Hawklord isn’t going to be happy about this.”
“The Hawklord is not your lord. He rules your life when you labor under his command. What you do in your … free time is not his concern. Come, Kaylin. It will be dark soon, and while I am not afraid of ferals, I do not think facing them will be in your best interest.”
Enough of a warning. She made her way across the bridge, marking the point at which her new life was discarded and her old life opened up before her in the roads and causeways of Nightshade.
It was not the only fief she knew; not even the only fief she had called home. But it was the fief in which she had lived almost all of her life. The other, she didn’t name and didn’t think about.
“Why is the Barrani castelord—”
He held up a hand. “Now is not the time for that discussion.” His smile was slender and cool. “If we are lucky, there will be no time for it. If we are not, you will have answers. The castelord of the Barrani is a subtle lord, and he has governed for centuries. He has not, of course, been uncontested.”
She didn’t ask what happened to the challengers; she assumed they were dead. And if they were, no complaint had been made to the Emperor or the Halls of Law, and no investigations—that she was aware of—had been started. Then again, if there had been, she probably wouldn’t be aware of them; Barrani weren’t as interesting, in terms of criminal activity, as the rest of the mortal races, and if she’d been forced to learn their language, she’d never much cared to learn their history, even as it pertained to the Halls of Law.
Barrani were unpleasantly cold, but they kept to themselves, and while they valued power, they were one of the few races she could think of that didn’t equate said power with money.
Money made people stupid.
Or starvation did. She’d never heard of a starving Barrani before.
“Severn won’t like it,” she said without thinking.
“No. But I assure you, Kaylin, that he will like even less the possible outcome of an entanglement with the Barrani lords. He did not,” he added without a shift in expression, “appreciate the fact that you would be living alone in an indefensible hovel while the Court convened.”
“Is there anything about my life you don’t know?”
“Very little,” he replied smoothly. “You bear my mark, little one. You hold my name. Did you think that these were merely decorations or human familiarities?” “No. But I was trying.”
“Expend your efforts, then, on something worthwhile. We have fought the outcaste Dragon,” he added, “and we have killed the dead. There is always a cost.”
Yes, she thought bitterly. Always. And we’re not the ones to pay it.
“A lesson, for those who want power.” She wondered why anyone did.
“Because if you have power, you make the decisions, Kaylin.” “You have,” she said, the words an accusation. “And what decisions do you make that make power attractive?” “Ah. I am not one of the dead.”
Which wasn’t very helpful. The streets narrowed as they walked them; they were almost empty. The tavern owners and the butchers and the grocers who were chained to this side of the river were busy pulling in the boards and wheeled carts they used for display. If they noticed the Barrani lord, they gave no sign; at night, the ferals were more of a threat.
And night was coming.
She followed Nightshade, her cheek tingling. She wanted to brush it clear of the odd sensation, but she’d tried that many times, and all it did was make her hand numb. But she hesitated as the Castle came into view.
“There are no bodies in the cages,” he said quietly.
She looked up to examine his profile; he hadn’t turned to speak. “I guess people are busy preparing for the Festival.” It sounded lame, even to her.
“Too busy to offer offense?” His smile was sharp, but again, she saw it in perfect profile. “No, Kaylin Neya, it is a gift. For you.”
“You knew I would be coming here.”
“Yes. And I do not intend—at this time—to make your stay more difficult than it must be.”
There were two guards at the black facade of the gate. They offered Nightshade a deep obeisance, a formal and graceful bend that did not deprive them of weapons or footing. He did not appear to notice.
But they offered no less respect to Kaylin. It made her uncomfortable; it put her off her stride.
“They are here for protection,” he told her as he made his way to the portcullis. “And I am seldom in need of protection here.”
She hesitated, hating the portcullis. It never actually rose; it was a decorative set of heavy, black iron bars that should have been functional. She’d seen them before a dozen times in other buildings, and had learned to listen to the grinding of the gears that raised them.
But these? They weren’t. Raised.
You didn’t enter Castle Nightshade without an invitation, and when you did—you walked through the lowered portcullis; it was a very mundane depiction of a magic portal. And it took you somewhere else. She wondered if the courtyard that could easily be seen through the spaces in the bars was real, or if it was a backdrop, some sort of tiresome illusion.
She really, really hated magic.
“Kaylin?” Lord Nightshade said. It sounded like a question. It was, of course, a command. He held out a hand to punctuate the fact, and she forced herself to move slowly enough that it didn’t seem like an obvious hesitation. Given that she wasn’t her audience, she couldn’t tell whether or not the watching Barrani guards could tell the difference. She doubted they cared.
But they were … different.
“Of course,” Lord Nightshade said in a voice that barely traveled to her ears. “They know what you fought, Kaylin. They know you survived. They could not, with certainty, say the same of themselves in a like situation.”
And the Barrani respected power.
She took a deep breath and followed Lord Nightshade into the castle.
Her stomach almost lost lunch. She hadn’t had time for dinner, which was good; dinner wouldn’t have been an almost.
But she wasn’t in the vestibule, which had the advantage of looking like the very rich and opulent end of “normal,” she was in a room. A room that had no windows but shed an enormous amount of light anyway.
The floor was cold and hard, but it was beautiful; a smoky marble shot through with veins of blue and green, and the hint of something gold. It was laid out in tiles that suggested the pattern of concentric circles, and at the center of those, she stood, her bag on her shoulders, her uniform hanging unevenly at the hem. In other words, out of place in every possible way.
Not so, Lord Nightshade.
He gestured; she looked up as he did,
