Cast in Shadow

by Michelle Sagara

  As Catti had gotten older, she sang less; she had become more self-conscious about the fact that she couldn’t sing well. Kaylin had blessed maturity, but in time, she had learned to regret it as well. Then again, Kaylin had a voice that only a frog would love. But she had always known it. And in the fiefs? Less to sing about.

  Severn had a good voice.

  Aie, and she wasn’t going to think about Severn here. Not here.

  Catti. Think about Catti.

  Think about Catti walking. Catti running. Catti sliding down the banister—the last on a dare. Think about Catti chattering. Think about the first time they met: on Kaylin’s first visit to the foundling halls.

  Clint had pointed the building out to her when he had taken her on his ground patrol. She had had to make him repeat himself slowly, so that she could be certain the words she’d heard were actually the right ones. A whole huge building devoted to parentless children? She had asked Clint who paid for them. Had asked him what happened after they left the foundling hall.

  He was patient, in a humoring-the-newbie sort of way; he answered her questions as if he didn’t think them crazy. He answered them over and over again, because for the rest of their patrol, she had asked about nothing else.

  But at the end of the patrol? He’d taken her to the guarded gate. She had thought it odd, then, that this haven would need a guard, but Clint knew him, and Amos had greeted the Hawk with a gruff friendliness that didn’t suit any jailer she had ever met.

  Later, Clint explained that Amos was the only guard. But not then. He had taken her past the gate, and up the walk. Had pushed her up the stairs, as her feet seemed to become heavier with each step. And he had introduced her to Marrin, the Leontine on duty.

  On duty being words that lost meaning and texture over time. Marrin was not the only adult who worked within the foundling halls, but she was the one in charge—and the only one who wasn’t human. If the Hawks were graced with recruits from every possible race, the foundling halls, which could afford to pay so little, weren’t equally blessed; they had Marrin. But Kaylin, even new to the Hawks, had met Marcus. She was polite and respectful when she spoke with Leontines.

  Marrin had thought it funny, at the time.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Marrin,” Clint had said, “but Kaylin wouldn’t talk about anything else for the entire shift, and you’re better at handling children than—ouch!”

  “Clearly,” Marrin had said, in her dry, Leontine purr. She was amused.

  “Ankle-biters,” Clint had snorted.

  “Kaylin is…a Hawk?”

  “A new Hawk. Sort of.”

  “I’m a Hawk.”

  “Well,” Marrin had said, taking Kaylin by the shoulder and ushering her gently into the halls proper. “I’m sure the children will be very pleased to meet you, Kaylin. At least three of them are determined to march up the steps of the Halls of Law the moment we set them loose. Poor city,” she added, with the hint of a chuckle. “The fact that you are a Hawk, and at your age, will give them hope. Come and meet my children.”

  Suspicious, confused, Kaylin had done just that, while Clint waited.

  Marrin might not have been foolish enough to call Kaylin a child in so many words, but she was mother enough that she wasn’t willing to let Kaylin find her own way home. Clint had put up a fight, but not much of one. She could see him clearly as he was on that day: standing alone, his gray wings folding behind his back, his arms across his chest. He wore the surcoat of the Hawks—and the sword that she really couldn’t lug around on her hip without destroying the scabbard—and light armor; he wore regulation boots that had clearly seen years of use. She would outgrow three pairs before hers would at last look like that—and the quartermaster had been very particular on that point. He seemed to resent that fact that she’d outgrown them before they’d developed holes; it was, in his opinion, a waste of good leather.

  Clint was smiling, but it was a slight smile; it might have been a trick of the light.

  Catti had been the last child to make it into the open space at the top of the banister where so many of Marrin’s group speeches were given. She had tripped over Iain’s outstretched foot, and had turned and smacked him in the head before she’d realized that everyone on the landing was watching her. Her muttered apology lacked any sincerity whatsoever, but Marrin let it pass with a huff of breath.

  “And this is Catti. She’s not very punctual, unfortunately.”

  And there she was: three feet nothing, a spindly armed, redheaded girl who exuded both delight and defiance in equal measure. Wearing the undyed linen that marked the foundlings, her hair pulled back in a braid that was already fraying, her cheeks pale and freckled. She had Barrani eyes, at least in color.

  Punctuality is highly overrated, the older Kaylin wanted to say. The younger Kaylin had said nothing; she was busy trying to remember what the word punctual actually meant. They met for a moment—older self, younger self—as Kaylin in the present reached out to grab hold of this Catti before she disappeared.

  Catti had always been part of the foundling hall, to Kaylin.

  Catti was here. Faint, in memory, but here. Kaylin held fast, building on that memory; giving it roots. She couldn’t have said why—and she wouldn’t have to. No one would ask. Her hands were warm, now; her arms were tingling. She called Catti quietly, and no one answered. Had this just been the damn plague, someone would have.

  But this was the wrong thought; it drifted away from the necessary memories into others that belonged in the foundling hall. She let it go.

  Catti. Catti, I’m here.

