years off her apparent age. The grin dimmed. “It’s possible that my father murdered my mother. I don’t know. He certainly did nothing to protect her, and he did nothing to protect me, either.
“But for all I know, my father might have been a younger son—no, less, a younger cousin, part of an Upper Reach flight in name only. He might have had no power.”
“You don’t believe it, though.”
“...No.” She shook herself. To Teela, she said, “Did killing him change anything?”
“Yes. I became the line.”
“That would never happen—I was illegitimate.”
“The Barrani do not fuss with legitimacy in that fashion,” Teela reminded her.
“I confess I don’t understand it; the Barrani inheritance wars are brutal enough when they start that legitimacy would seem to be of paramount import.”
“To an outsider, yes. But primacy is decided by power. What I take, I must be able to hold against all. If I am foolish, stupid or incompetent, I will die. The line, however, requires someone who is none of those things. My death might be regrettable, but it would be seen as necessary. And our children are not so numerous that the parentage defines them. The only exception is the lineage of the High Lord—and even in that case, new reigns are ushered in by politics and death in almost all cases.”
“Not the most recent one,” Kaylin said quietly.
“No. And believe, kitling, that there are lords who have been working constantly to ensure that the throne is in the hands of a ruthless, powerful man. A different man.”
Kaylin frowned.
“Told you,” Mandoran said as he turned to Kaylin. “He’s been fighting a constant succession war since the death of his father. It shouldn’t take more than another decade or two of your time before those challenges wither. Teela assumed you understood this.”
“And that has nothing to do with our current predicament.” Teela sent Mandoran a death glare; it didn’t faze him at all. “You do not know your father. Of your wings, you know only that they are of great import to the Aerian people—but not how or why.”
Moran nodded, shaking herself out of the web of memory that Teela’s words had evoked. “What was I saying? The praevolo. I believe, although again, it’s conjecture, that our ancestors did not suddenly find themselves in possession of a miracle baby. Birth is not quite the word used, but there’s no analogy that I can easily think of in Elantran. Maybe blessing?”
Kaylin stiffened, but said nothing.
“And it’s clear, given the stories, that the praevolo of that time could both fly—soar is the word that is used to refer to him—and fight. His prowess in both was considered proof of the benevolence and love of our gods.”
“And their existence, no doubt.”
Moran nodded. “I’m not terribly religious.”
“You’re a Hawk, which requires an entirely different kind of stupid,” Mandoran said.
“Mandoran,” Helen chided, as if she were his mother.
“Am I offending anyone?”
“In all probability, no,” Helen replied. “But you are offending me.”
Mandoran went still.
“Hazielle, my first tenant, was quietly and devoutly religious. Kaylin, my current tenant, is devoted to the Hawks. You are a guest here, and greater leeway is given to guests—but you will not insult them.”
“I insult Kaylin all the time!”
“He does,” Kaylin said, partly in his defense. Mandoran didn’t appear to hear her. He was staring at Helen, and Helen—or Helen’s Avatar—returned that stare with emphasis.
“Fine,” Mandoran eventually said. His voice was all sulkiness, except for the bits that were humiliation. Kaylin wasn’t certain this was smart, but even if it was her house, she wasn’t Helen.
“No, dear,” Helen said gently. “But that’s why you can be my tenant. I could never live with another presence that was too similar to me.”
Mandoran’s snort was rude, but wordless. Teela pointedly turned her attention back to Moran. “You think that the praevolo was magically created?”
“I think the power of the praevolo must have been, yes. We know that a flight’s worth of Aerians of both genders went into seclusion. They prayed,” she added with a hint of self-consciousness. “Those that were unworthy faced the wrath of the gods.”
“They died?”
Moran nodded. “They did not approach the gods with the proper humility and respect,” she added. “Believe that I heard this particular story frequently. I couldn’t make sense of it until I joined the Hawks. I had no idea how many gods crowded each other for space in Elantra until then.” Her gaze darted to Bellusdeo and away. “I didn’t entirely understand how dangerous the Shadows could be in a global sense until very recently, either.
“Be that as it may, I believe it was an investiture of power. And it worked.”
“But the power isn’t conferred that way now?” Kaylin asked.
Moran shook her head. “But it’s only the flights of the Upper Reach—or the offspring of those flights—that are born with the wings. It’s not a constant; there isn’t always a praevolo. We went three generations without one. But the birth of one—of me, in this case—implies that their power will be needed.”
“Has this proved historically true for the Aerians?” It was Bellusdeo who asked—of course it would be. If the genesis of Moran’s damaged wings was related in any way to Shadow, it would suddenly become hugely relevant to the golden Dragon. She had lost a world to those Shadows, and she had the memory of immortals. She did not forget for one second.
“I am not permitted to speak of that.”
“You aren’t permitted to speak of this, either, if I had to guess.”
Moran flashed a wry grin. “Technically, there is nothing in this discussion that circumvents the proscriptions. But...yes. Yes, they’ve been relevant. I’m aware that the relevance could be entirely in the hands of historians; historians weight everything with their own particular set of observations and meanings. And even if it was forbidden, and my discussion were to be discovered, the hands of the Caste Court are tied. I cannot be made outcaste.”
