Format: Paperback, 480 pages
Release Date: August 27, 2013
Publisher: Harlequin Luna
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy
THE END OF HER JOURNEY IS ONLY THE BEGINNING…
The Barrani would
be happy to see her die. So Kaylin Neya is a bit surprised by her safe
arrival in the West March. Especially when enemies new and old surround
her and those she would call friends are equally dangerous…
And
then the real trouble starts. Kaylin's assignment is to be a
"harmoniste"—one who helps tell the truth behind a Barrani Recitation.
But in a land where words are more effective than weapons, Kaylin's
duties are deadly. With the wrong phrase she could tear a people further
asunder. And with the right ones…well, then she might be able to heal a
blight on a race.
If only she understood the story….
Cast in Sorrow is the Ninth installment in author Michelle Sagara's Chronicles of Elantra series. Cast in Sorrow picks up immediately after Cast in Peril ended. Once again we return to the world of Elantra and Private Kaylin Neya. Kaylin is the girl who grew up in the fief's of Nightshade, lost everyone she loves, later became the mascot for the ground hawks because she was so small, and finally became one herself. Kaylin was once deemed so dangerous by the Eternal Emperor (Dragon) because of the strange markings all over her body that once cost 12 children their lives, including two who were Kaylin's family, that he wanted her dead. Kaylin travels to the land of West March where readers will finally get an in-depth look into the Barrani.
Alongside Kaylin is fellow hawks Teela, and Severn. Her knowledge of Elantran
streets was second to none—or close—but the West March wasn't in Elantra. Sagara
highlights the difference between the Barrani who lived in the city of
Elantra, traveled to the West March with Kaylin, and those who never
experienced Kaylin before. Their very difference in outlook and strict
adherence to formality was in sharp contrast to what she had experienced
before, even in the High Halls. I am still one of those readers who gets a bit irk at the constant questions that Kaylin poses, and the fact that she seems to blunder into all sorts of dangerous positions, yet comes out on the other side somehow thanks to her Dragon familiar, Teela, and Severn.
The
combination of Kaylin’s frustration and willingness to ask questions as
she tried to learn her role and solve a few mysteries did result in
some information about Teela, Barrani culture, and Severn which you will find more about in the author's Emperor's Wolves series. When
Kaylin’s pet dragon started demonstrating more of what made him equally
feared and coveted I thought the stakes were even higher for Kaylin as
the “Harmoniste” than anyone expected. This book also touches on Teela's past as part of the 12 children who were chosen as experiments. Teela somehow managed to survive, while 11 others have been missing for hundreds of years. Until Kaylin's arrival.
Finding
out the whole, or maybe most, of how and why Teela, out of all the
Barrani High Court, came to the Hawks was fascinating. We see what made
her who and what she is. The unique circumstances that would make an
immortal “adopt” a mortal like Kaylin as first a “mascot”, and then a
friend. One
of the core elements of Kaylin’s personality continued to shine
throughout all of her struggles because she never backed down from
trying to protect those she felt deserved protection regardless of her
personal feelings towards them. In fact some of her difficulties were
caused by that protective instinct. Kaylin learned some serious lessons
about what the Barrani will do in pursuit of their own desires.
I
enjoyed this entry for the most part but I did miss Elantra. I’m glad the journey
is over and I’m to move on to Cast in Flame to see what happens to the newest members of the cast of this series and how they fit in as well as Nightshade and what shenanigans he could be up to. I actually really like this cover. It shows a key moment in the story along with the magical dress that guides Kaylin through some pretty twisted mysteries.
.png)
To say that Private Kaylin Neya was out of her element was to master the
art of understatement. Fish out of water had nothing on the groundhawk
whose entire life had been lived within the boundaries of Elantra—either
on the city streets or in the fiefs at its heart.
This had become obvious the moment she entered the forest, walking between Severn and Teela and surrounded—literally—by Barrani. Or as she walked through forest, at any rate, because this far across the known map, it was all forest. Never an aficionado of fine art, she'd nonetheless seen paintings, and the occasional diorama of ancient forests, and she had known what to expect: tall, majestic trees, shade-dappled forest floors and shafts of brilliant, solid sunlight illuminating strategic patches of charming undergrowth, with the occasional frail animal thrown in for good measure. In the paintings, there were no Barrani, no dragons, and no angry Leontines; there were no drug dealers, no muggers, no frauds, and no rapists. The artists evoked a sense of peaceful idyll. Hah.
Painters should have been Court diplomats—men and women who'd mastered the art of telling pretentious lies with more or less straight faces. For one, they left out the bugs. On some level, Kaylin didn't blame them—if she'd had the choice, she'd've left them out, too. Unfortunately, she didn't. The insects didn't appear to bother the Barrani. She was glad—in an entirely petty way—that they occasionally bit Severn, because it made their choice of dinner snacks racial, rather than purely personal. He didn't appear to take offense as much.
Then again, he had other things on his mind, chief among them, not tripping over inconveniently placed tree roots and landing on his face. His left eye had, over the course of two days, developed a purple-black tinge. He'd taken one wound to his upper left thigh, and two broad gashes across his left rib cage, one of which had exposed bone. He'd allowed her to heal the wounds by a few days' worth, no more.
This was a greater liberty than any of the injured Barrani allowed her, and she was tired enough not to push the point. The Barrani version of gratitude for the gift of healing involved knives—or worse—in dark alleys.
Avoiding Barrani, however, was not an option.
The Lord of the West March and what remained of his soldiers formed up at the front—and the rear—of the delegation. To either side, what was left of the party that had set out from the High Halls walked in single file. Kaylin wasn't given the option of choosing her position in that delegation: she was wearing a very fine, obviously magical, green dress, and the dress demanded respect, even if the wearer didn't.
Travel, some idiot in her office had said, is fun.
Kaylin, surrounded by somber, tense—and deeply blueeyed Barrani—had a few words to say about that. Teela made clear she could say them with her mouth shut. So Kaylin, navigating forest, footpaths, and a plague of blood-drinking, buzzing insects, began to make a list. It was, in her mind, titled Things Not to Do if You Want to Have Fun During Your Involuntary Leave of (Probably Unpaid) Absence.
First on the list: avoid making deals for crucial information with a fieflord. Even if the Halls of Law were desperate for that information. The particular fieflord in question, Lord Nightshade, didn't seem to have any trouble navigating the forest, and the insects avoided him. He wore a tiara with an emerald at its peak, and robes that looked ridiculously fine in comparison to the practical Barrani armor that almost everyone else was wearing. She added a corollary to the first point: do not agree to attend a religious rite in the West March without first ascertaining that the fieflord in question did not also plan to attend.
Second on the list: do not travel with the Barrani High Court. It had seemed both convenient and smart to accept their offer of transportation; after all, the Barrani knew where they were going. Kaylin didn't. Her knowledge of Elantran streets was second to none—or close—but the West March wasn't in Elantra. At the time, because she'd had no idea how to reach the West March, getting there on her own had seemed impossible.
Impossible couldn't be worse than this. She slapped her arm and squashed an insect. The chill in the air, as she smeared insect body across the sleeve of her incredibly important ceremonial dress, could have frozen moving water.