  Beneath her palms, she was aware of dry skin, of delicate cheekbones. She let that awareness spread, thinking of Catti; holding the memories that not even Catti was aware of. She became aware—slowly—of limbs that were still bird-thin, of a body that puberty wasn’t finished with yet. White skin. And beneath that, muscle—not much of it, though—and vessels, lungs, heart. Beyond these, spine.

  Catti’s hands on her hips, in mimicry of Kaylin. Catti’s finger, flexing in air as if she could by dint of will force her fingers to extrude the claws of a Leontine. Catti singing, singing, singing, in her off-key voice.

  The body and the memories were too far apart; one was firmly rooted in Kaylin, and the other was outside of her. She had to knit them together, and she didn’t know how.

  But before she did that, she had to make the body whole. Had to find what was broken, to find things that she still had no words for—although her visit to the examiner’s office with Clint had done wonders for her vocabulary, and had only cost her her lunch.

  There. Something wrong. Something broken. No; not just one thing; many things, small things, things that her fingers felt too clumsy, too ungainly to fix. She lost them—and more; she lost hold of her power for a moment.

  Panic. This had happened before, and it had taken time to find her way back to it. She wasn’t a mage—she had no fancy, theoretical words to describe what she knew. She only had certainty, and at the moment, it was the wrong kind.

  Something cool touched her lips.

  She swallowed, tasting nothing; she was barely aware of the motion of her own body, she was so caught up in the motionlessness of Catti’s. As if it were more her own, more familiar, than the one she’d lived in all her life.

  She could return to herself; she’d done that before. But if she did, she would lose the girl. And she could not face Marrin as a failure. Had promised herself, the day she first laid hands upon the brow of a fevered, bone-thin foundling, that she would never fail another child again.

  And so she continued to struggle; to catch the slippery strands of unreliable power; to bind them, thread by thread, until she could grip them tightly again. They seemed to resist; it was harder this time than it had been when she had hovered over Sesti’s near-disastrous birthing. Kaylin’s eyes were already closed. Catti’s face, the sound of her off-key voice precious, became all that she was willing to see or hear.

  An
d holding power, she fastened it to herself, extended it and began to tie it in odd knots around Catti’s injuries—the ones she could see, and the ones that she was almost afraid to touch. Delicate work. And vital.

  More threads. More strands. She gathered these as well; felt the tingling spark that ran along them as a shock. She didn’t let go; instead she built them into a weave that was strong enough to contain both her and Catti. It was, she thought, like a cocoon. She wondered what would emerge from it.

  Hoped that it would be Catti, whole.

  Quietly, she called Catti. She asked her to sing.

  And this time, power flowing between them, Catti heard her. Her voice was broken and rasping, an awkward combination of sound; it was—as always—slightly off-key. Kaylin felt the sharp pang of joy, the anxiety of hope, as she joined her voice with Catti’s; if Marrin was still there, and if Marrin could hear them, she was almost to be pitied. Kaylin hoped she was someplace else—one didn’t pity a Leontine. Not more than once.

  But she heard the soft huff of Marrin’s breath, and she opened her eyes—at least she thought they were hers—slowly. Saw, for a moment, the ceiling of the room, from entirely the wrong angle. Catti’s vision and hers mingled.

  It was not a good way to see the world.

  Kaylin toppled from the bedside, but the floor didn’t hit her; Leontine arms did instead. They were warm, and very strong, even given Marrin’s professed age.

  “Catti—”

  “She’s awake,” Marrin said, the purr deep-throated and loud, it was so close to Kaylin’s ear. “But I have a feeling you shouldn’t be.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Kaylin muttered.

  And then she wasn’t.

  CHAPTER 7

  Kaylin slept off the worst of her numbing exhaustion in the foundling hall, if something so interrupted could be called sleep. In ones and twos, the foundlings came to visit her, and if Marrin wasn’t present, they poked her or pulled her eyelids up just to see if she was awake.

  Even Dock came, but Kaylin was tired enough that she called him by his given name, Iain, and that put him in enough of a mood that his sullenness was almost its own presence. Had she been a bit more awake, she’d’ve asked him why he called himself Dock—but she was thankful for small mercies.

  Marrin came to chase him out of the room, and after the foundlings were in bed—or as much in bed as they ever were, given that they showed so little fear of Leontine outrage—Marrin called Amos from his position at the gate. It was dark, now, and the doors should have been locked, which meant in theory that he could go home.

  Marrin sent him by way of Kaylin’s place, and he helped Kaylin walk down the streets. They were emptier, she’d give them that. And given the way she was lurching at the almost unbearable weight of her own body, she was grateful.

  He knew better than to ask her what she’d done. Instead, he saw her to the outer door of her building, and hugged her briefly, in silence, before he watched her walk up the stairs.

  She remembered opening the door.

  She remembered stumbling into the room; latching the door behind her was so much of a reflex that her fingers did the work while her mind started to blank. She made it to the bed.

  Kaylin was going to break the damn mirror, never mind that the cost of replacing it would come out of her meager pay. As mirrors went, it was pathetic; it wasn’t at all flattering, besides which she hardly ever saw her own face looking back at her on the days when she did use it. On the other hand, given how she was feeling, she was pretty sure that even Marcus’s face would be an improvement over hers.

