Cast in Flight by Michelle Sagara
Kaylin held the bracelet out. The familiar inched down her arm and sniffed it as if it were food. She wasn’t expecting him to bite it.
He did.
Chapter 11
Moran, clearly unfamiliar with the small dragon, raised a brow but said nothing. Kaylin, however, shrieked.
“What are you doing?” She grabbed the familiar; his little jaws were a lot stronger than they appeared. He was attached to the bracelet, and he had no intention—at this specific moment—of letting go of it. He did squawk; the sound was even less impressive than it usually was, because his mouth was otherwise full.
Moran’s eyes, which had been a kind of Barrani blue, narrowed in mild confusion. “You think he’s going to harm it?”
“I’m sure that’s not what he means to do,” she said.
“Which means yes.”
“Which means his idea of harmful and our idea of harmful probably don’t really overlap much, yes.” To the familiar, she said, “Do not do anything to destroy this bracelet.”
Moran, however, seemed much more accepting of the general idea. “I didn’t take the bracelet. In theory, the dar Carafel still have it. If something happens to it—on their watch—it’s not going to reflect badly on me.” And she smiled. The smile had Leontine in it, absent the teeth.
“He’s not trying to destroy it, dear,” Helen’s disembodied voice added.
Moran didn’t even tense. She’d become accustomed to Helen—and Helen’s various intrusions—so quickly, it seemed natural. Or maybe it was just because she was mortal. Teela still found Helen uncomfortable. “Do you know what he’s trying to do?” the sergeant asked the empty air.
“I believe he’s examining it,” Helen replied.
“He can do that with his eyes.”
“Yes, in theory.”
“And in practice?”
“In practice, there’s something in the bracelet he’s not sure he likes.”
“Can you see it?”
“Not the same way, no.”
“Do you think it would be harmful to Moran to keep it?” Kaylin interjected.
“To keep it? No. To wear it? I’m less certain.”
“It doesn’t feel magical to me. I mean—I’m not breaking out in a rash. Or worse.”
“It is not, perhaps, magic of the kind that disturbs you. It is definitely magical in nature.”
“How?”
“It occupies more space than its physical dimensions suggest, for one.”
It didn’t feel particularly heavy. Or rather, it didn’t feel heavier than a bracelet of its size normally would. “Can you understand what he’s saying?”
“It’s a bit hard—his mouth is full.”
Moran was watching both Kaylin and her familiar, and listening to Helen’s careful, diplomatic concern. She smiled. The blue of her eyes faded to a normal Aerian gray.
“You didn’t want to wear the bracelet,” Helen said softly, “because you didn’t want to be praevolo.”
Moran exhaled heavily. After a long pause, in which water rippled only because Kaylin was moving her feet, she said, “I didn’t want to be their praevolo. I didn’t want to support the people who were responsible for the death of my family. I wasn’t willing to die for them, and I wasn’t strong enough to kill them. If I had worn the bracelet, I would be accepting them. I would be doing what they wanted.” She tilted her head back, closing her eyes. “I intend to live for as long as I possibly can. I don’t always enjoy my life—but the longer I live, the less likely it will be that an actual dar Carafel is born with the praevolo’s wings. I won’t be what they want. But I won’t help them get what they want by dying, either.”
“The praevolo does not, if I understand things correctly, exist strictly for the Caste Court. They exist for the entire race.”
“Helen, I’m not sure this is the right time,” Kaylin said.
Helen, however, did not agree. “Your mother and your grandmother did not abandon you intentionally.”
“Of course not.” Moran stiffened, and Kaylin surrendered. She lifted her feet out of the water, grabbed a nearby towel, glared at the familiar—who was still chewing what looked like gemmed metal—and dried herself off. This wasn’t a conversation she was supposed to be part of.
“They were murdered. They were murdered by Aerians.”
Socks. Shoes.
“But you are a Hawk, Moran. You’ve seen human murderers. You’ve seen executions. You’ve never decided that the human race—as a whole—is murderous and worthless because of them.”
“Helen, I really think this is not a conversation Moran wants to have right now.”
The familiar squawked.
“I’ve never said Aerians were worthless,” Moran countered. “I’ve never said the entire race is murderous.”
“No, you haven’t. But, dear—you’ve isolated yourself as if they were.”
To the familiar, Kaylin whispered, “Make her stop.”
“I have not—”
“Moran, you have. You tell yourself it is for their good. Their own good, I believe. You stay separate because you do not want them to become victims of political pressure, power. And perhaps that is even true now. But in the past? You’ve been a Hawk for longer than Kaylin has, and you have formed no friendships among your own kin.
“Perhaps it is safer for them. Unless Kaylin invites them to visit, I cannot say that with any certainty. But I think I can say that you believe it is safer for you. We make different choices for reasons of safety. But I will say this—because I do not believe you are aware of it, as Kaylin is. I chose to destroy large parts of myself in order to remain free to choose.
