Cast in Flight by Michelle Sagara
“Moran had the wings.”
Silence.
“She’s had the wings from birth.”
“We were not immediately aware of her birth.” The words sounded as if they had been dragged from him by main force. They were interrupted, twice, by roaring that shook a floor that was theoretically stable.
“And when you became aware of it, you tried to have her killed.” She folded her arms. “Who is her father?”
His brows rose; the distasteful question had surprised him, and not in a good way. “Perhaps this is not the time to have this conversation,” he pointed out as roaring grew.
Mandoran said, “It’s safe, for the moment.”
“That was pain.”
“Yes. Teela sliced off part of a toe. She survived. Some of her hair didn’t.”
“What?”
“He breathed on her. It was not the composition of normal Dragon breath. Her sword cut through most of it—but not all.”
“And Tain?”
“Tain has pulled back to a safe distance. He hasn’t been trained to fight Dragons up close.”
“Teela has.”
“Yes. She’s the only one of us who’s had the actual experience. Technically, she and Annarion were trained the same way.”
“Is Annarion—”
“Fighting, yes. But not the same way Teela is.” At Kaylin’s expression, he added, “You remember how he fought the ancestors?”
She nodded slowly.
“The outcaste is like us. He is in the Aerie, he is fighting the Emperor. But he is in a space that overlaps the Aerie, and he is—” Mandoran shook his head. “It’s too hard to explain clearly.”
“He’s phased?”
“That’ll do. Annarion is fighting him in an Aerie that overlaps the one you can see.”
“And you’re just standing here?”
He folded his arms and grinned his unrepentant, not-bored grin. “I’m keeping an eye on you. Teela seems to feel it’s necessary, given the role your familiar is playing.”
“...My familiar.”
“Yes.”
“Let me guess. He’s no longer small and squawky.”
“No longer small, no. But very squawky.”
* * *
Kaylin.
Definitely no longer small.
There is a danger in the Aerie.
There are a lot of dangers in the Aerie at the moment. Is there one I can do something about?
Silence. Bellusdeo has been injured.
This was not a surprise; it wasn’t the first time it had happened. One didn’t throw oneself in raging fury at a Dragon without injury—even if one were a Dragon.
It is not a normal injury. It is, to her mind, minor; she is too focused on destruction.
What do you mean, not normal?
Shadow, Kaylin. It is subtle; it is not slight. If you cannot heal her quickly...
What is the Shadow doing?
I do not know. But it is the outcaste’s power.
Kaylin swore. In Leontine. The Arcanist clearly didn’t understand the finer points of Leontine.
Mandoran’s lips quirked further. He looked smug.
The Arcanist, however, looked confused—and, if possible, frightened. “What is that creature you carried in with you?”
“My familiar.”
“And you are a witch, now, to have a familiar?”
This was not the usual reaction of Arcanists to the concept of a familiar. “A witch?” she asked. “No. Maybe. I’m sorry—I’m not familiar with the word the way you’re using it.”
“That creature is dangerous. He is as dangerous as the pretender.”
Kaylin would have argued if she’d had any ground to stand on. “Fine. But at the moment, he’s on my side.”
“And what side is that?”
“In the Southern Reach? Moran dar Carafel’s side. The Illumen praevolo.”
The Arcanist’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Do you even understand what the praevolo is?”
“I understand Sergeant dar Carafel,” Kaylin shot back. “And she’s the praevolo. What that means to the rest of you doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” he said, and his voice was unaccountably bitter. “You guessed that I cannot fly. Most of my kin have not drawn the same conclusion. Those who serve as my guards know, of course, because they serve him.”
“Fine. I have to go back.”
He stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Unless the marks of the Chosen grant you invulnerability—or flight—you will die. You will accomplish nothing else!”
She turned to Severn. “Stay here. Have whatever conversation is necessary. Bellusdeo’s been injured.”
Severn nodded.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
* * *
Geography had never been Kaylin’s strong point, and the run to the Arcanist’s so-called safe space had been long and not entirely straightforward. She was saved from panic by Mandoran, who was still lounging against the wall when she ran out of the room.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Back,” was her curt reply. “I’d appreciate it if you could get me to Bellusdeo.”
His brows rose in obvious surprise. “You want to go back?”
“Yes.”
“Teela’s going to have a fit.”
“I’ll deal with Teela’s temper. Can you get me back there?”
He nodded and held out a hand. Kaylin stared at it, almost confused. But in the end she took it.
“Hold on,” he advised her.
“To what?”
“Me, and anything you don’t want to lose.”
* * *
She’d expected Mandoran to lead her back down the series of halls to the open landing area in which they’d first arrived. Mandoran, however, had other ideas. The “hold on” part developed urgency with the first step Mandoran took, because he wasn’t precisely stepping on anything. She remembered that he had managed to get stuck in a wall—a concept which had been both boggling and hilarious.
It was a lot less funny now.