  Improvement or no, she could hear his growl transmitted through the magical silvered glass. Had there been a time in her life when she’d been stupid enough to long for magic? Probably. She carefully failed to remember it as she rolled out of bed.

  Someone had forgotten to pull the blinds over the window. The problem with living alone was that she always knew who the guilty party was. The mirror’s glow threatened to out-bright the sun’s light. She winced as she looked at the floor. She’d memorized the way shadows fell beyond the perpetual laundry heap: it was late. Very, very late.

  “Kaylin Neya, I know you’re there!”

  “Coming,” she said, putting on her best morning voice. “Haven’t we already done this this week?”

  Marcus said something unflattering in Leontine. She shrugged. She did this just before she snuck into the mirror’s widest view; no point in adding to his annoyance. If that were possible; with Marcus, it was hard to tell.

  “I’m getting a little tired of it myself,” Marcus snarled. “But apparently Caitlin doesn’t have enough of a voice to wake you up.” Caitlin was the birdlike woman who served as his secretary—on the very rare occasions Marcus actually needed one. He wasn’t a great believer in paperwork, and usually only saw to it when under threat of death. Or worse.

  She took a good look; Marcus wasn’t in dress uniform. It couldn’t be that bad. Then again, she was in yesterday’s clothing, and was certain, from the slight lift of his golden fur, that she looked it.

  “Neya, do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “Past midday?”

  “Good guess. How much past midday?”

  She winced. “I’m almost out the door,” she said.

  He snorted. He didn’t, however, call her a liar. “Good. I don’t suppose it will come as a surprise to you that the Hawklord is waiting?”

  She closed her eyes. “He’d have to be,” she said, bending out of the mirror’s range and reaching for her boots. Took her a minute to realize they were still on her feet. It was going to be a long day.

  Clint, as it happened, was on duty at the front doors. It wasn’t his favorite job; in fact, it was no one’s favorite job, and the Hawks and Swords shared it in rotation, resenting the fact that the Wolves were given a bye. It did, however, have completely regular hours, something often denied people whose jobs took them out on investigations, and given Clint’s family situation, this was a good thing.

  “You look like crap,” he said, frowning.

  She lifted bleary eyes. “You look like Clint.”

  “Nothing wrong with your eyes.” He laughed. She still liked the sound; it took more than a late morning to make her too grouchy to appreciate it. Unfortunately, more was coming. Clint’s perfect face got very serious, and she didn’t like it.

  “What?”

  “You’re investigating in the fiefs,” he said quietly. Word, it appeared, traveled. In how much detail, she didn’t know—and she wasn’t allowed to ask.

  She nodded. She really didn’t like it.

  “Get your butt indoors,” he said, lowering his pike. “Now.”

  “Clint—”

  He shook his head. “You were at the foundling halls yesterday.”

  “Great. Does everybody know?”

  “Marrin mirrored in here, first. Yeah, I’d say everyone knows. Well, everyone who wasn’t sleeping at their desk.”

  She snorted. But she had no reason to worry about the foundling halls at the moment. She took the steps two at a time, and managed not to trip. Fear did that.

  Marcus was, of course, waiting for her. The fact that the office was bustling—and gossiping—all around him eased Kaylin’s mood somewhat, but she was cautious.

  “Morning,” she said, and then, looking out the window, added, “Afternoon.”

  “Yes,” he said, deadpan, which was pretty much standard. “It is.” He stared at her, his eyes unblinking. “You’re all right?”

  She nodded.

  “Marrin called.”

  “I know.”

  “She managed to get you at home?”

  She nodded again.

  “I told you to take the day off.”

  “You told me to take two days off,” she countered.

  He shrugged. “Hawklord had other ideas.” He motioned toward the doors at his back. “He’s waiting in the tower.”

  She started to make her way past hi
m, and he caught her shoulder in his clawed grip.

  “Where’s your armor?”

  “Home.”

  “Quartermaster is going to have your ears.”

  She lost a few inches as she deflated. “We’re going out?”

  “Yeah. All three of you.”

  And she remembered Severn. Squared her shoulders. “Could you—”

  “Yeah. But the other two are already equipped.”

  Sometimes whole weeks were like this.

  The stairs were longer than usual. Or her legs were weaker. Given the magical protections placed upon every square inch of the huge building, she bet on the latter. And cursed it.

  She passed guards at the levels between Tower and everything else, and nodded; they nodded back. They recognized her. She wondered privately if she were winning—or losing—them any bets. It hadn’t escaped her notice that betting on the time of her arrival was an office pastime. Sadly, her attempts to end the betting always failed; punctuality was never going to be her strong suit.

  “Kaylin,” the Hawklord said, when the doors to the tower rolled open. “Good of you to join us.”

  She had the grace to flush, and she bowed a little lower than absolutely necessary. There wasn’t much difference between that and what was in theory necessary, but she managed. She’d learned early that if she couldn’t be on time to save her life, she’d better cultivate the unseemly art of groveling.

  “Lord Grammayre,” she added, as she rose.

  “You were at the foundling halls yesterday?”

  She cringed, but nodded. “Yes, sir.”