Kaylin stood in front of him, and held out both palms, indicating that she meant him no harm. Or, judging from the water that now streamed down him as if he were a mountain, no more harm. He swore a lot, which she expected.
He even got up, although he wobbled. His legs were like large logs.
“Brecht,” Kaylin said softly. “Sorry about waking you, but we need to talk.”
“Bar’s closed.” This wasn’t evidence that he was actually awake; Brecht could say this in his sleep. She’d seen it.
“We don’t want to talk when the bar’s open,” Kaylin replied. “Too many people. And some of them, we’d have to kill.”
“Not in my bar.”
She shrugged. “We’d try to take the fight outside.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed water off his face. Didn’t work. Dropping the bottle, or the half of it that he still held, he tried mopping his face with his apron. Given that that, too, was soaked, it didn’t help much either. The swearing that followed, on the other hand, seemed to do him a world of good.
He shook himself, like a Leontine waking, and then his bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Is that Elianne? And Severn? Together?”
Before she could frame a reply, he muttered, “I’ve got to drink something better than swill.” But he continued to stare at her, and after a minute, he snorted. Water flew out his nostrils. “Do that again,” he added, “and you won’t be.”
“Together?”
“Alive.” He frowned. “Who’s the nob?”
“Tiamaris. He’s a—a friend.”
Suspicion, which was his natural expression, chased surprise off his face. “A friend of who?”
“Mine, sort of. Look, Brecht, we need to—”
“Yeah, I heard you. You need to talk. Tell you what. You go behind the counter and get me a bottle of—”
“No,” Severn said.
Brecht cursed him for a three-mothered cur. All in all, it was almost affectionate. “What do you need to talk about?” he said after he’d finished.
She started to speak, stopped and waited.
He lost about four inches in height. “I should have known,” he said softly. “Look, Elianne—”
“I’m called Kaylin, now,” she said quietly.
“Shit, I barely remembered the old name.” Which was probably true. “You got out,” he added. “We heard about it. I thought it was a lie—I thought you were dead, like the others.”
She closed her eyes. She could not look at Severn.
Severn said nothing.
“But it’s started again,” the old man continued. His hands were over his face when she opened her eyes. Old hands, now. Seven years had changed him. “Connie’s lost her boy. I found him.”
“What did you do?”
“I sent a runner. You don’t know him,” he added. “He came after your time. I sent a runner to the damn Lords of Law.”
She nodded.
But Severn didn’t. He stepped in, toward Brecht, and grabbed him by the shirt collar.
“Severn—” she began.
“He’s lying,” Severn said. Menace enfolded the scant syllables.
“Lying? Why?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell us, Brecht?” Before she could say another word, Severn’s long knife was in his hand. Brecht was no fool; he didn’t even try to reach for a bottle.
“Severn, this is stupid. Look—the Lords of Law have the body,” she snapped.
“They have it now. Brecht, who did you send the runner to?”
Brecht was absolutely stone still.
And Kaylin, caught by Severn, by the change in him, was still as well. But she was a Hawk. She’d spent seven years under the harsh tutelage of both Lord Grammayre and Marcus. The hair on the back of her neck began to rise, and her arms goose-bumped suddenly.
She looked at Tiamaris and saw that his eyes were a deep, unnatural red; that he had already turned away from the pathetic bartender and the not so pathetic Shadow Wolf.
Toward the door. The open door.
In it, the answer stood. And he smiled. “Why, to me, Severn,” he said softly, in perfect Barrani. “Thank you, Brecht. You’ve done well, and you will be rewarded.” His Elantran was also perfect, and she was surprised to hear it. Then again, Brecht probably didn’t speak any Barrani worth listening to. Unless you liked inventive cursing.
Kaylin wasn’t certain that that reward wouldn’t be death; Severn’s eyes were black. She knew what that meant. Hated it. Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed his knife hand, curling her fingers round his wrist.
He stared at her. Stared at the hand that she had willingly placed around his wrist. Understood what she was asking, understood that she would never ask in words.
Severn slowly released old Brecht and turned at last to face the outcaste Barrani lord known, in this fief, as Nightshade.
CHAPTER 4
He was tall.
Taller than either Teela or Tain; taller than Tiamaris. He had hair that was a shade darker than ebony, and it was long; it slid down his back like a cape.
Teela and Tain made her feel ungainly, clumsy and plodding. Nightshade—lord of this fief—made her feel worse: young again. Afraid. Just standing there, in the door, his hands idling against the wooden frame. They were ringed hands, and she hated that.
In fact, had she not been so unsettled, she would have hated him. But, like the rest of the Barrani, he seemed above any emotion she might offer. His eyes were cold, emrald-green; they did not blink once. She hoped it stung. She knew it wouldn’t.
“So,” he said quietly, sliding back into Barrani as he withdrew his hands from the door frame and stepped into the bar. He gestured without looking back, his fingers flicking air as if he were brushing away a speck of dust.
Behind him, two guards followed; they were, by their look, Barrani as well.