“You can do this,” he whispered. “Severn couldn’t. Teela can’t. But you can.”
“How do you know that?”
“Instinct?” He grinned. “You’re the Chosen. You can carry the familiar on your shoulder—and frankly, that would break mine. Or Annarion’s.”
“He doesn’t weigh anything.”
“That’s what you tell yourself. You can open your eyes.”
“I’d really rather not,” Kaylin told him. She could feel that he was in motion. That she was in motion, as well. But she couldn’t feel anything—anything at all—beneath her feet. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Funny, Teela’s screaming that in my other ear. The figurative one.”
Kaylin’s lips twitched. She opened her eyes a crack. She could see the walls of the Aerie. The halls, the height of the ceilings. They were a lot closer than they had been on the way here. And they were colorful. The heights were illuminated, but not with what she thought of as natural light, that being sunlight; they glowed. She could see a thread of multicolored light above her and beneath her. The beneath part was a long way down.
“You’re following the light?”
Mandoran nodded. She glanced at him; his face was set in concentration. She thought about getting stuck in a wall again. She’d thought it was funny because he’d clearly survived it. She was not at all certain that she would, or could. Whatever Mandoran was, she wasn’t.
“I’m not sure you’re going to be able to get through to the Dragon,” he said. “They seem to have the outcaste cornered.” The way he said this w
“What do you mean, ‘seem’?”
“It’s hard to see the way you do,” he replied. “It’s hard not to see what you can’t see. They see the Dragon form—and he has that. But I think they only see the Dragon form. He’s like us,” Mandoran repeated. “Like me and Annarion. The Dragon form is there, and it’s bloody dangerous—but it’s not the only danger here. Not even close.”
She heard the outcaste roar.
She knew it was the outcaste, because while some of that roar had the timbre of Dragon rage—or triumph, which was more disturbing—there was more to it; she heard it as a chorus of voices. The Dragon was, no surprises there, the loudest of that chorus—but there were other voices blended into it. She could pull Leontine out of it; she could pull something like ancient Barrani. She could hear the screeching battle cry of the Aerians. She could hear something that sounded a lot like her own voice.
And they overlapped; they existed in one space, at one time, in harmony. A command.
She felt the air grow cold. Or maybe that was just her.
“You heard him?”
“Did you understand a word that he was saying?”
“Yes. All of them. We’re trying to get the Aerie evacuated.”
“Who’s we?”
“Moran. Moran is praevolo, and she’s sending the warning out to her people.”
She wanted to ask him why they needed to evacuate the Aerie—but she knew. At heart, she knew. The outcaste had summoned the Shadows, and the Shadows—in the distant heart of Ravellon—had heard.
Chapter 27
Do you even understand what the praevolo is?
Did she?
She understood what she’d heard, but was aware she hadn’t heard all of it. Even if she had, she probably couldn’t reconcile it with the Moran that she’d known for years. She knew the title had significance for the Aerians. Clint had convinced her of that, not in words, but in actions. The way he treated Moran right now was almost embarrassing for the sergeant.
Kaylin had sympathy. She would have found it excruciating, herself. When you worshipped someone, you placed a burden on them. You expected them to live up to your ideals, expected them to be worthy of your worship. And who could do that?
Not Kaylin. She was uncomfortable when people recognized her marks and called her Chosen, because she knew they had expectations of her, even if she had no idea what they were. She meant something to them—but actually, no. Her marks meant something. Her marks defined her.
And Moran was defined by her wings.
Kaylin could see her take flight. She shouldn’t have been able to see any such thing. There were oddly colored walls between her and the Aerian—but those walls were like windows where Moran, and only Moran, was concerned. Kaylin could see her. She could see her wings.
And her wings were fire, her wings were air, her wings were gold and silver and platinum. They were larger than any natural Aerian wings; they reminded Kaylin, in span, of the wings of the pretender, the outcaste. But only in span. In no other way were they alike.
And she was suddenly certain that the Aerians could see Moran take flight. That they could feel the thrill of it, the joy of it, and the desperate need for it. But Moran didn’t tell them to flee, didn’t tell them to evacuate their homes.
“I don’t think Moran is evacuating the Aerie,” she told Mandoran.
“Then what is she doing?”
“...Flying. Now shut up and get me to Bellusdeo.”
* * *
Getting close to Bellusdeo was almost impossible. Mandoran hadn’t exaggerated: the Emperor and the golden Dragon had cornered the outcaste. Gold and indigo surged forward and back against a scaled, black background. The outcaste was enormous. Kaylin had never seen him so large. His wings had grown, and grew again as he raised them; the halls were the color of night.
And she realized that she was seeing him as Mandoran saw him; she wasn’t certain why.
“You’re with me,” he told her. “And it is really difficult to keep you here. I need to let you off.”
She nodded, and felt stone slam into her feet, as if she’d been dropped from a moderate height. She was already bending into the drop, trying to control it.
Tain appeared almost instantly.
