drink, in a very mundane mug—to Moran, and set it in front of her, where lazy swirls of steam rose.
“I asked, in the beginning, what I was to be worthy of.”
Kaylin leaned forward, hurting for the child that Moran had been, and hoping it didn’t show. No one wanted pity, and Moran was not that child now.
“I was told that to prove my worth, I was to respect the authority of the Caste Court. They were wise and learned and of course, deserved their positions by consequence of birth. I was a bastard, illegitimate, and my father refused to step forward to claim kinship with me. I still don’t know who he is,” she added, staring at the rising steam as if reading some fortune in it. “I doubt I’ll ever know.”
“Would it make a difference?” Teela surprised Kaylin by asking. “Before you reply, I feel it necessary to point out that I killed mine—and I spent centuries building enough of a power base that I could survive doing so. He murdered my mother.”
Moran took her time digesting this information; it wasn’t information the Barrani who worked in the Halls would ever think to share. Her wry grin, and eyes that were now drifting into a more normal Aerian gray, cut years off her apparent age. The grin dimmed. “It’s possible that my father murdered my mother. I don’t know. He certainly did nothing to protect her, and he did nothing to protect me, either.
“But for all I know, my father might have been a younger son—no, less, a younger cousin, part of an Upper Reach flight in name only. He might have had no power.”
“You don’t believe it, though.”
“...No.” She shook herself. To Teela, she said, “Did killing him change anything?”
“Yes. I became the line.”
“That would never happen—I was illegitimate.”
“The Barrani do not fuss with legitimacy in that fashion,” Teela reminded her.
“I confess I don’t understand it; the Barrani inheritance wars are brutal enough when they start that legitimacy would seem to be of paramount import.”
“To an outsider, yes. But primacy is decided by power. What I take, I must be able to hold against all. If I am foolish, stupid or incompetent, I will die. The line, however, requires someone who is none of those things. My death might be regrettable, but it would be seen as necessary. And our children are not so numerous that the parentage defines them. The only exception is the lineage of the High Lord—and even in that case, new reigns are ushered in by politics and death in almost all cases.”
“Not the most recent one,” Kaylin said quietly.
“No. And believe, kitling, that there are lords who have been working constantly to ensure that the throne is in the hands of a ruthless, powerful man. A different man.”
Kaylin frowned.
“Told you,” Mandoran said as he turned to Kaylin. “He’s been fighting a constant succession war since the death of his father. It shouldn’t take more than another decade or two of your time before those challenges wither. Teela assumed you understood this.”
“And that has nothing to do with our current predicament.” Teela sent Mandoran a death glare; it didn’t faze him at all. “You do not know your father. Of your wings, you know only that they are of great import to the Aerian people—but not how or why.”
Moran nodded, shaking herself out of the web of memory that Teela’s words had evoked. “What was I saying? The praevolo. I believe, although again, it’s conjecture, that our ancestors did not suddenly find themselves in possession of a miracle baby. Birth is not quite the word used, but there’s no analogy that I can easily think of in Elantran. Maybe blessing?”
Kaylin stiffened, but said nothing.
“And it’s clear, given the stories, that the praevolo of that time could both fly—soar is the word that is used to refer to him—and fight. His prowess in both was considered proof of the benevolence and love of our gods.”
“And their existence, no doubt.”
Moran nodded. “I’m not terribly religious.”
“You’re a Hawk, which requires an entirely different kind of stupid,” Mandoran said.
“Mandoran,” Helen chided, as if she were his mother.
“Am I offending anyone?”
“In all probability, no,” Helen replied. “But you are offending me.”
Mandoran went still.
“Hazielle, my first tenant, was quietly and devoutly religious. Kaylin, my current tenant, is devoted to the Hawks. You are a guest here, and greater leeway is given to guests—but you will not insult them.”
“I insult Kaylin all the time!”
“He does,” Kaylin said, partly in his defense. Mandoran didn’t appear to hear her. He was staring at Helen, and Helen—or Helen’s Avatar—returned that stare with emphasis.
“Fine,” Mandoran eventually said. His voice was all sulkiness, except for the bits that were humiliation. Kaylin wasn’t certain this was smart, but even if it was her house, she wasn’t Helen.
“No, dear,” Helen said gently. “But that’s why you can be my tenant. I could never live with another presence that was too similar to me.”
Mandoran’s snort was rude, but wordless. Teela pointedly turned her attention back to Moran. “You think that the praevolo was magically created?”
“I think the power of the praevolo must have been, yes. We know that a flight’s worth of Aerians of both genders went into seclusion. They prayed,” she added with a hint of self-consciousness. “Those that were unworthy faced the wrath of the gods.”
“They died?”
Moran nodded. “They did not approach the gods with the proper humility and respect,” she added. “Believe that I heard this particular story frequently. I couldn’t make sense of it until I joined the Hawks. I had no idea how many gods crowded each other for space in Elantra until then.” Her gaze darted to Bellusdeo and away. “I didn’t entirely understand how dangerous the Shadows could be in a global sense until very recently, either.
“Be that as it may, I believe it was an investiture of power. And it worked.”
“But the power isn’t conferred that way now?” Kaylin asked.
Moran shook her head. “But it’s only the flights of the Upper Reach—or the offspring of those flights—that are born with the wings. It’s not a constant; there isn’t always a praevolo. We went three generations without one. But the birth of one—of me, in this case—implies that their power will be needed.”
“Has this proved historically true for the Aerians?” It was Bellusdeo who asked—of course it would be. If the genesis of Moran’s damaged wings was related in any way to Shadow, it would suddenly become hugely relevant to the golden Dragon. She had lost a world to those Shadows, and she had the memory of immortals. She did not forget for one second.