“I do not regret that decision. But I do not deceive myself. Those parts are gone. Lost. They are destroyed. And there are times, even now, when I feel that loss keenly. Perhaps you are more like me than Kaylin is. Perhaps you do not regret the things you have destroyed as an act of self-preservation. But mortals are not buildings.”
Moran was silent. Her eyes were blue, very blue. Any comfort she’d gained from the bath had been obliterated.
“No, dear,” Helen continued. “I understand exactly why you made the choices you did. They were, and are, your choices to make.”
“For now,” Moran replied. She looked across the room at Kaylin, who was very, very sorry that she hadn’t managed to leave Moran to her very private conversation with a building that really didn’t understand the concept of privacy at a visceral level. To the familiar, Moran said, “Give me the bracelet.” Her voice was like steel. Sharpened steel.
The familiar looked up at Kaylin.
Kaylin wanted to ask him if it was safe, but didn’t. She reminded herself that safety was the illusion and the dream. Instead, she said, “Give me your wing for a sec.”
The familiar lifted his wing—without smacking her face with it. To her eyes, the bracelet looked the same through the wing. She saw no trace of Shadow in or around it. She had no idea what the familiar had been trying to eat or chew at, but it didn’t matter anyway. Moran had spoken in her sergeant voice.
She handed Moran the bracelet.
Moran put it on.
Kaylin could hear it snap shut; the sound echoed off the stones of the open-air spring. But her skin didn’t ache. The marks didn’t begin to glow. Moran didn’t transform. She was a naked Aerian woman, partially submerged in hot water, the edges of her hair wet, her eyes a striking blue. And she was wearing an old, colorful bracelet.
“I hope it’s waterproof,” Kaylin said. She waited before adding, “Do you feel any different?”
The Aerian sergeant deflated. “No.”
“Sometimes,” Helen said quietly, “regalia is just that. All of its power resides in the symbolism. I am sorry,” she added.
“It’s not considered good manners to tell people truths they haven’t asked to hear.”
Moran’s smile was brief, but genuine. “No, it isn’t. But you’re Kaylin’s home, and while Kaylin is valued for many things, good manners aren’t one of them.”
“My manners are better than they used to be,” Kaylin protested.
“Vastly better,” Moran agreed. She stood. Water ran instantly off her wings, but the rest of her required towels. Helen didn’t magically appear to hand them to her, but Kaylin was closer, and did.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to sleep,” Moran replied. “And then I’m going to wake up, eat breakfast, and go to the Halls in the morning.”
“You’re certain? You said you were taking a leave—”
“I’ve changed my mind.” She grimaced as if at old pain. “Helen is probably right. About me. About how I feel about my own people.”
“And dinner?”
The Aerian Hawk winced. “I’ll come to dinner, if the Emperor allows it.”
“He said it was a casual meal—”
“The Imperial version of casual was out of my reach when I was growing up. And angry Aerians have nothing on angry Dragons.”
* * *
Kaylin did not sleep well. The familiar spent the entire night nattering in his sleep—and smacking Kaylin in the face with his wings. And his tail. The fourth time she woke up, she considered opening a window and dropping him out of it.
Helen considered that idea to be unwise and unkind.
“If I haven’t done it yet, I’m not likely to start—but we all have to have daydreams.”
She woke, dressed, checked to make certain there were no emergency mirror messages waiting in Helen’s queue, and headed down the stairs. She remembered, halfway down, that she was still in possession of the blessing of air, and forgot it again five steps later.
Annarion was shouting.
Had he been shouting at Mandoran, she would have grimaced, massaged her temples—she was working on a headache—and continued toward the breakfast room. Unfortunately, the voice that returned that shout in both volume and length was not Mandoran’s.
“No, dear,” Helen said, her voice more subdued than usual. “Lord Nightshade is here.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were trying to sleep, and I didn’t want to add to the interruptions.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard Nightshade shout like that.”
“No, probably not. Let me do something about that.”
“Short of throwing them both out, or shutting them in the training rooms—I’m assuming that’s not where they are—I’m not sure you can. They’re almost as loud as Dragons.” And about as safe, Kaylin thought. “I can’t actually understand them.”
“No, dear. I can’t completely diminish the volume, but I am trying to give them some privacy.”
* * *
Bellusdeo looked about as amused at the shouting as Kaylin felt. “You look terrible,” she said when Kaylin entered the dining room.
“I look better than I feel. Have they been shouting like that for long?”
“No. That just started. When I regret my lack of family,” she added, somewhat sourly, “I remind myself that there are some things I don’t miss.”
“You had fights like this with your sisters?”
“I had worse fights with my sisters, if you must know. We were younger, and Dragons are not famously restrained when they lose their tempers.”
“But you were mostly human.”
