“I told him you’d say that,” Mandoran added, half-apologetically. Half was usually as much as he could muster.
“I’m surprised he didn’t listen,” Bellusdeo said, picking up a fork as if it were a fascinating, rarely seen utensil. “Usually you’re the one who chooses to be selectively deaf.” She smiled at Mandoran. “I’ve come to find it quaintly charming.”
Mandoran’s eyes shifted to a steady, deeper blue, the universal sign of Barrani fear or anger. And he certainly wasn’t afraid. “As charming as a Dragon in mortal clothing?”
“Oh, infinitely more so. I assume once you’ve developed better command of your manners, I will be far less entertained. But I don’t expect that to happen in the next decade. Or two.”
Mandoran’s natural dislike of Dragons as a race left Kaylin stranded with Annarion, who was still staring at her. No one could outstare Barrani.
“Why won’t you speak about my brother?” he asked. The question was softly spoken, but his tone made it more of a command than a request for information.
She considered and discarded a number of replies as she began to eat. She wasn’t hungry, and even if she had been, Annarion’s question would have killed her appetite. But she’d grown up on the edge of starvation, and she could always eat.
None of her possible replies were good. The truth was, she liked Annarion. He was—for a Barrani—honest, polite, self-contained.
“I don’t suppose you could ask your brother.”
Mandoran took a break from his barbed “conversation” with Bellusdeo. “He’s asked.”
“Nightshade didn’t want to talk about it?”
“No, he talked about it.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“He was lying.”
Annarion glared at Mandoran, looking as if he wanted to argue. He turned back to Kaylin instead. “I want to know your side of the story.” Meaning, of course, that he agreed with Mandoran’s assessment.
“I’ve got the usual mortal memory,” Kaylin replied evasively. “And I might lie, as well.”
Mandoran snorted again. “Your attempts at lies are so pathetic you should probably use a different word to describe them.”
Kaylin glared at Mandoran. Bellusdeo, however, said, “He has a point.”
Kaylin wasn’t certain how she would have answered. She was saved by the appearance of the last of her housemates. Moran—Sergeant Carafel in the office—entered the dining room. Moran was almost never late for anything, even breakfast.
Clearly, she had some reason for being late now, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. Her wings—or what remained of her wings—were stiff and as high as they could get with their protective bindings. Her eyes were blue. Aerian eyes and Barrani eyes overlapped in only one color. Moran was either angry, worried or both.
Kaylin had risen before she realized she’d left her chair, which did nothing to improve Moran’s mood. Moran did not appreciate any worry that was aimed in her direction. Ever.
“As you were, Private.” She sat on the stool provided for her; Aerian wings and normal chair backs didn’t get along well. To Helen, she added, “The mirror connection was smooth and solid.”
It certainly hadn’t started out that way. Helen had a strong dislike of mirrors, or rather, of the mirror network that powered their communication. Regular silvered glass didn’t bother her in the slightest. “I made a few adjustments, dear. I’m terribly sorry that the faulty connections to date have caused so much difficulty for you.”
“They haven’t,” Moran replied, her voice gentling, her eyes darkening.
Helen’s Avatar smiled. “They have.”
“The people on the other end of the connection have caused—or are trying to cause—the difficulty. It has nothing at all to do with you. If the connection had been faultless and solid, it would have given them more time to make things even less pleasant. I’m grateful for the respite.” Her eyes had shifted to a more neutral gray by the time she reached the end of her reassurance. She looked across the table at Bellusdeo.
“Was it the Caste Court?” Kaylin asked. Helen frowned at her but said nothing.
Moran glared Kaylin into the silence Helen would have preferred, but then relented slightly. “It was two castelords and one Hawklord. Before you ask, none of them were particularly happy. And it is caste business. Aerian business. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Moran then turned to Bellusdeo. “Are you accompanying us to the Halls today?”
Bellusdeo’s eyes were golden. “Of course.”
Moran then concentrated on breakfast. Annarion’s attention had fallen on the Aerian, as had Mandoran’s. Neither of the boys interacted much with her except at meals, and while Moran was polite, she wasn’t highly talkative.
“Helen,” Mandoran said, “what happened?”
“I don’t think she wishes to discuss that, dear.”
“That’s why I’m asking you.”
Even Annarion looked pained. “He’s gotten worse since he arrived in this city. He used to be capable of actual manners,” he said to the table at large.
“When they were necessary, yes. Here, no one needs them, and I hate to go through the effort when it won’t be appreciated in the slightest.”
* * *
Less than ten minutes later, Teela and Tain appeared in the dining room as if they’d been summoned. What was left of the breakfast conversation died as they were noticed.
“What, are we not welcome?” Teela asked as she sauntered in. She was wearing a sword. So was Tain.
“You are always welcome,” Helen told her. “Any friend of—”
“Yes, yes. Thank you, Helen.” Chairs appeared at the long dining table as if by magic. Well, actually, by magic. Teela turned one of the two so that its back almost touched the table’s edge. She sat, folding her arms across the top rail and resting her chin on her forearms. To Moran, she said, “What kind of trouble are you expecting?”
Moran glared at Mandoran. She knew the boys could communicate with Teela the same way they communicated with each other. They knew each other’s True Names. All of the children that had been taken, centuries ago, to the West March did. Kaylin thought it a bit unfair that Moran immediately blamed Mandoran.
Mandoran apparently didn’t. “What?” he asked, spreading his hands. “You asked the Dragon if she was heading into the Halls today. You know it gives Kaylin’s sergeant hives the minute she crosses the threshold. You’ve never asked before. Obviously you’re concerned that something requiring brute strength—or magical competence—might