Kaylin had assumed, until this moment, that this was because she was special, that her unique gift granted her immunity to the judgments of the Caste Court. But memories of Lillias, and of Clint’s lecture, now blended together with Moran’s information.
“They can’t cut off your wings.”
Moran stiffened. “My wings,” she told Kaylin, “are not immune to damage, as you’ve seen for yourself. They could quite possibly cut off my wings, if they had enough power and the will to do so.”
Kaylin felt cold in the brief silence that followed. “The Caste Court doesn’t cut off wings.”
“No.”
“They remove them.”
“Yes.”
“Magically.”
“Yes.”
Kaylin’s Leontine response was loud and heartfelt. And long.
* * *
She wanted to ask if the wings could be put back. If they’d been magically taken off, why couldn’t they be magically returned? She wanted to ask how the wings were magically removed. How did that work? Could the Caste Court magically remove arms or legs, too? Or were wings like arms and legs? Once they were removed, did they rot?
Bellusdeo, however, had other ideas—and they weren’t bad or wrong; they just weren’t where Kaylin’s head was mired. Kaylin therefore surrendered curiosity and pulled herself back into the discussion at hand.
“Were all such emergencies of, or related to, Shadow?” Bellusdeo asked.
“You mean the ones I’m not supposed to talk about?” Moran replied.
“Their relative secrecy is less of a concern, I admit.”
The sergeant grinned. “I confess, Lord Bellusdeo, that you are not like any other Dragon I’ve ever met. I can’t give you a definitive answer, and not because of secrecy. I honestly don’t know.”
“But they believe—or you believe—that it is involved now?”
“I am not, sadly, in the councils of the Caste Court. If I am not outcaste, I am—what is your word?”
“Pariah?” Mandoran helpfully supplied.
“Yes. I am a relative pariah. Speaking to me will not immediately target an Aerian for Court censure—but befriending me would draw much more attention than the rank and file really want. And don’t make that face, Private.”
“What face?”
“The one which implies you’re about to storm off to the Halls and shout at the closest Aerians.”
“I won’t,” Kaylin told her, thinking of Clint. And Lillias.
“They have families. They have flights. They have, in many cases, children. Their concerns are very correctly with the people for whom they’re responsible. I am never going to be one of them.” Her voice softening, she said, “And I’m happier that way. I don’t want to be the reason their lives are destroyed. They don’t owe me that.”
“And you don’t owe them anything?” It was Teela who asked.
Moran’s smile was grimmer. “I’m a Hawk,” she said. “There’s that, if nothing else.”
To Kaylin, being a Hawk was not supposed to be a—a consolation prize. It was more, it was much more, than that. The tabard, the ranks, the laws, were supposed to be the thing that cut across the racial differences. No matter who, or how, they’d been born, Hawks had chosen to serve. To protect. And that service was offered independent of race, to anyone of any race.
“I’m proud to be a Hawk,” Moran told Kaylin, as if Kaylin had been shouting out loud. “I wasn’t very good at it, at first. As you might imagine, I didn’t relish authority. I didn’t trust people in power. I didn’t trust the people of my own rank—and the Aerians were colder than even the Barrani. But I was determined to show them all. To prove to the doubters that I could, and would, do the work. The same work.” She shook her head. “It’s hard. The Hawks don’t understand what my life has been like.”
“Have you ever explained it?” Teela asked.
Moran look horrified at the idea. “And become an object of scorn or pity?”
“It would have the advantage of being based on facts. As far as I can tell, you were already an object of scorn.”
“Perhaps. But not pity. Never pity. Do you know what would have happened to the Aerian Hawks if they knew the truth?”
Kaylin said, “Maybe you should let them decide whether or not it’s worth the risk.” But Clint—and she adored Clint—had made clear that to interfere in Moran’s business courted a fate worse than death. And maybe the rest of the Aerians would feel, did feel, the same way.
If Kaylin were Moran, and in Moran’s position, and that was what she could expect, Kaylin would be damned if she exposed herself to the hope of more. She understood why Moran had remained silent, then. If life was crap, you could accept it. There was no point having a temper tantrum, and in the wrong streets of the city, a tantrum would just hasten your death. You learned to accept what you couldn’t change, and you accepted it quickly.
Justice, fairness, kindness—you could rail against the lack of those things in your life. Kaylin knew, because she’d done it. And then, she’d set about trying to survive that life, because justice, fairness and kindness were simply not on the menu anywhere she could afford to eat. Figuratively speaking.
She knew that hope was worse, somehow. If you had hope that things would change, you stood on the edge of a precipice. You stood on the edge of an abyssal chasm. And if hope was betrayed, you ended up worse off than when you’d started.
Yes, she understood.
But she also understood that without hope, without that taking of chances, nothing changed. Nothing could change. It was something she hadn’t known when she’d first stepped foot across the Ablayne. It was something she had grown to understand with time.
“You’re being arrogant again, kitling,” Teela said.
Kaylin blinked. “Me? Arrogant?”
