Cast in Silence. Michelle Sagara
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they weren’t having a good laugh at her expense.
The doors rolled open.
The Hawklord and Lord Sanabalis stood in the center of the chamber; they were both watching the doors. Sanabalis’s eyes were an unfortunate shade of bronze. She couldn’t quite see the color of the Hawklord’s.
“Private Neya,” the Hawklord said, inclining his head. His wings, she noted, were mostly folded at his back. Which probably meant they were an ounce of irritation from spreading. This was an indication that good behavior was required.
She saluted sharply, and then stood at attention. For some reason, this seemed to irk Sanabalis; the Hawklord, however, accepted it as his due.
“Lord Sanabalis has voiced some concerns over an incident that occurred during your patrol yesterday.”
“Sir,” she replied.
“I would like to know if you feel his concern is unfounded.”
She always hated the trick questions. Which would be any question which clearly had a right answer—one that wasn’t immediately obvious to her. On the other hand, not answering was not an option. She glanced at Sanabalis, which was helpful only in the sense that it was clear that her answer was bound to annoy one of them.
“No, sir.”
He held her gaze for a few seconds too long. “Unfortunate,” he finally said. This was said in the tone of voice that was generally followed with a dismissal. He did not, however, dismiss her. Instead, as if she weren’t in the room, he turned back to Sanabalis.
“Your point is taken,” the Hawklord said. “However, at present, Private Neya is not the ideal candidate for your investigation. I would suggest,” he added, in a tone of voice that made clear to Kaylin that this was not the first time in their discussion he had done so, “that you approach the Wolflord.”
“If you feel that it is wise to partner Private Neya with a Wolf,” Sanabalis replied.
Kaylin, standing at attention, wanted to turn and crawl out of the doors.
“Out of the question.”
Or the windows. It would probably be less painful, in the end.
Forty minutes—and a lot of verbal fencing—later, Sanabalis left. Dragons were heavy, and as Sanabalis was not perhaps entirely satisfied with the conclusion of the discussion, he didn’t bother to pick up his feet; she could feel his passage across the floor. She was not, however, dismissed; the Hawklord stood in perfect silence until the Tower doors closed—loudly—on the retreating Dragon Lord.
Only then did Lord Grammayre relax. If that was the right word for it.
“He wants me to go to the fiefs, doesn’t he?” Since that much was obvious, the Hawklord failed to reply. The question would be filed under “wasting his time,” which was never the smartest thing to do.
In spite of herself, Kaylin continued. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been sent to the fiefs.” But she remembered the first time, because it was also the first time she’d laid eyes on Severn in seven years. In this Tower, in the presence of this man.
His wings now did unfold, until they were at half height, but full extension.
“For the moment, I would prefer that you do not enter the fiefs.” His gaze grazed her cheek and Nightshade’s mark.
She frowned. “Why?”
And he raised a pale, graying brow. “I spoke, briefly, with Corporal Handred this morning. He seemed to suspect that a request of this nature would be forthcoming, and he seemed to feel it exceptionally unwise.”
She didn’t ask him why. But she understood now why the conversation with Sanabalis had gone the way it had. She was torn between anger at Severn and a bitter gratitude and, as usual, couldn’t decide on the spot which to choose. But she had nothing, in the end, to hide from the Hawklord.
He seemed to expect her to say something.
“Marcus looked pissed off,” was what she managed.
“I imagine that Sergeant Kassan is not greatly pleased.” He walked over to the long, oval mirror that stood a few feet from the wall. As mirrors went, it was definitely more cramped than the mirrors in the rooms the Hawks used for real work, but it was taller and wider than any reflective surface in the office downstairs. He lifted a hand and touched its surface.
Records could generally be called up by voice; hand activation was rare, and only partly because it left fingerprints which some poor sod then had to clean up.
But Kaylin had some idea of why he used touch, here. Some of the records were keyed not to voice, which was relatively easy to mimic, but to physical artifacts and aura, which were not. The reflective surface stirred and rippled, distorting the view it held of the domed Tower and the man who ruled the Hawks in the Emperor’s name.
When the image reformed, it was still the same view of the Tower, but it contained, instead of the reflection of the Hawklord, a reflection of Kaylin Neya.
Kaylin at thirteen.
She wore dark clothing, a wide strip of cloth across her forehead and another across her lower jaw; her arms carried yards of thin, strong chain links, looped as if they were rope. Metal pitons dangled from the ends; she could hear them hit one another so clearly she might still have been wearing them.
“What do you see?” he asked her softly. “When you look at this girl?”
She stopped herself from cringing, which was hard, and from squinting, which was easy; the latter could be accomplished by simply stepping toward the mirror itself. “Someone stupid enough to climb the Tower walls,” she finally said, making the effort to keep her voice even. This close to the mirror, she examined the girl as if she were a stranger. “You’ve never showed me this before.”
“No.”
She wasn’t much taller now than she’d been then. She wasn’t as scrawny. But what struck her, looking at herself, were the eyes. “She—she doesn’t look like she has a lot to live for.”
He nodded quietly.
“You never told me why,” Kaylin said, as the Hawklord touched the mirror again, and the image broke and vanished, her younger self trapped in permanent, private records, and hidden from all external view.
The Hawklord said nothing. But it was a quiet nothing, and it radiated no irritation or disapproval.
“Why didn’t you send me—send me away?”
“One day, Kaylin, if the answer is not obvious, I will tell you. But not today. Lord Sanabalis has offered to attempt—and attempt is the correct word—to delay your etiquette lessons. I am not entirely certain, however, that he will succeed.”
She grimaced.
“And I do not feel that a delay of any kind is in your best interests.”
She felt her brows rise, and tried to pull them down.
“The Emperor is aware of you,” he continued, “as you well know. It is only a matter of time before you are called to Council. The matter of time,” he added softly, “is unfortunately not dependent on those lessons; it is coming. Ravellon.” He shook his head, and his wings did rise. “What you did in Nightshade was necessary. What you did for the Leontines saved Sergeant Kassan, and possibly his wife.
“But what you saw there means that I will not be able to keep you from Court, and if the Keeper is correct, you will be needed. Sanabalis has spoken on your behalf in Court before, but you are progressing beyond his understanding—and the Arkon does not leave the palace. Sooner or later—and I think sooner likely—you will be asked to report to the Dragon Court’s council.
“Without those lessons, it will not, I feel, go well. Even with Lord Sanabalis’s intervention.”
“Will