were real.
He was beautiful, in the cold way the floors were.
The ceiling above her head was rounded, like a gentle dome; it was rimmed by something that looked like marble, and its surface was engraved with runes. She didn’t recognize them.
She didn’t want to.
“The words—those runes—were … already here … when you took possession of the castle?”
“They were,” he said, sparing her a brief glance. His eyes traced the runes, and the light that rippled across them, as if it were reflected by the surface of a small pond in sunlight. “But they are not, I think, a danger to you. Can you read them?”
This was polite, as it was often polite to ask questions for which you technically weren’t supposed to have the answers. She distrusted polite in men of power. “No.”
“Ah. A pity. I believe that among the runes above us there are words you can invoke, should it come to that. They will afford you some protection.”
She said nothing.
“I have taken the liberty of giving you one of the outer rooms,” he continued. “You will not be required to enter the Long Hall. If I remember correctly, it causes you some discomfort.”
“It’s not the hall,” she said, before she could stop herself. “It’s the Barrani. The ones that don’t move and seem to be interested in blood.”
“Even so.” He pointed. Against the far curve—there was no direction in this room, given lack of anything that offered a directional anchor—was a large, round bed. With pillows, even. It was pristine, and covered in silks she thought were worth more than two years of her pay. It was annoying. On the other hand, it lacked a canopy, which seemed to be the thing to attach to the beds of people with too much money.
“I don’t suppose you have a map of the Castle?”
“One that wouldn’t change?”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
He smiled. “There is a wardrobe for your … belongings. You will also find—”
“I don’t need anything else.” She remembered, clearly, her first visit; she’d lost her uniform and had woken up in a really impractical dress. A really beautiful, attractive, impractical dress.
“If you dine with me—as I hope you will—you will need less … political garb. I have seen to that,” he added, his voice cooling by several degrees.
She remembered that annoying him was not a good idea. Not that she wasn’t willing, but she wanted to choose the fights.
He walked over to the wall and gestured. Stone separated, and a section of the wall reflected light evenly. Perfectly. “This,” he told her quietly, “is the mirror. You may use it, if you wish.”
“But you’ll hear everything.”
“Indeed.”
“And anyone who wants to reach me?” “They’ll be … directed … to this one. You are free to explore the Castle. I suggest, if you do, that you take a guard with you.” “Which one?”
“One of the two,” he replied, “who stand outside this door.” And he walked toward it. “I have much to attend to this eve. We will talk on the morrow.”
“I have to work—”
“You are not a prisoner here, Kaylin. You are no longer a child. You know the way to the upper city.”
The mirror didn’t wait.
She was almost asleep—she had trouble sleeping in strange, obscenely comfortable beds—when it went off. For a moment, she was disoriented; she was already out of the bed, and padding on cold stone toward the wrong wall when she remembered that she wasn’t home; she corrected herself as wakefulness caught up with her instincts.
She touched the mirror, keying it; an image began to form in its depths. Familiar face, and a dreadful, familiar expression.
“Marya?”
“Kaylin, thank the gods!”
Marya was a midwife. Which pretty much said it all. Kaylin reached for her pack. “Where?” she said. “Stevenson Street. It’s Worley’s old house.” “How long do I have?”
There was a small, stressful silence. Silent answers were always the worst. Had she been home, it would be a five-minute sprint, a fifteen-minute jog. She wasn’t anywhere that close.
“Marya—I’m not at my place.”
“I gathered. The mirror had trouble.”
Kaylin cursed mirrors. And Barrani. And time.
“I’ll be there,” she said quietly, yanking her boots on under her nightdress. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell her to—to stop pushing. To stop doing anything. Do you have worryroot?”
Marya’s nod was brisk. “Everything we can do, we’ve done. The baby’s not—”
Kaylin lifted a hand and shattered the image. Her way of saying she was on the move.
She dressed quickly and sloppily; she looked like a walking human crease. Her hair, she shoved back and staked. It wouldn’t hold through a real run; it would have to do for now. She stopped for a moment as a glint of light at her wrist was caught in a downward spark by the mirror’s reflective surface.
Caging her power, opulent and ancient, the bracer that had been both gift and bane, its jeweled surface cool and distant. She could hear Marcus now. She had her orders: it was not to come off.
And she had her imperatives. She couldn’t wear it and do what—what probably needed to be done. With a grimace, she touched the stones in a sequence that was so familiar she couldn’t consciously say it out loud. A loud click, and it opened. She dropped it on the floor.
It would find its way back to its keeper, sooner or later—and at the moment, that keeper wasn’t Kaylin. That much thought she spared before she ran to the door. The next thought was for the guards that stood outside of it.
She almost tripped over the men who now barred her way.
They were both beautiful, both perfect, and both utterly impassive. She snarled something in very rude Leontine.
They failed to understand. This could even be because they couldn’t, although she wouldn’t have bet money on it. “I don’t have time for this!”
But she did. The baby didn’t. The mother didn’t.
They exchanged a glance. She lifted a hand to her cheek, and drew back in surprise; the mark was hot. She hadn’t even seen it in the mirror, in the brief glance she had given herself before she’d tried to flee the room.
“We are not empowered to let you wander alone,” one of the two Barrani said. She looked at him carefully.