“Yes—in the most well-meaning way possible, but the end result is probably the same. You haven’t lived Moran’s life, she’s not asking for your advice, and you’re presuming that you can offer advice that would fundamentally improve her life.” Teela’s eyes were now blue green. “I personally prefer well-meaning, but would just as soon avoid condescension.”
“I never give you advice.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s just that I want—” To help. Kaylin bit back the rest of the words. Maybe Teela was right. But she didn’t feel powerful enough, significant enough, to be arrogant. To be condescending. Awkward, flushing, Kaylin turned to face Moran. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Teela thinks I have an obsession with Aerians.” It took her another minute to fully meet Moran’s gaze.
Moran, however, didn’t look offended. Gently, she said, “I’m like the corporal in one regard. I prefer well-meaning. And, Kaylin? The Aerians have taken you under wing—and that phrase has a different meaning for my people. They’ve been kind to you. They’ve offered you acceptance, understanding and tolerance. You have no reason to resent them.”
“I can’t resent them on your behalf?”
“I don’t resent them,” Moran replied. “And I don’t expect them to be perfect. You’re already upset at them, and they’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Shouldn’t they have to do something right?”
“Not according to Imperial Law, no.” When Kaylin failed to reply, she continued, “I don’t know what your life in the fiefs was like. I’ve never asked. You don’t know what my life in the Aerie was like. You’ve never asked. You assumed it was like the rest of the Aerian lives. The truth is harder, of course—but I often think we all have harsh, hidden truths. I would never have starved. I was not moved to theft or thuggery simply to keep myself fed or warm.
“I did whatever the Caste Court told me to do. I obeyed them. I tried—for years, I tried—to be what they wanted. There was only one thing left in my life that I loved, and I knew what would happen to it if I rebelled. And if I endured every insult, every beating, every ugly half-truth, in order to preserve the things I loved, how can I judge the rest of the Aerians for doing the same damn thing?
“How can I tell them what they should be doing instead? How can I tell them to put their lives outside the Halls at risk when I didn’t have the courage to do that myself?”
Kaylin was silent.
“You understand?”
And she did. It was why she still had trouble dealing harshly with beggars and street thieves. She’d been there, she’d done that, she’d been desperate. Were they breaking the law? Yes. On this side of the bridge they were.
She bowed her head a moment, found her voice and lifted it again. “Can we go back to the praevolo, or would you rather we not talk about it at all?”
“Let’s compromise. Once we leave the dinner table, you never ask me about it again.”
“Deal.”
Moran then turned to Lord Nightshade. “I don’t know how you came by your information, but I’d like to hear what your informant had to say. I consider my own sources to be highly dubious at this point.”
* * *
“Some centuries ago, I met an Aerian,” Nightshade began. “He was dar Carafel, a young man with magnificent wings and a strong dislike for politics. He had had some conflict with his flight, and when that conflict became dangerous, he fled. It was not possible to hide his wings—he was not a mage. Nor had he lived a life in which anonymity was essential. His father was a man of considerable power and considerable expectations.
“A child had recently been born to the flight, and that child possessed pale, flecked wings.”
Moran was silent.
“It was, of course, a cause for celebration—but not for the young man. Not for his father. The balance of power had shifted with that single birth. The newborn infant’s father gained instant respect and instant political support. The child was an infant, but the wings were significant, as I’m certain you are aware. The father of the Aerian with whom I spoke grew increasingly bitter as the praevolo aged. He grew to resent his son for the lack of those wings. I offered the Aerian shelter, and he chose, in the end, to remain within my castle.” He glanced at Kaylin.
Kaylin said, “The statuary.”
“Yes. What I know of the Illumen praevolo, I know from him. It is perhaps textured with his envy and his yearning; to him, the praevolo was both exalted and chosen. That child would have a life of luxury, a life of respect, a life of power.”
Moran’s face was about as expressive as stone, which, in a way, was expressive enough.
“The praevolo is born when there is a threat to the flights.”
“Was there one?” Moran asked.
“I do not know. If there was, it was never large enough to be made public.”
“What was his name?”
There was a long pause. “Karis.”
Moran’s eyes widened slightly.
“We spoke of the praevolo, and the significance of the praevolo. It was not theoretical, to him. He did not, however, understand all of the specifics. There were items that were associated with the praevolo; they had the weight of the Emperor’s crown, to the Aerians.”
Moran nodded slowly.
“You do not possess them?”
“I was a child. I was an illegitimate child. Nothing of the praevolo’s was given to me.” She hesitated.
He marked it.
“Nothing of significance.”
He nodded, then. “Your legitimacy has been questioned.”
“Yes. Constantly.”
“And you were not given the opportunity to prove your legitimacy.”
“Oh, I was,” was her bitter reply. “But never, ever publicly. The Caste Court did not know of my existence until I was almost seven. They were deeply suspicious of me, of my mother, when I finally came to their attention, and they tested me. Thoroughly.” She looked down at her hands. “I wish I had had a chance to speak with your Aerian. I would have told him what life as praevolo was actually like.”
Nightshade’s smile was slender, but genuine. “He grew less unhappy with the passage of time.” He rose; he hadn’t eaten much. He bowed to the table, and to his brother. “It is late, and I am expected at the castle. It was an honor to meet you.”
