work,” she said at last. “I want to be part of my life’s work. I want—all I’ve wanted since the first day I was introduced to all of you—is to be a Hawk.”
“You are a Hawk, Kaylin.”
“The Hawks don’t employ mages.”
Caitlin’s smile froze in place. “You do realize that annoying them probably won’t stop them from coming?” “I can try.”
The older woman’s expression gave trying a different meaning. “I believe the Hawklord will want to speak with you. Again.”
Kaylin’s shoulders sagged. She walked past Caitlin and out of the room.
The Hawklord’s tower boasted a fine set of stairs, one that curved upward against the inner wall in a continuous stacked spiral. There was good stonework here, girded by brass rails, and the echoes went up forever, bouncing against the walls.
Or against the breastplates of the guards on the various landings Kaylin walked past.
She nodded at them; they nodded back. If they were inclined to smirk, they managed to hide it, which was just as well. A brawl on these steps could cause injury. And, following it, more injury of an entirely Leontine nature. Marcus didn’t approve of Hawks fighting each other in the Halls; he’d long since given up on Hawks squabbling after too many drinks in their private time.
The door to the Hawklord’s inner sanctum, with its much-hated magical ward, was as usual closed. Kaylin, grimacing, placed her palm squarely against that ward and waited while the familiar prickle of magic ran up her arm and caused her hair to almost stand on end. The first time she’d touched it, she’d sworn her head off. Unfortunately for Kaylin, the most severe of the words occurred as the doors were opening; the domed cavern that the Hawklord ruled had reminded her of the unpleasant existence of acoustics. The Hawklord himself reminded her about the correct use of language in his presence.
It mostly consisted of “don’t talk” in exactly the wrong tones. Kaylin wasn’t a firm believer in soft-spoken threats, but if anyone could make her one, it was Lord Grammayre, the Aerian who held the title of Lord of Hawks.
She walked across the threshold.
The Hawklord, pale white wings turned toward her, was waiting in the silence. When he turned, she could see a piece of paper in his hands. It seemed to command most of his attention.
And given what it probably said, that wouldn’t last long.
She paid him the obeisance the difference in their ranks demanded: She knelt. This was only partly because she was his junior in every possible way. The other part—the one that wanted to remain a member of his Hawks—was not above a little groveling, especially when there were no other witnesses. It wasn’t the worst thing she’d done in his presence by a long shot.
His eyes, narrow gray, traveled along the top of her head as if they could scalp her and keep the scalp as an object lesson for other Hawks. Marcus, all bristling fur and exposed fangs, was no match for the Hawklord when it came to intimidation. Kaylin had annoyed them both in her time, and had more than ample experience as proof.
He handed her the piece of paper. She had to rise to take it. “That,” he said, “was the third member of the Imperial Order of Mages you’ve managed to offend in less than ten days.”
She recognized Leontine scrawl; it was bold, dark, and put holes in the paper.
“He started it” was not an option, and she bit the words back, swallowing them. “I’ve never been a good classroom student,” she said at last.
“We’re well aware of that,” he replied, his words dry enough to catch fire. “We’ve attempted to keep your academic transcripts from the mages who have condescended to tutor you. Unfortunately, they seem to think it necessary to review them.”
She said nothing, as it seemed safest. It usually was, and she frequently failed to remember this until after her mouth had engaged. “I don’t understand why you even think it’s necessary,” she said at last, when his silence grew a little too weighty.
He raised a pale brow. His eyes, Aerian to the core, were shading to blue, which was never a good sign.
“The Hawks don’t employ mages,” she said woodenly. “You are not a mage.” “Then why—”
He lifted a hand. “I have always considered patience a virtue when dealing with the Hawks,” he told her, “but I find that, as usual, you tax precious resources.
“Therefore, I will be blunt. You are a Hawk, but you are also—as you well know—blessed or cursed with magical ability. You can’t control it well enough—you don’t understand what it is, or what it can do. It is the opinion of experts that the power itself can be wielded in a manner similar to the way that mages channel their power.”
Which experts?
“Do not even think of asking, Kaylin.” He knew her far too well.
“It’s Festival,” she snapped. “We’re up to our armpits in work—if we’re lucky. We’ve just gotten the tally of so-called diplomats and Important Visitors—” she managed to wedge a powerful sneer into each syllable of the last two words “—and we’re undermanned, as usual.
“I don’t have time for this right now.”
“I will agree that the timing is not the most opportune,” the Hawklord said in a tone that implied the exact opposite. “But as the timing is not of our choosing, we have little choice.
“I understand what you’re attempting to do, Kaylin,” he added, his voice smoothing to velvet. “And I will now insist that you cease this. It is unworthy of you. You can insult and infuriate every mage who crosses the threshold on my behalf, if it pleases you. But they will not stop coming. Do you understand?”
She didn’t.
He raised a hand to his brow. As gestures went, it was human, and even if it hadn’t been, it was transparent. “The Emperor himself has taken an interest in your education.”
They were not the words she expected to hear. They were also the last words she wanted to hear. Unfortunately, lifting her hands to stop her ears wasn’t an option.
“How much does he—”
“He is the Emperor. It is to the Emperor that the Lords of Law are beholden. How much do you think he knows?”
The words too damn much flitted about, but she tried to ignore them.
“You fought a Dragon,” he added quietly. “You fought the only Dragon who has ever survived being outcaste among his kin. The battle was felt all the way to the palace. Some diplomacy was necessary—you can thank Tiamaris for his intercession—and there was, perhaps, a surfeit of actual facts offered. But enough was said. The Emperor knows that you bear the marks.”
Her eyes fell to her sleeves automatically; they always did when anyone spoke of the strange writing that ran the length of her arms and her thighs. They had been symbols to be hidden when she had been a child on the edge of adulthood; she knew them now as words. Or names. But whose words and whose names were still mostly