If the imaginary person for whom the list was being created had had no choice in either of the first two, she emphatically underlined point three: if you see a strange dress in a closet that only appeared after you'd entered the room of your inn, ignore it. Under no circumstances was such a dress to be worn. Unless you were Barrani, and maybe not even then. Yes, the dress was a lovely shade of green. Yes, it was comfortable. Yes, it was suitable for the Barrani High Court—and it didn't require the help of two strong people to put on. It was even practical; the skirts were wide enough that Kaylin could run—at full stride—while wearing it.
Unfortunately, the Barrani didn't respect or revere it because it was practical. They revered it because it was the manifestation of the will of the heart of the green. Some poor sucker, shoehorned into the dress, was meant to serve in a primary role in the recitation of the regalia—the very rite that a smart person would have gone out of their way to avoid attending if they were paying attention to point one.
Fourth on the list—although technically, it might be better placed between points two and three: avoid Barrani inns. The Barrani version of an inn was known as a Hallionne. Or the Hallionne, in plural. As inns went they were creepy, in part because they were alive and sentient—and mind-reading. Best not to forget the mind-reading part. They reminded Kaylin of nothing so much as the Towers or Castles in the fiefs, and no one with two brain cells to rub together voluntarily lived in either. She felt a twinge of guilt at this because she counted Tara, the Tower of Tiamaris, as a friend. But it had been a long two days—it was a very minor twinge.
Because the Hallionne were sentient, they were able to do things that normal inns couldn't—like, say, choose the rooms in which their guests stayed. Want a different room? Too damn bad. You could stay in the room the Hallionne chose for you—or you could sleep under the trees, where the forest version of Ferals would eat your liver for a midnight snack. The Hallionne also had a pretty broad idea of physical shape and changed it apparently at whim.
The small dragon perched on her shoulder tilted his head, and after a pause, squawked in her ear.
Point five, which might also be point zero: do not take large, strange eggs home with you. They hatched into delicate, small dragons. Not that the actual dragons of Kaylin's acquaintance thought so—but honestly, the little guy had miniature dragon breath. Except he didn't spew flame; he spewed…clouds. That could melt steel without heating it first. That could kill Ferals. That could bypass the usual magical wards placed on doors.
Squawk.
Or maybe point five should be: do not have a dragon for a roommate. Because dragons for roommates attracted assassins the way Kaylin was currently attracting insects—and if you were planning on killing a dragon, you'd need enough magical conflagration to destroy a city block.
Or two.
And that much magic had certainly been enough to destroy the only home Kaylin had ever truly owned. Or rented. On the other hand, if your life goal was to live in the Palace, dragon roommates who just happened to be the only living female of the species were definitely the way to go.
The small dragon squawked again.
"All right, all right. Scratch that. Unhatched eggs are good." Especially since the act of hatching seemed responsible for the fact that Kaylin—and Bellusdeo, the maligned dragon roommate in question—were still alive. That was not the usual outcome when an Arcane bomb exploded in your face.
He squawked.
"They're bad?"
"Lord Kaylin," Severn said. She glanced at him. "Is there some difficulty?" His words were both High Barrani and stiff as boards. They reminded her, immediately, that she was surrounded by Barrani Lords who were just as stiff, but probably less friendly. You could get some warmth out of most boards by burning them; at this point, Kaylin wasn't so certain the same could be said of the High Court, or at least its present members. Only Nightshade looked amused.
Amusing Nightshade was not high on her list of things to do, although it didn't quite make the list of things not to do she was composing.
Let's see. Six? Six: if a Hallionne offered to let you stay in his special, safe space, and the space looked like a haunted graveyard, don't do it.
She was aware, as she stubbed her toe for the thousandth time, that she was being more than a little unfair. But the imitation graveyard had been a bedroom, of sorts. In the heart of the Hallionne, his brothers slept.
Small and squawky dragon sidekick had breathed on their tombstones, which had caused them to wake. The waking had been disturbing. The brothers themselves, disturbing as well but in a different way—they'd adopted the forms of Barrani Lords, but the minute they'd opened their collective mouths it was clear they had very, very little in common with the Hal-lionne's most frequent guests.
Seven: if the Hallionne offers to let you take the portal paths through the outlands to the West March, say no. Loudly. Le-ontine optional. In theory, the portal paths were risky. Theory and practice aligned, but not in the ways she'd been told to expect.
In theory, the outlands existed as a kind of potential space. They were gray and formless in their natural state. An entire group—such as, say, the group that set out from the High Halls what felt like months ago—could pass through the arch of the portal intent on reaching the same destination, but only two people were guaranteed to do so.
One of them was Kaylin Neya, wearer of the dress that deserved respect.
The other was Lord Nightshade, wearer of the emerald tiara. Like Kaylin's dress, the tiara was given to someone chosen to participate directly in the recitation of the regalia. Unlike Kaylin, Nightshade seemed to approve.
She'd been surprised to enter the outlands to find the bowers of normal, if tall, trees. So had the Consort. The Consort. Kaylin wanted to add an eighth item to her growing list: don't piss off the Consort. But in this case, she couldn't. Kaylin understood why the Consort was angry. She also understood that given the same possible outcomes, Kaylin would stand by the choice she'd made.
She glanced at the Consort as she thought it; the Consort was dressed in white armor, a gift from the Lord of the West March. She carried a naked blade, and her hair was swept off the back of her neck. She was, on the other hand, the only Barrani to confine her hair. As if aware of Kaylin's attention, the Consort glanced at her. Her eyes were blue. They were not as dark a blue as almost everyone else's.
Teela's were certainly darker.
"Honestly, kitling," the Barrani Hawk said, frowning. "I can hear you thinking."
On most days, the Barrani who worked in the Halls of Law looked both arrogant and bored. At thirteen years of age, Kaylin had found the arrogance irritating. The boredom, she understood. Today, she missed it.
"Teela—"
"If I hear one more word about the insects, I swear I will bite you myself." She spoke in quiet Elantran for the first time in two days.
The rush of gratitude Kaylin felt at the sound of her mother tongue should have embarrassed her. Clearly, from Teela's expression, it embarrassed one of them. "Do not," Teela continued in the same Elantran, her brows furrowing, "start to worry about me."
"But—"
"I mean it."
"Can I talk about something else instead?"
"I'm certain to regret it," was Teela's brusque reply. As it wasn't a no, Kaylin said, "Why do so many Barrani try to divest themselves of their names?"
"Do they?"
"Illien in Barren. The walking dead in Nightshade."
"Two small examples do not constitute a multitude."
"Well, no. But I think that's what Iberrienne was trying to do."
Teela shook her head. "I think you're wrong."
Kaylin wasn't so certain. Eighth on her list, then: do not speak the True Name of a Barrani Lord who you don't intend to kill immediately afterward. She hadn't planned it. But she had seen Ynpharion's True Name, and she had seen the substantial shadows it both cast and fed. The shadow had taken the form of his name, and the shape. It was as if he had two names, identical in form, but entirely different in substance.