“I’ll thank you never to repeat that. But I will then add that the elders don’t interfere much with children’s fights if they’re female children. The possible damage is so insignificant it doesn’t warrant constant supervision. That, and they generally have their hands full with the rest of the clutch because the males can cause irreparable damage when they lose it.”
“I don’t think that’s good parenting,” Kaylin replied.
Golden brows rose. “Our concept of parenting is not yours. In the old days, it was considered perfectly reasonable to let clutch-mates murder each other in fits of aggression and rage. It thinned out the weak.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“She’s not joking,” Mandoran added. He entered the dining hall and draped himself across the table, after first dropping his butt into the nearest chair.
“And Barrani parenting?”
“More careful—but our next generations weren’t born in clutches. Or very often.” He grimaced as he glanced at Bellusdeo. “However, our ‘more careful’ wouldn’t pass your parenting muster, either. Remember why you met us. The cull-the-weak mentality exists everywhere in the immortal world.” His eyes fell to breakfast with clear distaste. “They’ve been talking for a couple of hours.”
“What are they fighting about?”
“Initially?”
Kaylin nodded.
“Kaylin, dear, they are allowed some privacy—”
“Which one of us never gets,” Mandoran snapped. “Annarion told his brother that he’s going to take the Test of Name in the High Halls.”
Kaylin, whose appetite had already been severely compromised, joined Mandoran in his contemplation of breakfast. “Has he lost his mind?”
“Funny, that’s what Nightshade said.”
“Was that the shouting part?”
“No—that came later.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Yes, obviously. You just want it to be a big misunderstanding that will resolve itself with mortal-style hugs and kisses.”
This was true. Kaylin flushed. “I know that Nightshade spent a lot of years searching for a way to find—and free—his brother. I don’t understand him. He seems very Barrani in other ways, except for the outcaste part. But if he cares about anything outside of himself, it’s his family.”
“No,” Mandoran replied, picking up a fork as if it weighed more than his entire arm. “It’s his brother. He considered the rest of his family responsible for Annarion’s loss. He did not, and would not, forgive.”
“That’s why they’re fighting.”
“More or less. Annarion is not outcaste. He is considered Barrani, inasmuch as that’s possible for any of us anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
It was Bellusdeo who answered, which surprised Mandoran, judging from his expression as he turned to stare at the Dragon. “Dragons, Barrani, almost any person of any race who is considered to be a power, hate to admit that they’ve made mistakes. They will avoid referring to their mistakes—because of course, anyone who lives and breathes makes them—with a determination that might seem stupid, when seen from the outside.
“Annarion is therefore considered Barrani—and only Barrani—in every legal way by his Caste Court. The Barrani Caste Court is somewhat elastic; it is political. Barrani outcaste lords have been repatriated, historically, with a change of leadership.”
“Not often,” Mandoran said, frowning.
“More often than Dragon outcastes.”
Mandoran shrugged. Obviously he believed her statement was both true and irrelevant.
“Annarion is not, as you are well aware, what the rest of the Barrani are. He has to struggle to retain even his shape. He’s willing to make that effort. The polite fiction is that he has returned. Because he has—and I’m sure Mandoran will correct me if I’m mistaken—he is a legitimate member of his family line. He cannot hold or take it back if he is not a Lord of the High Court. He cannot b
“Without taking the Test of Name.”
Mandoran did not argue or correct Bellusdeo.
“He’s not ready for that,” Kaylin said.
“You’re not going to tell him that,” Mandoran said. “First of all, he probably wouldn’t hear it, given the argument he’s having now. Second of all, it’s not going to matter. He thinks that his brother abandoned his duty to the family and the line, surrendering it to distant cousins because he made himself outcaste. He believes that the only responsible thing he can do is establish himself as a Lord of the High Court and retake what is, in theory, his.
“You can imagine the cousin in question, who is a Lord of the High Court and has been for centuries—that timing coincidentally around the same period in which Nightshade was made outcaste—is not thrilled. Although Annarion is in line, he has no legitimate claim if he can’t pass the test. If he takes the test and passes it, he does have a claim.
“Claims are theoretical. The law would give him the ancestral home, lands and title if he survives, but they would be slow about the grant. It’s quite possible—quite probable—that he would not survive becoming a Lord; there would almost certainly be assassination attempts.”
“I’m still stuck on the taking-the-test-and-surviving-it part.”
“So is Lord Nightshade. I believe that’s the core of his argument. If his brother has returned, he is not what he was. But Annarion’s argument is the same. Nightshade is not what he was, either.”
“And that’s caused all the shouting?”
“No, dear,” Helen said. “Annarion is angry with his older brother. He feels betrayed.”
“But Nightshade did so much of what he did—”
“To find his brother, yes. Lord Nightshade feels that sacrificing the line—or his claim to it—was an acceptable cost if it meant not abandoning the only member of his family he truly cared for. Annarion, sadly, does not see this the same way.”
Mandoran winced.
“What?” Kaylin asked him.