He said, I will kill you.
She might have nodded. She was exhausted, and even if her ribs hadn’t been broken—and she knew they were—she wouldn’t have had the strength to stand or flee.
Standing to fight didn’t even occur to her as a possibility. But she could see moonlight glinting off Tiamaris, could see him move, see the stretch of his long, beautiful neck. She could even see the fire that suddenly blossomed around him, and could hear, in the timbre of his answering roar, pain. The fire began to fade to a haze of light and around her, against that haze, the shapes of the Barrani faded into shadow. She closed her eyes, then; it was too much work to keep them open.
Makuron said, again, I will kill you.
Yes. But not now. If I could, Dragon Lord, I would tell you your story.
And she felt just a glimmer of something that might one day become fear. What are you?
Kaylin…Kaylin Neya.
And then he was gone. Or she was.
CHAPTER 23
She woke to the crowded yet austere room that served the Hawks as an infirmary. Bandages, scissors and small jars with open lids littered the counter, and she grimaced as she caught sight of the flecked wings of the infirmary’s chief doctor. Those wings were folded, which was generally considered a good sign—but Kaylin had known Moran for far too many years to pay them much attention.
Moran had—Kaylin would have bet money on it—eyes in the back of her head. “You’re finally awake.” It was almost an accusation. “If you try to sit up, you won’t be.”
Kaylin grimaced. “Broken ribs?”
“And a broken arm. It was a clean break. Some lacerations, bruises and gashes. Blood loss, but not enough to slow you down. Note that I am not asking you what you were doing,” she added, “because I’m tired of hearing excuses.”
Kaylin let her head fall back on her pillow. “Why am I not home?”
“Think about what you just heard.” Moran ran a hand through her hair, and Kaylin saw her eyes. They were dark, and sunken.
“Moran, how long was I out?”
“Long enough,” was the brisk reply. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“None.”
Moran nodded. “There are a list of people who wish to speak with you. It is, oddly enough, only slightly longer than the list of people I’ve recently been forced to offend.”
“Moran, it’s important—how long have I been out?”
“Long enough,” she replied. “You heal quickly. How does your skin feel?”
“My skin? Fine. Except for the bits under the wad of bandages. Why?”
“When you were brought here, every single tattoo on your body—and, yes, I know that’s not the right word—was incandescent blue, and very hot to the touch.”
“Oh.”
“Consultation with Records, however, shows that they’re more or less the same.”
“More or less?”
“Yes.”
“Tiamaris?”
“Lord Tiamaris was not brought here.”
“But was he—”
“As such, he isn’t my patient and isn’t my problem. Corporal Handred, however, asked me to tell you that Lord Tiamaris will live. I, however, will likely face the prospect of unemployment—and believe me that sounds tempting at the moment—if the Sergeant isn’t allowed to speak with you when you regain consciousness.”
This, Kaylin understood. “And when will that be?”
“When you think you’re ready,” was the steady reply. “Until then, do me the favor of lying still and pretending to rest.”
“Can I at least speak to Severn?”
“Not unless you’re willing to speak to everyone else.” Her expression gentled slightly. “We were worried, Kaylin. All of us. The Quartermaster would like to speak with you,” she added, “but grudgingly gave me permission to say that the loss of the boots and the melting of one dagger would not be docked from your pay.”
“Oh. I must have looked terrible.”
“Yes. It would have been slightly more helpful if Severn had brought you in about two hours earlier. The office wasn’t full at that time.”
“I’ll talk to him about his timing.”
“Do that.” Moran shook herself, and then bent over Kaylin and hugged her carefully. “Good work, Private,” she said softly.
Kaylin’s idea of recovery did not include Mallory, and as a result, it was a full two hours before she declared herself awake enough to speak with Severn. The words had hardly left her mouth before the door opened and he walked in.
Moran’s infirmary didn’t include mirrors, and given Severn’s bruised face, and a new line of stitches near the left side of his jaw, this was probably a good thing. On the other hand, she couldn’t see what she looked like, but given that she was the one metaphorically strapped to an infirmary bed—and Moran had real straps, which she wasn’t afraid to use—it was probably just as well.
Severn pulled up a stool. He was in a clean uniform, his hair was brushed back, and his eyes were as darkly ringed as Moran’s.
“Do I look as bad as you do?”
“Worse,” he said, with the hint of a smile. “Tiamaris was certain you were dead when the Outcaste landed.”
“Tiamaris was injured—”
“Yes. It was impressive. He was impressive,” Severn said. “I’m not sure he would have returned to the accepted Empire norm for Dragons if Nightshade hadn’t intervened.”
“Intervened?” She thought, for a brief moment, of his sword.
Severn shook his head. “No, not that way. He told Tiamaris that you held his name, and that because of this he knew, for certain, you still lived. He also intimated that any attempt to prolong a losing fight while you were somewhere directly beneath it would possibly change your state.”
“Change my state?”
“Those were more or less the words he used.” His smile broadened. “High Barrani.”
“Of course.” She snorted. It hurt. “Did Moran tell you how many ribs I cracked?”
