far as anyone could tell, really animals at all. But what they were wasn’t clear. Besides deadly. She felt the tension shore her up. Found her footing on the uneven ground, and held it.
The last time she had faced ferals, she had stood in Tiamaris’s position, and between her and Severn, a child had cowered. Lost child. Stupid child. But still living.
She didn’t like the analogy that memory made of the situation.
Severn waited, his chain a moving wall. He wasn’t even breathing heavily. He spoke her name once, and she responded with a short grunt. It was enough.
The ferals leaped.
They leaped in concert, their jaws wide and silent. The moonlight seemed to cast no shadow beneath their moving bodies, but then again, it was dark enough that shadows were everywhere. Severn’s chain shortened suddenly as he drew it in, and then it lengthened as he let it go.
Feral growl became a howl of pain; a severed paw flew past Kaylin’s ear.
Tiamaris had no like weapon; he waited.
The feral that had leaped at him landed feet away, and it bristled. Tiamaris opened his mouth and roared.
That, Kaylin thought, wincing, would wake the entire damn fief. But she watched as the feral froze, and then watched, in astonishment, as it yelped and turned tail. Like a dog. Had she really been afraid of these creatures?
The one facing Severn lost another paw, and then lost half its face. It toppled.
“Kaylin?”
She shook her head.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Where there are two, there are likely to be more.”
But Tiamaris said, softly, “Not tonight.” He picked Kaylin up again, and he began to move.
They crossed the bridge over the Ablayne in the moonlight. The Halls of Law loomed in the distance, like shad-owlords. “Kaylin,” Tiamaris said quietly, “the Hawklord will be waiting.”
“All right,” she said, into his chest. “But I’d better be getting overtime for this.”
If Kaylin slept—and she did—the Halls of Law never did. The crew changed; the guards changed. The offices that were a conduit between one labyrinth of bureaucracy and another, however, were empty. She was grateful for that. Severn had cleaned the blade of his weapon, and he’d looped it round his waist again. But he didn’t leave.
The guards at the interior door were Aerian. Clint wasn’t one of them, but she recognized the older men. They were a bit stuffier than Clint, but she liked them anyway.
“Holder,” she said.
He raised a brow. “You went on a raid dressed like that?”
“I wasn’t on a raid.”
“Oh, even better. Look at your cheek. It’s—” he frowned.
“It’s stopped bleeding,” she offered, but she had grown quiet herself. In the fiefs, it had seemed disturbing to bear a mark—but it had also seemed natural in a fashion that now entirely escaped her. Holder’s dark eyes narrowed. “Hawklord’s waiting for you,” he said at last, lowering his weapon. “And you’d better have one helluva good explanation for him.”
She nodded and went through the doors. Or rather, Tiamaris did, carrying her. Severn trailed behind.
When they reached the main office, she was surprised to find Marcus still on duty. He was not, however, surprised to see her, which made Kaylin look up at Tiamaris with unguarded suspicion.
“I sent word,” he said quietly. “I made use of one of the mirrors in the castle.”
“But the mirrors in the castle can’t possibly be keyed to—” She saw his look and shut up, fast.
“You got her out,” Marcus said, his words a growl. He was tired. Tired Leontine was better than angry Leontine—but only by a whisker. His were bobbing.
“In a manner of speaking,” Tiamaris replied coldly.
Whatever existed between the sergeant and the Dragon was always, Kaylin thought, going to be an issue. But this time, Marcus let him pass without comment.
Severn stopped, though. “I’m not going up,” he said quietly. “I’ll wait for you here.”
“I’ll be a while,” she replied, without much hope. “Go home.”
He met her gaze and held it. And she remembered that she’d never really been able to tell Severn what to do. Oh, she’d always given him orders—but he’d chosen which ones he wanted to follow, and ignored the rest. She would have said as much, but he was angry. Tense with it, waiting to spring.
“Kaylin,” Marcus said.
She shored herself up so she could look over Tiamaris’s shoulder.
The Sergeant snorted. “You shouldn’t be in the fiefs. Tell the old bastard I said so.”
“Yes, sir.”
The tower passed beneath her. It was interesting to see it from this perspective; interesting and a tad humiliating. “I can walk,” she muttered.
“You will have to, soon enough,” Tiamaris replied. He climbed the stairs without pause until he reached the doors that were, as always, guarded. Here he paused and set Kaylin on her feet.
She recognized neither of the two Aerians, and this was unusual. But one, grim-faced, nodded to Tiamaris. “The Lord of Hawks is waiting,” he said quietly. “He bids you enter.”
Tiamaris nodded.
Kaylin stared at them both for a moment, and then she moved past the guards and placed her palm on the door’s seal, grimacing. Great way to end a very long day.
But the Hawklord must have been waiting, because the door rolled open, untouched. Startled, she watched before she remembered that two strangers were staring at her. Then she squared her shoulders and entered the room. Lord Grammayre was indeed waiting, but not in the room’s center; he stood, instead, in front of a long, oval mirror on the east side of the rounded wall. Their eyes met in reflection; his were cool.
Bad, then. There were days when she could actually make him smile. Days when she could make him laugh, although his laughter was brief and grudged. There were also days when she could make him raise his voice in frustration. All of these, she valued.
None of these would happen tonight.
“Lord Grammayre,” she said, bending stiffly at the waist before she fell to one knee. She had to place a hand on the ground to keep her balance; in all, it was a pretty poor display.
Tiamaris, in theory a Hawk, did not bend or kneel. He offered the Hawklord a nod that would pass as polite between equals. “Lord Grammayre,” he said quietly.
“Tiamaris. You almost lost her.”
Tiamaris