She didn't understand how. But she was certain that the shadow name—for want of anything else to call it—had given the Barrani Lord the ability to transform himself into the Ferals that hunted in the less safe parts of the West March and its environs. It was as a Feral that he had first approached Kaylin.
It was as a Feral that he would have killed her, too. But her dragon sidekick had conferred a type of invisibility on her. Or on himself. That invisibility had given her the time to observe, and the time to plan—even if the plan was half-assed and desperate.
She knew the True Names of both Lord Nightshade and the Lord of the West March. She understood that in theory, this gave her power over them. But she now understood that theory was its usual pathetic mess. Neither Nightshade nor the Lord of the West March had ever fought against her knowledge. They accepted the threat she might one day pose. They did not feel threatened by her now.
They had, she understood, gifted her with the knowledge of their names.
But Lord Ynpharion had not. She'd spoken his name, strengthening its existence, in an attempt to burn away the shadows that clung to it. She'd succeeded. But there had been no way to ask his permission because before she had invoked his name, he wouldn't have given it. He fought her.
He fought, and he lost. This was a new and painful experience for Kaylin, and it was not one she was anxious to repeat.
Ynpharion walked to one side of the Lord of the West March, in what should have been a position of honor. To the naked eye, he was as proud, as focused, as unflappable as any other Barrani present.
But Kaylin saw beneath that surface. She saw his self-loathing, his disgust, and his fury—most of it aimed squarely at her. The only reason he kept it to himself was his fear of exposure. Kaylin held his name.
This had become obvious the moment she entered the forest, walking between Severn and Teela and surrounded—literally—by Barrani. Or as she walked through forest, at any rate, because this far across the known map, it was all forest. Never an aficionado of fine art, she'd nonetheless seen paintings, and the occasional diorama of ancient forests, and she had known what to expect: tall, majestic trees, shade-dappled forest floors and shafts of brilliant, solid sunlight illuminating strategic patches of charming undergrowth, with the occasional frail animal thrown in for good measure. In the paintings, there were no Barrani, no dragons, and no angry Leontines; there were no drug dealers, no muggers, no frauds, and no rapists. The artists evoked a sense of peaceful idyll. Hah.
Painters should have been Court diplomats—men and women who'd mastered the art of telling pretentious lies with more or less straight faces. For one, they left out the bugs. On some level, Kaylin didn't blame them—if she'd had the choice, she'd've left them out, too. Unfortunately, she didn't. The insects didn't appear to bother the Barrani. She was glad—in an entirely petty way—that they occasionally bit Severn, because it made their choice of dinner snacks racial, rather than purely personal. He didn't appear to take offense as much.
Then again, he had other things on his mind, chief among them, not tripping over inconveniently placed tree roots and landing on his face. His left eye had, over the course of two days, developed a purple-black tinge. He'd taken one wound to his upper left thigh, and two broad gashes across his left rib cage, one of which had exposed bone. He'd allowed her to heal the wounds by a few days' worth, no more.
This was a greater liberty than any of the injured Barrani allowed her, and she was tired enough not to push the point. The Barrani version of gratitude for the gift of healing involved knives—or worse—in dark alleys.
Avoiding Barrani, however, was not an option.
The Lord of the West March and what remained of his soldiers formed up at the front—and the rear—of the delegation. To either side, what was left of the party that had set out from the High Halls walked in single file. Kaylin wasn't given the option of choosing her position in that delegation: she was wearing a very fine, obviously magical, green dress, and the dress demanded respect, even if the wearer didn't.
Travel, some idiot in her office had said, is fun.
Kaylin, surrounded by somber, tense—and deeply blueeyed Barrani—had a few words to say about that. Teela made clear she could say them with her mouth shut. So Kaylin, navigating forest, footpaths, and a plague of blood-drinking, buzzing insects, began to make a list. It was, in her mind, titled Things Not to Do if You Want to Have Fun During Your Involuntary Leave of (Probably Unpaid) Absence.
First on the list: avoid making deals for crucial information with a fieflord. Even if the Halls of Law were desperate for that information. The particular fieflord in question, Lord Nightshade, didn't seem to have any trouble navigating the forest, and the insects avoided him. He wore a tiara with an emerald at its peak, and robes that looked ridiculously fine in comparison to the practical Barrani armor that almost everyone else was wearing. She added a corollary to the first point: do not agree to attend a religious rite in the West March without first ascertaining that the fieflord in question did not also plan to attend.
Second on the list: do not travel with the Barrani High Court. It had seemed both convenient and smart to accept their offer of transportation; after all, the Barrani knew where they were going. Kaylin didn't. Her knowledge of Elantran streets was second to none—or close—but the West March wasn't in Elantra. At the time, because she'd had no idea how to reach the West March, getting there on her own had seemed impossible.
Impossible couldn't be worse than this. She slapped her arm and squashed an insect. The chill in the air, as she smeared insect body across the sleeve of her incredibly important ceremonial dress, could have frozen moving water.
If the imaginary person for whom the list was being created had had no choice in either of the first two, she emphatically underlined point three: if you see a strange dress in a closet that only appeared after you'd entered the room of your inn, ignore it. Under no circumstances was such a dress to be worn. Unless you were Barrani, and maybe not even then. Yes, the dress was a lovely shade of green. Yes, it was comfortable. Yes, it was suitable for the Barrani High Court—and it didn't require the help of two strong people to put on. It was even practical; the skirts were wide enough that Kaylin could run—at full stride—while wearing it.
Unfortunately, the Barrani didn't respect or revere it because it was practical. They revered it because it was the manifestation of the will of the heart of the green. Some poor sucker, shoehorned into the dress, was meant to serve in a primary role in the recitation of the regalia—the very rite that a smart person would have gone out of their way to avoid attending if they were paying attention to point one.
Fourth on the list—although technically, it might be better placed between points two and three: avoid Barrani inns. The Barrani version of an inn was known as a Hallionne. Or the Hallionne, in plural. As inns went they were creepy, in part because they were alive and sentient—and mind-reading. Best not to forget the mind-reading part. They reminded Kaylin of nothing so much as the Towers or Castles in the fiefs, and no one with two brain cells to rub together voluntarily lived in either. She felt a twinge of guilt at this because she counted Tara, the Tower of Tiamaris, as a friend. But it had been a long two days—it was a very minor twinge.
Because the Hallionne were sentient, they were able to do things that normal inns couldn't—like, say, choose the rooms in which their guests stayed. Want a different room? Too damn bad. You could stay in the room the Hallionne chose for you—or you could sleep under the trees, where the forest version of Ferals would eat your liver for a midnight snack. The Hallionne also had a pretty broad idea of physical shape and changed it apparently at whim.
The small dragon perched on her shoulder tilted his head, and after a pause, squawked in her ear.
Point five, which might also be point zero: do not take large, strange eggs home with you. They hatched into delicate, small dragons. Not that the actual dragons of Kaylin's acquaintance thought so—but honestly, the little guy had miniature dragon breath. Except he didn't spew flame; he spewed…clouds. That could melt steel without heating it first. That could kill Ferals. That could bypass the usual magical wards placed on doors.