“No.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“What happened to the Outcaste?”
“He ran up against Meliannos in the hands of a fieflord,” Severn said, his smile dimming. “But if you mean is he dead, no.”
“And Marai—”
He looked away, then. “I don’t understand Leontine well enough to follow all that she said—but I understand it well enough to know what it must have been. We brought her body home,” he added quietly. “It’s in the morgue.”
“And Orogrim?”
“Dead.”
“Also in the morgue?”
“No.”
She didn’t ask. Instead, she risked the wrath of Moran. She caught his hands in hers and pulled herself upright.
“Kaylin, Moran is going to kill me,” he whispered.
“The baby,” she said, ignoring him. “How long have I been out? I promised, Severn—the baby—”
“The baby is alive,” he said. “Or he was this morning.”
“You saw him?”
“I saw him. I went to visit Kayala’s Pridlea early this morning.”
“She let you in?”
“In the circumstances—and as she explained, as a guest herself—she was willing to consider the meeting ground neutral enough not to ask me to leave any vital body parts at the door. The baby was alive.”
She let go of his hands and slumped back into the bed. “I feel like crap.”
He placed a palm against her forehead. Nodded.
“What was that for?”
“Fever. You’re fine. Before you start complaining, you weren’t fine when you were brought in.”
“I need to get up.”
He looked dubious about that.
“I need to go to the Palace,” she said. “I need to be with the Pridlea.”
“I believe that Lord Sanabalis attempted to explain this to Moran. He was probably about as successful as
you’ll be if you try.”
“Sanabalis? He was here?”
“Yes. He was concerned.”
“Did you ask about Tiamaris?”
“No. I was told he’ll live. Lord Sanabalis wasn’t in the best of moods.”
“Dragons never are,” a familiar voice said. “And if you sit up, Moran will break my arms.”
She sat up anyway and regretted it almost instantly. “Marcus!”
He was wearing his uniform. He was wearing the Hawk. He was in the infirmary, and Moran was standing behind his right shoulder with an expression that brought to mind the wrath of a god.
“Yes, Private.”
“You’re back.”
He nodded. “I should probably thank whoever installed Mallory as acting Sergeant. I can actually see the surface of my desk.”
She wanted to laugh. Until she did.
“Sergeant.” Moran’s tone of voice was at its most pinched.
“They—they let you go? I thought I had to go back.”
“Sanabalis felt that, in the circumstances, it would be a goodwill gesture to the Emperor. He imparted this information very diplomatically, and merely waited until they agreed.”
“And that took how long?”
“About an hour, give or take a few side arguments.” His expression softened. “I swear, I’m going to put you on paperwork if you ever come back in this condition again.”
“Kill me now. It’ll be kinder.”
“I’d consider it if Moran weren’t here, but as Moran is here, my life span would be measured in seconds, and I would hate to see all your interference in my personal affairs go to waste.” He saw her expression change again; she was too tired to keep it in check. His growl softened. “Yes, kitling, the arguments were about the baby. Marai is dead,” he said quietly. “I claimed her body for the Pridlea, for Sarabe’s sake, and there will be a burial. The baby’s father is likewise dead. Tell me what happened.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know all of it. I saw him fall—Orogrim, I mean. And I saw what he did to Marai—but Marai chose her death. And I let her.”
“Sometimes that’s an act of mercy as well,” he said. His claws were sheathed, and the pads of his paws felt dry and rough against her cheek. “Sanabalis is waiting for you at the Palace.”
“Marcus—”
“You saw, I’m told, what they can become. The tainted. The cursed. You fought them. But…Lord Tiamaris said that you also spoke with them, and Marai, at least, heard your words. Lord Tiamaris was injured, and if Lord Sanabalis does not consider it an impediment to his recovery, you’ll probably be allowed to visit him.”
“Marcus—”
He lifted a hand. “It isn’t up to me, Kaylin.”
“And if it were?”
He could have pretended to misunderstand her. He didn’t. “I didn’t see what Marai or Orogrim became. I didn’t see them fight, and I didn’t see them kill. To me, for better or worse, the knowledge that the ancient tales are true is still theoretical. The child is a child to me.”
“Sarabe will be safe?”
His growl was low and deep. She didn’t ask again. He turned to Moran. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but Lord Sanabalis is waiting. He’s sent a carriage—it’s been in the yard for the past eight hours.”
“She’s not fit to travel.”
“Short of strapping her to the bed—and yes, I’m well aware it’s possible—I don’t see how you’ll detain her.”
Moran started to speak, and stopped before words left her mouth. She took a deep breath before she spoke again. “A child, you said?”
“A Leontine orphan,” Marcus replied.
“Then, no,” she replied, surrendering. “Short of drugging her, there’s probably not much more I can do.” She walked around Marcus and knelt against the bed, pressing her forehead into the hard mattress. “I’ve had two long, almost sleepless days, Private. I advise you against leaving the infirmary. If, however, you choose to ignore my advice, I’ve sent unguents and oils with Corporal Handred. You are to apply these to your wounds when you change their dressing. You are also forbidden to carry any heavy weight, and you will not, under any circumstances, involve yourself in any physical activities for at least two weeks. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Moran.”