“I need to get to Bellusdeo,” she shouted. She had to shout. If he’d been mortal, he wouldn’t have heard, regardless.
He looked even more dubious than Mandoran had.
“She’s been injured.”
“She’s given better than she’s received.”
“She’s been injured by Shadow—I think the outcaste is deliberately fighting a delaying action. He wants it to take effect.”
Tain paled. He didn’t ask if she was certain. He didn’t have time. The familiar swooped down and landed to one side of her. He had to—he was the size of a Dragon.
She didn’t try to mount him. She couldn’t reach Bellusdeo on his back. He seemed to understand this; he didn’t speak. Nor did he attempt to place a wing over her eyes—at this size, he’d probably break her cheekbones. Instead, he took to the air, and when he’d gained enough height, he reached down for her with very large claws.
* * *
She dangled above the floor of the cavern, which now looked like normal rock. The odd glow of light that Mandoran appeared to have followed had vanished. She could no longer see the Barrani; she couldn’t see Annarion, either. She half wished large and majestic was his normal small and squawky size.
I cannot be, he replied. There is too much here to contain.
He was talking about the darkness that Kaylin could no longer see.
Yes. Mandoran is perceptive. He sees what is there. And he is not entirely wrong: The outcaste Dragon and Teela’s chosen kin have similarities. But they are not the same.
“Did he just call Shadow?”
Yes, Kaylin. The Towers will prevent most of those from obeying that call.
Kaylin hesitated.
The familiar frowned. Or rather, she felt as if he had frowned; she couldn’t see his face. She couldn’t see any of him except for the claws across her shoulders. He was attempting to maneuver himself above the golden Dragon. Kaylin didn’t actually give much for her chances if she was dropped onto the Dragon’s back without the Dragon’s permission.
* * *
She could scream her lungs out and not get Bellusdeo’s attention at the moment. The golden Dragon was practically berserk. Her wings were high, and she used them to effect against the Aerians who had served as guards to the outcaste. The Hawks stayed well away from her. They’d seen her fight, and they knew she could take care of herself.
But she broke the other Aerians with a wing slam, and Kaylin wasn’t going to fare any better if she couldn’t get the Dragon’s attention. She was afraid now.
She was afraid because, carried as she was by the familiar, her vision had shifted. The shift was subtle, and entirely unlike having a small wing draped over her eyes; she saw the cavern as a cavern, she saw the outcaste as a Dragon; she saw a gold Dragon, an indigo Dragon—and in the distance, she could see two Dragons hovering. There wasn’t space for them to join the fight without causing trouble for Bellusdeo and the Emperor, but she could almost see their anxiety.
She could see some Aerians. She could no longer see Moran; she assumed that Moran was deeper in the Aerie, and at this point, Moran wasn’t her problem.
Bellusdeo was. She could see the wound Bellusdeo had taken. It wasn’t, as Mandoran had said, a significant wound. Bellusdeo had taken worse in the fight above the High Halls—and that injury had slowed her down. This one? She’d barely notice it, and clearly hadn’t.
But Kaylin noticed it. She could see it, not as a wound—although it did bleed—but as a net, a thing that was spreading slowly, subtly, fro
Whatever he’d wanted from Bellusdeo all those centuries ago, whatever he’d wanted when Bellusdeo had first appeared as a Dragon above Elantra, he still wanted.
And Kaylin was certain that whatever he wanted for Bellusdeo, she didn’t. She needed to touch the golden Dragon now. And she needed to survive it. She wasn’t at all certain that she could accomplish the first and guarantee the second—but if she died, she couldn’t heal the wound.
I can help, the familiar said.
How?
What Mandoran and Annarion do, I can do.
Yes, but I can’t—
You are with me, Kaylin. You are part of the world that I touch. Mandoran’s clothing does not remain behind when he transitions; Annarion’s weapons do not disappear.
She’d never thought about that before.
Your marks are glowing.
I know. She hesitated. She’d felt this before: the tingling, and the weight. I think I’m about to lose some of them. Even as she thought it, marks began to lift themselves from her skin; they passed through the cloth that usually hid them from public view without tearing anything.
They did not cohere; they traveled slowly out from Kaylin, their trajectory affected by the movement of the dragon familiar, as if they were simply large, golden landmarks, drifting weightless in the currents of a room that was such a fury of sound there should have been gales.
Kaylin flinched as Bellusdeo’s wing rose and swept in a scythe of motion toward the familiar.
Blink, he told Kaylin.
She had, of course, attempted to throw herself out of the way. She hadn’t received any training in aerial combat—beyond witnessing it when she could sneak into the Aerie in the Halls—and her survival instincts were honed for ground work. The dragon familiar, however, had both of her shoulders in his figurative hands; throwing herself out of the way had done precisely nothing.
Get ready, he said while she was trying to remember to breathe. The great, slashing arc of Bellusdeo’s wing should have sent her flying in the opposite direction—at best. It seemed to pass through her instead, but she felt it anyway.