Squawk.
Or maybe point five should be: do not have a dragon for a roommate. Because dragons for roommates attracted assassins the way Kaylin was currently attracting insects—and if you were planning on killing a dragon, you'd need enough magical conflagration to destroy a city block.
Or two.
And that much magic had certainly been enough to destroy the only home Kaylin had ever truly owned. Or rented. On the other hand, if your life goal was to live in the Palace, dragon roommates who just happened to be the only living female of the species were definitely the way to go.
The small dragon squawked again.
"All right, all right. Scratch that. Unhatched eggs are good." Especially since the act of hatching seemed responsible for the fact that Kaylin—and Bellusdeo, the maligned dragon roommate in question—were still alive. That was not the usual outcome when an Arcane bomb exploded in your face.
He squawked.
"They're bad?"
"Lord Kaylin," Severn said. She glanced at him. "Is there some difficulty?" His words were both High Barrani and stiff as boards. They reminded her, immediately, that she was surrounded by Barrani Lords who were just as stiff, but probably less friendly. You could get some warmth out of most boards by burning them; at this point, Kaylin wasn't so certain the same could be said of the High Court, or at least its present members. Only Nightshade looked amused.
Amusing Nightshade was not high on her list of things to do, although it didn't quite make the list of things not to do she was composing.
Let's see. Six? Six: if a Hallionne offered to let you stay in his special, safe space, and the space looked like a haunted graveyard, don't do it.
She was aware, as she stubbed her toe for the thousandth time, that she was being more than a little unfair. But the imitation graveyard had been a bedroom, of sorts. In the heart of the Hallionne, his brothers slept.
Small and squawky dragon sidekick had breathed on their tombstones, which had caused them to wake. The waking had been disturbing. The brothers themselves, disturbing as well but in a different way—they'd adopted the forms of Barrani Lords, but the minute they'd opened their collective mouths it was clear they had very, very little in common with the Hal-lionne's most frequent guests.
Seven: if the Hallionne offers to let you take the portal paths through the outlands to the West March, say no. Loudly. Le-ontine optional. In theory, the portal paths were risky. Theory and practice aligned, but not in the ways she'd been told to expect.
In theory, the outlands existed as a kind of potential space. They were gray and formless in their natural state. An entire group—such as, say, the group that set out from the High Halls what felt like months ago—could pass through the arch of the portal intent on reaching the same destination, but only two people were guaranteed to do so.
One of them was Kaylin Neya, wearer of the dress that deserved respect.
The other was Lord Nightshade, wearer of the emerald tiara. Like Kaylin's dress, the tiara was given to someone chosen to participate directly in the recitation of the regalia. Unlike Kaylin, Nightshade seemed to approve.
She'd been surprised to enter the outlands to find the bowers of normal, if tall, trees. So had the Consort. The Consort. Kaylin wanted to add an eighth item to her growing list: don't piss off the Consort. But in this case, she couldn't. Kaylin understood why the Consort was angry. She also understood that given the same possible outcomes, Kaylin would stand by the choice she'd made.
She glanced at the Consort as she thought it; the Consort was dressed in white armor, a gift from the Lord of the West March. She carried a naked blade, and her hair was swept off the back of her neck. She was, on the other hand, the only Barrani to confine her hair. As if aware of Kaylin's attention, the Consort glanced at her. Her eyes were blue. They were not as dark a blue as almost everyone else's.
Teela's were certainly darker.
"Honestly, kitling," the Barrani Hawk said, frowning. "I can hear you thinking."
On most days, the Barrani who worked in the Halls of Law looked both arrogant and bored. At thirteen years of age, Kaylin had found the arrogance irritating. The boredom, she understood. Today, she missed it.
"Teela—"
"If I hear one more word about the insects, I swear I will bite you myself." She spoke in quiet Elantran for the first time in two days.
The rush of gratitude Kaylin felt at the sound of her mother tongue should have embarrassed her. Clearly, from Teela's expression, it embarrassed one of them. "Do not," Teela continued in the same Elantran, her brows furrowing, "start to worry about me."
"But—"
"I mean it."
"Can I talk about something else instead?"
"I'm certain to regret it," was Teela's brusque reply. As it wasn't a no, Kaylin said, "Why do so many Barrani try to divest themselves of their names?"
"Do they?"
"Illien in Barren. The walking dead in Nightshade."
"Two small examples do not constitute a multitude."
"Well, no. But I think that's what Iberrienne was trying to do."
Teela shook her head. "I think you're wrong."
Kaylin wasn't so certain. Eighth on her list, then: do not speak the True Name of a Barrani Lord who you don't intend to kill immediately afterward. She hadn't planned it. But she had seen Ynpharion's True Name, and she had seen the substantial shadows it both cast and fed. The shadow had taken the form of his name, and the shape. It was as if he had two names, identical in form, but entirely different in substance.
She didn't understand how. But she was certain that the shadow name—for want of anything else to call it—had given the Barrani Lord the ability to transform himself into the Ferals that hunted in the less safe parts of the West March and its environs. It was as a Feral that he had first approached Kaylin.
It was as a Feral that he would have killed her, too. But her dragon sidekick had conferred a type of invisibility on her. Or on himself. That invisibility had given her the time to observe, and the time to plan—even if the plan was half-assed and desperate.
She knew the True Names of both Lord Nightshade and the Lord of the West March. She understood that in theory, this gave her power over them. But she now understood that theory was its usual pathetic mess. Neither Nightshade nor the Lord of the West March had ever fought against her knowledge. They accepted the threat she might one day pose. They did not feel threatened by her now.
They had, she understood, gifted her with the knowledge of their names.
But Lord Ynpharion had not. She'd spoken his name, strengthening its existence, in an attempt to burn away the shadows that clung to it. She'd succeeded. But there had been no way to ask his permission because before she had invoked his name, he wouldn't have given it. He fought her.
He fought, and he lost. This was a new and painful experience for Kaylin, and it was not one she was anxious to repeat.
Ynpharion walked to one side of the Lord of the West March, in what should have been a position of honor. To the naked eye, he was as proud, as focused, as unflappable as any other Barrani present.
But Kaylin saw beneath that surface. She saw his self-loathing, his disgust, and his fury—most of it aimed squarely at her. The only reason he kept it to himself was his fear of exposure. Kaylin held his name.
Format: Paperback, 496 pages
Release Date: July 29, 2014
Publisher: Harlequin Mira
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy
Any day that starts with dragon arguments is going to be bad
Kaylin
returned from the West March in one piece. Now that piece is fraying.
She's not at home in the Imperial Palace—and she never intends to be.
All she wants is normal garden-variety criminals and a place of her own.
Of course, normal in her new life involves a dragon as a roommate, but
she can handle that.
She can't as easily handle the new
residents to the city she polices, because one of them is Nightshade's
younger brother. On a night when she should be talking to landlords in
perfectly normal buildings, she's called to the fief—by Teela. A small
family disagreement has become a large, complicated problem: Castle
Nightshade's latent magic is waking.
And it's not the only thing.