Three. Against a single Barrani, she and Severn had a good chance—on a very lucky day. But against three? None whatsoever.
Her hands fell to her daggers.
The fieflord raised a dark brow. “Do not,” he said softly, “insult my hospitality. Had I wished you harm, you would never have reached this…place.” He glanced around the innards of the bar.
She said nothing. She had heard his name whispered for years. In the fiefs, it was common. Outside of them, his name was also known, but the Hawks at least didn’t feel any need to speak it with respect, on the rare occasions they used it at all. She’d gotten used to that. She’d forgotten too much.
Kaylin had never met the fieflord. Was certain that she would have remembered even a passing glimpse, had she had one. Because although the Barrani had all looked alike to her when she had joined the Hawks, and it had taken months to become used to the subtle ways in which they differentiated themselves when they could be bothered, she would have known that this one was different.
She almost called him Lord Nightshade, and that would have been too much. Too much fear. Too much reaction.
As if he could hear her thoughts, his gaze met hers. “So,” he said softly. “You are the child.”
Not even that word could make her bridle.
He moved toward her, and Severn moved, slowly, to block him. The Barrani at the fieflord’s back moved less slowly, but with infinitely more grace. They were cold, deadly, beautiful—and utterly silent.
“Severn,” the fieflord said quietly. “It has been many years since we last spoke.”
Kaylin couldn’t stop her brows from rising. “Severn?”
Severn said, quietly, “Not enough of them.”
The fieflord moved before either she or Severn could; he backhanded Severn. And Severn managed to keep his footing. “I will, for the sake of hospitality, tolerate much from outsiders,” the fieflord said. “But you were—and will always be—one of mine. Do not presume overmuch.”
“He’s not yours,” Kaylin said sharply, surprise following words that she wouldn’t have said she could utter until they’d tumbled out of he
r open mouth. She spoke forcefully in Elantran, her mother tongue. Barrani, if it came, would come later; to speak it now was too much of a concession. Or a presumption. Either way, she didn’t like it.
A black brow rose; she had amused the fieflord. Then again, so did painful, hideous death by all accounts.
“And do you claim him, then, little one?”
“The Lord of Hawks does,” she replied.
He reached out slowly, his hand empty, his palm exposed. Gold glittered at the base of his fingers, but he carried no obvious weapon. His fingers brushed her cheek.
As if she were a pet, something small and helpless.
“The Lord of Hawks has no authority here,” he replied softly, “save that which I grant him.”
“He has authority,” Tiamaris said quietly, speaking for the first time.
The fieflord’s hand stilled, but it did not leave her face as he turned. His eyes, however, widened slightly as he met the red of Dragon eyes. Unlidded eyes, they seemed to burn. “Is she yours?” He asked casually, and this time, he did let his hand fall away.
“She is as she says.”
“She has not said who she serves,” the fieflord replied. “And if I am not mistaken, she was born in the fiefs.” He turned to look at her again.
“I—I serve—the Hawklord. Lord Grammayre. And so does Tiamaris.”
“Really?”
“I have offered him my service,” Tiamaris replied softly, “and it has been accepted. While I am here, I am his agent.”
The fieflord surprised Kaylin, then. He laughed. It was a rich, lovely sound, and it conveyed both amusement and something she couldn’t quite name. “Times have changed, Tiamaris, if you can serve another.”
“I have always served another,” was the cold reply.
Kaylin had never seen a Dragon fight. Had a bad feeling that she was about to. The Barrani guards had forgotten Severn, forgotten her; they were drawn to Tiamaris as if he were the only significant danger in the room. Which was fair. He was.
The fieflord, however, raised a hand, and the Barrani stiffened. She knew some of the silent language of thieves, and saw none of it in the gestures of the fieflord. They knew him well enough that that gesture was command.
“It is strange,” the fieflord said softly. “I know both you, Tiamaris, and the young man called Severn by his kind. But the girl? She is at the apex of events, and I have never met her.” He held out a hand, then.
She stared at it.
“Leave her be,” Tiamaris said, and his voice, soft, was suddenly louder than Marcus’s at its most fierce.
“I intend her no harm,” the fieflord replied. He had once again turned the full emerald of his eyes upon her, and she could not help but believe his words. “And I intend to make clear to the people of my lands that I intend they offer her none. Will you gainsay me?”
“I will not have you mark her.”
The fieflord said, quietly, “She is already marked, Tiamaris.”
To that, the Dragon offered no reply.
Which was too bad; it might have helped her make sense of the fieflord’s words. She stared at his hand; he did not move it. After a moment, it became clear to her that he intended her to actually take his hand.
“I am not patient,” the fieflord said, when he realized that she wouldn’t. “And I have little time to spare. You are here because of the sacrifices, of course. And it is in my interest to see an end brought to them as well.”
Still she stared. Might have gone on staring, dumbfounded, had Severn not said, curtly, “Take his hand.”
Her fingers touched the fieflord’s palm, and he closed his hand around hers.
Magic coursed up her arm. Her right arm. She was rigid with the shock of it, and angry. She tried to pull free, and wasn’t surprised when she failed.