It wasn’t painful to walk, although it was almost humiliatingly tiring. It wasn’t painful to sit, but it was painful to sit in a moving carriage, because the roads weren’t really designed for people with broken ribs. She would have complained, because for Kaylin, complaining was one of life’s little luxuries, but the worry was worse than the pain.
Silence, on the other hand, obviously caused worry, because Severn opened his pouch, took some bitterroot out, and broke its barklike skin. “Chew it,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
She made a face, opened her mouth, and made a less voluntary face in response; bitterroot was a completely descriptive name that somehow failed to live up to the texture and the actual taste of the plant. But it did help with the pain.
Sanabalis met them in the Courtyard. He was dressed head to toe in blue robes, which made his beard look a lot whiter. He waved the guards away, and also walked quickly past the liveried attendants whose job it was to help passengers exit the carriage with their dignity intact. He opened the door on Kaylin’s side of the carriage, and held out a hand above the small stool the attendants usually placed just beneath the carriage door.
Kaylin, in what passed for dress uniform given the time she’d had to get dressed, hesitated a moment before taking his hand. He failed to notice the hesitation, and she allowed him to help her reach the ground.
But when she had both feet on the ground and it was clear they were going to support her, he touched her chin gently, lifting her face. His eyes were lambent gold, and the lower membranes were nowhere in sight—it was almost hard to look at them. “You did well,” he said softly.
She couldn’t think of anything to say in response—but it was always that way. She was used to Marcus and the rest of the Hawks; open praise unsettled her, and because it was so rare, she felt she had to somehow say something that showed she deserved it. Instead she said, “Well enough? You know what I want, Sanabalis. You know why I came.”
He nodded. “The Dragon Court is aware of your feelings in this matter. It has been in session for some time.”
“And you’re allowed to be absent?”
“Kaylin, I do not think you fully apprehend the nature of your actions in the fiefs. We are in your debt.”
She started to reply, and he lifted a hand.
“And a wise person does not wish to carry the Emperor’s debt with her wherever she goes. Owing a debt is not a comfortable position for a ruler.”
She was tired. But barter of this nature, stripped of pretty words, had been life in the fiefs. “Can I ask for anything?”
“You can ask,” he replied. “What you are granted, however, is another matter entirely.”
“Do I have to see him?”
“The Emperor? No. Not yet, although that took some finessing on our part.”
“Our?”
“Lord Tiamaris and myself.”
“Oh.” Pause. “What did you say?”
“That your lessons in etiquette—”
“I’m not taking lessons in etiquette—”
“—have been sorely inadequate, and that your utter failure to comport yourself with the dignity due the Imperial rank would likely force him to terminate your existence when it is, in fact, almost required.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“The Emperor has, however, decreed that your education will be more fully rounded in future. He wished to meet with you,” Sanabalis said in a softer tone of voice. “And in the end, he is the Emperor. He will meet with you. But not, I think, today. Come. Tiamaris is waiting.”
“I thought he was badly injured?”
“No more than you, and yo
u are here.”
“Wait, where are we going?”
“Into the Palace. In fact, into a wing of the Palace you have visited before.”
“Rennick?”
“Mr. Rennick is not currently in the Palace. He is—in his own words—pinning down the last of the difficult roles. I believe he called this ‘auditions.’ Ybelline, however, is with him.”
“She can’t go—”
“As are representatives of the Palace Guard. Private Neya, the Emperor has allowed us a period of grace. Nothing more and nothing less. We have limited time, and much of it has dwindled while you recovered. He will not wait out the day.”
“I want to see Kayala.”
“You will. The others, unfortunately, will have to wait.” He held out his arm and she stared at it. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then said, in a slightly thinner voice, “Corporal?”
“Lord Sanabalis.”
“Please see that she manages to navigate the Halls without falling flat on her face. I am already in ill-favor with the Aerian the Hawks have set to guard the infirmary.”
They walked to the Library, of all places, although until she saw the great doors, she didn’t recognize the Halls. Sanabalis winced slightly as he glanced at the doorward, but he was silent. He touched the ward with his palm.
Severn walked calmly toward it and placed his palm in its center after Sanabalis had let his hand fall away. Kaylin looked at the ward—no, the whole damn door—suspiciously. She remembered what had happened the last time she’d been here.
But to her surprise, the doors began to roll on their hinges.
Standing at the edge of his vast Library, in robes as fine as Sanabalis’s, stood the Arkon. He felt old, although he didn’t look that much older than Sanabalis—today. She would have sworn that he had looked much older and feebler when she had first met him, at least until he had started roaring in Dragon.
He looked at her for a long moment, and then to her surprise, he bowed. His expression, however, was missing anything that resembled warmth or friendliness. “Private Neya,” he said as he rose. “Corporal Handred. I trust you are familiar with the rules of my Library?”
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