Cast in Flame is the Tenth installment in author Michelle Sagara's Chronicles of Elantra Series. Private Kaylin Neya has returned home from West March along with a few new characters. While Kaylin is trying to help Annarion and Mandorian adjust to life in the outside world, she's also trying to find a new home which was destroyed by a bomb. Feeling uncomfortable in the Dragon Palace, especially with all the shouting, she tries to find a new place of her own but she can't leave Bellusdeo behind. Unfortunately, Bellusdeo requires a level of security and higher creature comforts she cannot afford.
To make things more dangerous for Kaylin, the Emperor has a hard time letting Bellusdeo go with Kaylin. She's too valuable to him and if anything happened to her, there would be no more baby dragons. Well, except for Kaylin's familiar who she named Hope but can't talk to unless it in large mode. It’s not long before something else demands her attention, though. Something’s been awakened in Castle Nightshade. Something deadly, and something ancient. Something that’s tracking Kaylin's new friends Mandoran and Annarion simply because they are something different from what we've seen. And if she doesn’t figure out how to stop it, the entire city of Elantra could end up in ruins.
Kaylin spends so much time helping others, she is worn out. What is also distressing is how Kaylin handles all the troubles. She continues to run in head first without thought. She is all instinct and no planning. She also runs on fumes as she isn't rested and makes poor choices. She barely survives each new conflict. And yet, there is a very impressive moment between Kaylin and the Dragon Emperor. Even though he could squash her like a bug, she takes her suggestions to heart when it comes to how he should respect what Bellusdeo chooses to do next.
It also helps that Kaylin is once again in the right place at the right time in order to join in a fierce battle between Barrani, Dragons, Hawks, and an Ancient Barrani who was awakened by unknown circumstances. On top of all of this, Kaylin finds a very strange home that she's referred to by The Keeper of the Gardens. Could this be the beginning of an actual solid construct where Kaylin could escape from her every day job and actually relax for once? We shall see. We shall see because the book ends on a CLIFFHANGER!!!!
One of my biggest issues with this series is the length of the books, the fact that nobody can explain to me what being the Chosen means except apparently stumble into situations and just throw caution to the wind, and why Kaylin can't speak to her own familiar she's named Hope. However, this book actually charges full speed ahead with only banter between Kaylin, Teela, Severn, The Consort, & Bellusdeo taking up storyline. I give a C to the cover since it doesn't correlate to any scene in the book.
On the second day after her return to Elantra, the city she policed as a
groundhawk, Private Kaylin Neya fell out of bed, daggers in hands,
knees bent. After one confused moment, she sheathed her daggers, took a
brief look around the otherwise empty royal guest chambers that served
as her temporary home, and let loose a volley of Leontine curses.
The small, translucent winged lizard that habitually slept above her head squawked in protest; she'd swept him out of the way without a second thought. He hovered in front of her face as she cursed; she didn't, at the moment, have anything left over for groveling apologies.
Leontine wasn't the usual language heard in the halls of the Imperial Palace. Nor was it generally heard in the function rooms, and when it was, it wasn't the particular phrasing she now indulged in. On the other hand, the thunderous sounds that had driven her from sleep pretty much guaranteed that no one who'd care could possibly hear her words. Kaylin could scream until she was blue in the face, with the same results. Anyone in the palace halls could, at the moment.
Dragons were having a discussion.
When she'd first heard Dragons converse in their native tongue, she'd thought of earthquakes or tidal waves. Distinguishing individual voices had been less important than covering both her ears in the vague hope she'd preserve some of her hearing. A couple of weeks in the palace with Bellusdeo for a companion had changed that. She could pick out three loud—painfully loud—voices in the crash of distant thunder: Diarmat's, Bellusdeo's and…the Emperor's. While she generally enjoyed the arguments between Bellusdeo and Diarmat, she had zero desire to ever interrupt—or witness—any argument which also contained the Emperor. Even mention of the Emperor was probably career-limiting.
It was dark, but the storm of sound in progress didn't seem like it would die down any time soon, and sleep was pretty much impossible—at least for Kaylin. The rest of the Dragon Court was probably in hiding, but Immortals didn't need anything as petty as sleep.
The minute—the second—she had the time to find a new place, she was so out of here.
The small dragon landed on her shoulders. She'd named him Hope, but felt self-conscious actually calling him that, and she hadn't had time to come up with a name that suited him better. He yawned, folded himself across her shoulders like a badly formed shawl, and closed his eyes. Clearly, Dragon shouting didn't bother him in the slightest.
Then again, he probably understood what they were saying.
The palace was never dark. Individual rooms had lighting that responded to the needs of the guests who occupied them, but the halls—the grand, wide, towering halls—were always fully lit. The Imperial Palace Guard also adorned those halls, standing like statues in a stiff, grim silence that suited their pretension.
They didn't stop Kaylin as she walked past them, heading to one of the only places that she was certain was somewhat soundproof. They knew her on sight, and if they'd had no issues treating her as one step up from a convicted felon in the past, she was now roommate to the Empire's only female Dragon. The Emperor didn't want anyone to piss Bel-lusdeo off.
Anyone, Kaylin thought glumly, but the Emperor himself. Dragons had never been famously good at sharing.
When she reached the tall and forbidding doors of the Imperial Library, she had second thoughts. It wasn't that the Imperial Library was home in all but name to the Arkon, the oldest member of the Dragon Court. It wasn't that the doors were closed; they were almost always closed. It wasn't even his extreme dislike of being interrupted.
It was the door ward that straddled them.
She'd woken to the sounds of angry Dragon, which pretty much defined Bad Day. Having to place her palm against this particular ward took Bad Day and made it worse. At the best of times, Kaylin's allergy to magic made door wards uncomfortable—but this ward could raise so much noise it might just interrupt the Dragons. One of whom was the Emperor.
There was no other way to open them. Kaylin briefly considered knocking. With her head. Before she could—and it was late enough, or early enough, that she might have—the doors surprised her by gliding open. No one stood between them.
At this hour, the library desk—the publicly accessible library desk—was unmanned. The display cases and the rows upon rows of standing files were shadowed. The robed clerks who kept the library spotless were conspicuous by their absence—but that was no surprise. No one sane visited the library at this hour.
As the doors rolled closed at her back, the sound of Dragon anger diminished.
The Arkon made his way toward her from the back of the large room, which surprised Kaylin; she'd expected to find him holed up in one of the many, many rooms that comprised his personal collection—none of which the public was invited to peruse.
"Thank you for opening the doors," she told him.
"I felt it best to avoid interrupting the ongoing discussion. No one involved in it is likely to be amused by the sudden need to attend to intruders."
"I live here, at the moment."
"Indeed. I imagine the only person present who might find a disaster of your making remotely convenient is Lord Diarmat."
"Who doesn't deserve it."
"You give him too little credit."
"Do I?"
The Arkon's smile was lined. It was also sharp. "Perhaps I will beg the Emperor's indulgence."
In theory, this sounded good. Given the way the day had started, it couldn't be. "How?"
"I might ask permission to teach you the rudiments of our language." His smile deepened as her eyes rounded and her brows rose.
"I'll go deaf!"