“What are you—”
“Silence.”
She could feel the magic as it rode up her shoulder, sharp light, and invisible. She hated magic. But she bit her lip and waited; she was already committed.
Severn swore.
Tiamaris’s brows rose. “Lord Nightshade,” he began, but he did not finish.
The magic broke through her skin, questing in air as if it were alive. She could see it. Judging by the expressions of her companions, everyone could. It twisted in the space just above her, and then it coalesced into a blue, sparkling shape, like a ward.
It touched her cheek, in the exact same place that the fieflord had. A lesson, for Kaylin, and one that she would not forget: he did nothing without cause.
“You bear my mark,” he said quietly. “And in this fief, it will afford you some protection.” He paused, and then added, “This is a fief. It will not protect you from everything. Mortal stupidity knows no bounds. But in the event that you are harmed by any save me, they will pay.”
He let her hand go, then. “Now, come. It is late, and we have far to travel.”
“Travel?” Her first word, and it wasn’t terribly impressive. Then again, Severn said nothing at all.
“You are invited as guests to the Long Halls of Night-shade,” he replied, with just the hint of a bow. “But sunset is coming, and in the fiefs—”
She nodded. In the fiefs, night meant something different.
Her skin was still tingling a half hour later. The fieflord walked before them, and the Barrani guards, behind. Sandwiched in an uncomfortable line between these two walked Severn, Kaylin and Tiamaris, the wings of their namesake momentarily clipped.
“Severn,” she said, in a voice so soft he should have missed it.
Severn nodded, although he didn’t look at her.
“My face—what happened?”
“You—you’ve got a blue flower on your cheek,” he said quietly.
“A flower?”
“Sort of. It’s nightshade.”
“It’s what?”
“Nightshade,” Tiamaris said quietly. “The namesake of the fieflord. It’s a…herb,” he added.
“I have a tattoo of a flower on my face?”
Severn did look at her then, his brow arched. “You would have liked a skull and crossbones better?”
“Or a dagger. Or a sword. Or even a Hawk. A flower?”
“A deadly one,” Tiamaris said, with just the hint of a smile. “But it is very pretty.”
Had he not been a Dragon, she would have kicked him. Or had she not been shadowed by armed Barrani. As it was, she glowered.
Which broadened his smile. Dragon smile. “You should feel…honored. In a fashion. This is the first time that I have seen a human bear the mark of the fieflord.”
She turned the words over, picking out the information they contained. “How often have you seen him mark anyone else?”
“Not often,” Tiamaris replied, his eyes now lidded. “And no, before you ask, I am not going to tell you when.”
She frowned. “Does the Hawklord—”
“Lord Grammayre knows much,” he replied. “And if he feels it necessary to enlighten you, he will. Until then, I suggest you pay attention to the—”
Cobbled streets. Badly cobbled. She caught her boot under the edge of an upturned stone and tripped. Severn caught her arm before she made her way to the ground.
“Severn?”
“What?”
“When did you meet the fieflord?”
“Back when we were both in the fiefs,” he said. But he didn’t meet her eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to know.”
“All right, I guessed that. Why?”
He shook his head. “Don’t ask, Kaylin.”
She heard the change in his tone, and she suddenly didn’t want to know. “You know where we’re going?”
“No. When I spoke to him, he didn’t invite me into his Hall.”
“Should we be worried?”
The look he gave her almost made her laugh. It would have been a shaky laugh. She held it. “I mean, more worried?”
The manor of the fieflord was not a manor. It was a small keep. Stone walls circled it, and beyond their height—and they were damn tall—the hint of a castle behind them could be seen, no more. The stone work of the walls was in perfect repair, and that made it suspect in the fiefs, where nothing was perfect.
The castle would have looked ridiculous had she not been in the presence of the man who ruled the fief from its heart. She’d lived most of her life in Nightshade, and she’d only once come near the keep. Rarely come down the streets that surrounded it. She’d spent a good deal of time honing her skills at theft, and no one survived stealing anything from the fieflord or his closest advisors. And in the end, they were happy enough not to survive; it was all the stuff in between that was terrifying.
She saw no one on the streets. It was not yet dark, but they were empty. She wondered if they’d been cleared by the Barrani guards, or if people were just unusually smart in this part of town. She didn’t ask.
The tall, stone buildings around the keep were better kept than those at the edges of the fief, but they were still packed tightly together, and they still felt old. As old as anything in the outer city. Shadows moved in the windows, or perhaps they were drapes closing; the movements were quick, furtive and caught by the corner of a wary eye.
Between some of those windows, gargoyles, carved in weathered stone, kept watch like sentinels on high, smooth wings folded, claws extended about the edge of their stone bases. She had often wondered if the gargoyles came to life when the last of day waned. She was careful not to wonder it now. Because in the shadow of the fieflord, it seemed too plausible.
The road to the keep was wide; a carriage could easily make its way to the gate, pulled by four—or even six—horses. But the gates themselves were behind a portcullis that discouraged visitors.
They certainly discouraged Kaylin.
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