"Yes. Follow me, please. You interrupted me," he added. "I don't know how you can work with that ruckus going on in the background."
"It is difficult. I do not have the concentration I once possessed in my youth."
"So, what are they arguing about exactly?"
"Bellusdeo's status at court, at the moment; the argument has touched on many subjects." The Arkon's eyes were a steady shade of orange, which wasn't a good sign, in a Dragon.
"What about her status? She's a Dragon, so she's technically a Lord of the Court."
"That is true only in mortal terms. She is not—as Diarmat has been at pains to point out—a Lord of this Court. She has not offered the Emperor an oath of fealty; nor has she agreed—in a binding fashion—to abide by the laws he hands down."
"She spends most of her free time with me," Kaylin replied. "I'm a groundhawk. She probably knows the law better than anyone who isn't."
"You misunderstand. Humans are not, of course, required to take such a binding oath—I believe they would not survive it. Bellusdeo has not been required to do so. Lord Diar-mat correctly points out that she therefore poses a risk to the Court." He stopped at a smooth, flat wall. It was unadorned; Kaylin suspected it was actually a door.
The Arkon barked a sharp, harsh word and proved her suspicion correct; a part of the wall simply faded from sight. What lay on the other side of it was a disaster. It made Kay-lin's desk at its worst look pristine and tidy. Hells, it made Marcus's desk look wellorganized, which Kaylin would have bet was impossible.
The Arkon noted her hesitation. "Is there a difficulty?"
"Just how important is all the paper—that is paper, isn't it?"
"Parchment. Some paper. There is also stone and a few shards of smooth glass. I trust that you will disturb nothing while you are here."
"How?"
He raised a brow; his eyes didn't get any more orange, which was a small mercy.
"There's stuff all over the floor. There's stuff all over the chairs. I probably can't put a foot down without stepping on something."
"Then do not, as you put it, put a foot down." He gestured.
The hair on Kaylin's arms and the back of her neck rose in instant protest.
"Do not," he said, in a more severe tone of voice, "make me regret my foolish and sentimental decision to take pity on you and provide you some form of refuge."
Folding her arms across her chest, she walked into the room; her feet touched nothing. Neither did the Arkon's.
"Not to be suspicious or anything," she began.
"You do not think me capable of either sentiment or pity?"
"Not much, no. Not for me."
His smile deepened. "As you point out, Private, Bellusdeo did spend most of her free time in your presence. You have not, however, been in the city for the past month and a half. She has therefore had no anchor. No friends, if you prefer. In the last two weeks of your absence, she has spent a greater portion of her time in the fief of Tiamaris, speaking with the refugees there. When she chooses to enter the fief, she is met by one of the Norannir"
"That would be Maggaron."
"The Emperor does not consider Maggaron to be a suitable guard in the fiefs; Lord Tiamaris, however, is. She has accepted—with poor grace—the Emperor's wishes in this regard."
"What happened?"
"She has taken to flying in the restricted air-space above the fief of Tiamaris."
"It's not Imperial land."
"No. She has pointed this out—at length. You might have recognized one or two of the words she used, if you were paying attention. She has, however, come close to the borders of the fief once too often for the Emperor's comfort."
"The Norannir live on the borders."
"Indeed. She has taken pains to point this out, as well."
"He's going to isolate her! The Norannir are the only other friends she has in this city!"
The Arkon's smile was softer, and infinitely more pained. "They are not her friends, Kaylin. They were once her subjects. She is not merely a Dragon to them; she is akin to a living god. Bellusdeo has her vanity. She has her pride. But she, like any Dragon, understands her role in their lives. She does not go to them for their sake, but her own. They remind her of who she once was.
"There is altogether too much in the Palace that reminds her of what she now is."
Kaylin's arms tightened. "And what, exactly, is that?"
"A displaced person. She is very much the equivalent of the Norannir. You think of her as a Lord of the Court, and you have some rudimentary understanding of the political power that title might give her. She lives in the Palace, and not in the mean streets of the fiefs that border Ravellon. She has food, should she desire it, and clothing; she has money. But the Norannir have more freedom than Bellusdeo now does."
"Why are you telling me this? Why not say this to the Emperor?"
"Do you think I have not?" His eyes shaded to a color that was more copper than orange. Kaylin couldn't remember what it meant, she'd seen it so rarely. In fact, she'd seen it only once: in Bellusdeo's eyes. "I have told the Emperor that Bellusdeo cannot live in a cage. He does not intend to cage her—but regardless, he does. She is too valuable to risk. We have already seen how close to disaster we came."
"Arkon—" Kaylin froze, and only in part because the muted draconic voices had risen in volume. "Please tell me this argument has nothing to do with my moving out."
"You are not, that I recall, fond of unnecessary dishonesty." He took a seat. It was the only seat in the room that seemed to have enough exposed surface to sit on. "If Bellusdeo can be said to have one friend in the Empire, it is you. She found your absence far more difficult than either she—or you—had imagined she would."
"She said this?"
"Of course not." He winced; it took Kaylin a couple of seconds to realize it wasn't because of anything she'd said. Unlike her, he could understand every word that was being said. Or shouted. "You have made it clear to Bellusdeo that life in the Imperial Palace does not suit you."
"Not in those exact words, no."
"Refrain from repeating the exact phrasing."
Because Kaylin loved her job on most days, she did.
"You intend to find another domicile?"
"Yes. As soon as I can." When he lifted a brow, she thought of the job she loved—none of which included pandering to annoyed Dragons. On the other hand, survival often did. "Look, there are people who would kill to live in the Palace. I'm certain of it. But they're the people the Hawklord goes out of his way to prevent me from meeting. Everything in my Palace rooms—everything—costs more than the clothing on my back. I feel like I should bathe before I step foot through the door.
"I can't leave or enter without an inquisition. I have to deal with Imperial Guards on a daily basis for no other reason than that I live here."
"They are there for the protection and security of our guests."
"Fine. But I don't want to be a guest in my own home. I want to be able to live there. Bellusdeo is a Dragon. When she dons Court dresses, they fit her and look good. She understands the powerful. She has power. I'm a groundhawk. I can barely make ends meet on my cruddy pay. I'm not in her class—and I know it.
"I came from the fiefs. I work on the streets. I don't belong here, and I can't be happy where I don't belong."
"You are a Lord of the High Court."
"The Barrani High Court, and you know damn well I don't have to live in the High Halls."
"You have visited them before."
"I visited them with Teela."
"And the difference?"
She grimaced. There was a difference. She wasn't certain what it was. "Teela's a Hawk."
"And Bellusdeo is not."
"Bellusdeo would never swear the oath the Halls of Law require."
"No. Lord Teela did?"
"Lord Teela doesn't give a damn about nonbinding oaths. They're just words, as far as the Barrani are concerned. There is no way Marcus would ever allow Bellusdeo to join the Hawks."
"Ah, yes. Your Sergeant's famous mistrust of my kind." His eyes, however, shaded toward gold. He clearly found Marcus amusing. "Your Teela understands the High Court, and she avoids it where possible. But if you enter that world, she enters it beside you—and she warns others, by presence alone, that there are consequences to any actions they might take against you. Bellusdeo cannot do that, here. And she is aware that she lacks that ability; the Palace is not her home. It is not an environment with which she is familiar, or over which she has ultimate control.
"Still, she tries. She targets Diarmat with the full brunt of her outraged disdain. Her outrage," he added, "is genuine. She feels your marks are not accorded the respect they are due. She does not fully consider the advantage in being underestimated—and I will say, now, that there is a distinct advantage to you, in my opinion. She feels a debt of gratitude to you."
"I didn't do anything for her gratitude. I did it because…because____"
"Oh, do continue. I'm certain it will be fascinating. You did it because that's what anyone would do?"
Kaylin shrugged. It was a fief shrug. Fief shrugs, on the other hand, were not a language with which the Arkon chose to be familiar.
"You grew up in the fiefs. You are aware that you are lying. Even if you aren't, there are very few—I can think of almost no one—who could do for Bellusdeo what you did. She would have died there." His gaze slid off hers. "I am not certain, at this moment, that fate would not be preferable in her mind. Yes, the discussion in progress—and to my mind it will be some hours before it is done—involves both your residence and hers." He closed his eyes. "She is in pain, Kaylin. She is grieving. For us, the grief is long past; it exists only in echoes, when we turn our thoughts to the past.
The small, translucent winged lizard that habitually slept above her head squawked in protest; she'd swept him out of the way without a second thought. He hovered in front of her face as she cursed; she didn't, at the moment, have anything left over for groveling apologies.
Leontine wasn't the usual language heard in the halls of the Imperial Palace. Nor was it generally heard in the function rooms, and when it was, it wasn't the particular phrasing she now indulged in. On the other hand, the thunderous sounds that had driven her from sleep pretty much guaranteed that no one who'd care could possibly hear her words. Kaylin could scream until she was blue in the face, with the same results. Anyone in the palace halls could, at the moment.
Dragons were having a discussion.
When she'd first heard Dragons converse in their native tongue, she'd thought of earthquakes or tidal waves. Distinguishing individual voices had been less important than covering both her ears in the vague hope she'd preserve some of her hearing. A couple of weeks in the palace with Bellusdeo for a companion had changed that. She could pick out three loud—painfully loud—voices in the crash of distant thunder: Diarmat's, Bellusdeo's and…the Emperor's. While she generally enjoyed the arguments between Bellusdeo and Diarmat, she had zero desire to ever interrupt—or witness—any argument which also contained the Emperor. Even mention of the Emperor was probably career-limiting.
It was dark, but the storm of sound in progress didn't seem like it would die down any time soon, and sleep was pretty much impossible—at least for Kaylin. The rest of the Dragon Court was probably in hiding, but Immortals didn't need anything as petty as sleep.
The minute—the second—she had the time to find a new place, she was so out of here.
The small dragon landed on her shoulders. She'd named him Hope, but felt self-conscious actually calling him that, and she hadn't had time to come up with a name that suited him better. He yawned, folded himself across her shoulders like a badly formed shawl, and closed his eyes. Clearly, Dragon shouting didn't bother him in the slightest.
Then again, he probably understood what they were saying.
The palace was never dark. Individual rooms had lighting that responded to the needs of the guests who occupied them, but the halls—the grand, wide, towering halls—were always fully lit. The Imperial Palace Guard also adorned those halls, standing like statues in a stiff, grim silence that suited their pretension.
They didn't stop Kaylin as she walked past them, heading to one of the only places that she was certain was somewhat soundproof. They knew her on sight, and if they'd had no issues treating her as one step up from a convicted felon in the past, she was now roommate to the Empire's only female Dragon. The Emperor didn't want anyone to piss Bel-lusdeo off.
Anyone, Kaylin thought glumly, but the Emperor himself. Dragons had never been famously good at sharing.
When she reached the tall and forbidding doors of the Imperial Library, she had second thoughts. It wasn't that the Imperial Library was home in all but name to the Arkon, the oldest member of the Dragon Court. It wasn't that the doors were closed; they were almost always closed. It wasn't even his extreme dislike of being interrupted.
It was the door ward that straddled them.
She'd woken to the sounds of angry Dragon, which pretty much defined Bad Day. Having to place her palm against this particular ward took Bad Day and made it worse. At the best of times, Kaylin's allergy to magic made door wards uncomfortable—but this ward could raise so much noise it might just interrupt the Dragons. One of whom was the Emperor.
There was no other way to open them. Kaylin briefly considered knocking. With her head. Before she could—and it was late enough, or early enough, that she might have—the doors surprised her by gliding open. No one stood between them.
At this hour, the library desk—the publicly accessible library desk—was unmanned. The display cases and the rows upon rows of standing files were shadowed. The robed clerks who kept the library spotless were conspicuous by their absence—but that was no surprise. No one sane visited the library at this hour.
As the doors rolled closed at her back, the sound of Dragon anger diminished.
The Arkon made his way toward her from the back of the large room, which surprised Kaylin; she'd expected to find him holed up in one of the many, many rooms that comprised his personal collection—none of which the public was invited to peruse.
"Thank you for opening the doors," she told him.
"I felt it best to avoid interrupting the ongoing discussion. No one involved in it is likely to be amused by the sudden need to attend to intruders."
"I live here, at the moment."
"Indeed. I imagine the only person present who might find a disaster of your making remotely convenient is Lord Diarmat."
"Who doesn't deserve it."
"You give him too little credit."
"Do I?"
The Arkon's smile was lined. It was also sharp. "Perhaps I will beg the Emperor's indulgence."
In theory, this sounded good. Given the way the day had started, it couldn't be. "How?"
"I might ask permission to teach you the rudiments of our language." His smile deepened as her eyes rounded and her brows rose.
"I'll go deaf!"
"Yes. Follow me, please. You interrupted me," he added. "I don't know how you can work with that ruckus going on in the background."
"It is difficult. I do not have the concentration I once possessed in my youth."
"So, what are they arguing about exactly?"
"Bellusdeo's status at court, at the moment; the argument has touched on many subjects." The Arkon's eyes were a steady shade of orange, which wasn't a good sign, in a Dragon.
"What about her status? She's a Dragon, so she's technically a Lord of the Court."
"That is true only in mortal terms. She is not—as Diarmat has been at pains to point out—a Lord of this Court. She has not offered the Emperor an oath of fealty; nor has she agreed—in a binding fashion—to abide by the laws he hands down."
"She spends most of her free time with me," Kaylin replied. "I'm a groundhawk. She probably knows the law better than anyone who isn't."
"You misunderstand. Humans are not, of course, required to take such a binding oath—I believe they would not survive it. Bellusdeo has not been required to do so. Lord Diar-mat correctly points out that she therefore poses a risk to the Court." He stopped at a smooth, flat wall. It was unadorned; Kaylin suspected it was actually a door.
The Arkon barked a sharp, harsh word and proved her suspicion correct; a part of the wall simply faded from sight. What lay on the other side of it was a disaster. It made Kay-lin's desk at its worst look pristine and tidy. Hells, it made Marcus's desk look wellorganized, which Kaylin would have bet was impossible.
The Arkon noted her hesitation. "Is there a difficulty?"
"Just how important is all the paper—that is paper, isn't it?"
"Parchment. Some paper. There is also stone and a few shards of smooth glass. I trust that you will disturb nothing while you are here."
"How?"
He raised a brow; his eyes didn't get any more orange, which was a small mercy.
"There's stuff all over the floor. There's stuff all over the chairs. I probably can't put a foot down without stepping on something."
"Then do not, as you put it, put a foot down." He gestured.
The hair on Kaylin's arms and the back of her neck rose in instant protest.
"Do not," he said, in a more severe tone of voice, "make me regret my foolish and sentimental decision to take pity on you and provide you some form of refuge."
Folding her arms across her chest, she walked into the room; her feet touched nothing. Neither did the Arkon's.
"Not to be suspicious or anything," she began.
"You do not think me capable of either sentiment or pity?"
"Not much, no. Not for me."
His smile deepened. "As you point out, Private, Bellusdeo did spend most of her free time in your presence. You have not, however, been in the city for the past month and a half. She has therefore had no anchor. No friends, if you prefer. In the last two weeks of your absence, she has spent a greater portion of her time in the fief of Tiamaris, speaking with the refugees there. When she chooses to enter the fief, she is met by one of the Norannir"
"That would be Maggaron."
"The Emperor does not consider Maggaron to be a suitable guard in the fiefs; Lord Tiamaris, however, is. She has accepted—with poor grace—the Emperor's wishes in this regard."
"What happened?"
"She has taken to flying in the restricted air-space above the fief of Tiamaris."
"It's not Imperial land."
"No. She has pointed this out—at length. You might have recognized one or two of the words she used, if you were paying attention. She has, however, come close to the borders of the fief once too often for the Emperor's comfort."
"The Norannir live on the borders."
"Indeed. She has taken pains to point this out, as well."
"He's going to isolate her! The Norannir are the only other friends she has in this city!"
The Arkon's smile was softer, and infinitely more pained. "They are not her friends, Kaylin. They were once her subjects. She is not merely a Dragon to them; she is akin to a living god. Bellusdeo has her vanity. She has her pride. But she, like any Dragon, understands her role in their lives. She does not go to them for their sake, but her own. They remind her of who she once was.
"There is altogether too much in the Palace that reminds her of what she now is."
Kaylin's arms tightened. "And what, exactly, is that?"
"A displaced person. She is very much the equivalent of the Norannir. You think of her as a Lord of the Court, and you have some rudimentary understanding of the political power that title might give her. She lives in the Palace, and not in the mean streets of the fiefs that border Ravellon. She has food, should she desire it, and clothing; she has money. But the Norannir have more freedom than Bellusdeo now does."
"Why are you telling me this? Why not say this to the Emperor?"
"Do you think I have not?" His eyes shaded to a color that was more copper than orange. Kaylin couldn't remember what it meant, she'd seen it so rarely. In fact, she'd seen it only once: in Bellusdeo's eyes. "I have told the Emperor that Bellusdeo cannot live in a cage. He does not intend to cage her—but regardless, he does. She is too valuable to risk. We have already seen how close to disaster we came."
"Arkon—" Kaylin froze, and only in part because the muted draconic voices had risen in volume. "Please tell me this argument has nothing to do with my moving out."
"You are not, that I recall, fond of unnecessary dishonesty." He took a seat. It was the only seat in the room that seemed to have enough exposed surface to sit on. "If Bellusdeo can be said to have one friend in the Empire, it is you. She found your absence far more difficult than either she—or you—had imagined she would."
"She said this?"
"Of course not." He winced; it took Kaylin a couple of seconds to realize it wasn't because of anything she'd said. Unlike her, he could understand every word that was being said. Or shouted. "You have made it clear to Bellusdeo that life in the Imperial Palace does not suit you."
"Not in those exact words, no."
"Refrain from repeating the exact phrasing."
Because Kaylin loved her job on most days, she did.
"You intend to find another domicile?"
"Yes. As soon as I can." When he lifted a brow, she thought of the job she loved—none of which included pandering to annoyed Dragons. On the other hand, survival often did. "Look, there are people who would kill to live in the Palace. I'm certain of it. But they're the people the Hawklord goes out of his way to prevent me from meeting. Everything in my Palace rooms—everything—costs more than the clothing on my back. I feel like I should bathe before I step foot through the door.
"I can't leave or enter without an inquisition. I have to deal with Imperial Guards on a daily basis for no other reason than that I live here."
"They are there for the protection and security of our guests."
"Fine. But I don't want to be a guest in my own home. I want to be able to live there. Bellusdeo is a Dragon. When she dons Court dresses, they fit her and look good. She understands the powerful. She has power. I'm a groundhawk. I can barely make ends meet on my cruddy pay. I'm not in her class—and I know it.
"I came from the fiefs. I work on the streets. I don't belong here, and I can't be happy where I don't belong."
"You are a Lord of the High Court."
"The Barrani High Court, and you know damn well I don't have to live in the High Halls."
"You have visited them before."
"I visited them with Teela."
"And the difference?"
She grimaced. There was a difference. She wasn't certain what it was. "Teela's a Hawk."
"And Bellusdeo is not."
"Bellusdeo would never swear the oath the Halls of Law require."
"No. Lord Teela did?"
"Lord Teela doesn't give a damn about nonbinding oaths. They're just words, as far as the Barrani are concerned. There is no way Marcus would ever allow Bellusdeo to join the Hawks."
"Ah, yes. Your Sergeant's famous mistrust of my kind." His eyes, however, shaded toward gold. He clearly found Marcus amusing. "Your Teela understands the High Court, and she avoids it where possible. But if you enter that world, she enters it beside you—and she warns others, by presence alone, that there are consequences to any actions they might take against you. Bellusdeo cannot do that, here. And she is aware that she lacks that ability; the Palace is not her home. It is not an environment with which she is familiar, or over which she has ultimate control.
"Still, she tries. She targets Diarmat with the full brunt of her outraged disdain. Her outrage," he added, "is genuine. She feels your marks are not accorded the respect they are due. She does not fully consider the advantage in being underestimated—and I will say, now, that there is a distinct advantage to you, in my opinion. She feels a debt of gratitude to you."
"I didn't do anything for her gratitude. I did it because…because____"
"Oh, do continue. I'm certain it will be fascinating. You did it because that's what anyone would do?"
Kaylin shrugged. It was a fief shrug. Fief shrugs, on the other hand, were not a language with which the Arkon chose to be familiar.
"You grew up in the fiefs. You are aware that you are lying. Even if you aren't, there are very few—I can think of almost no one—who could do for Bellusdeo what you did. She would have died there." His gaze slid off hers. "I am not certain, at this moment, that fate would not be preferable in her mind. Yes, the discussion in progress—and to my mind it will be some hours before it is done—involves both your residence and hers." He closed his eyes. "She is in pain, Kaylin. She is grieving. For us, the grief is long past; it exists only in echoes, when we turn our thoughts to the past.
No comments:
Post a Comment