Cast In Shadow

In fact, had she not been so unsettled, she would have hated him. But, like the rest of the Barrani, he seemed above any emotion she might offer. His eyes were cold, emrald-green; they did not blink once. She hoped it stung. She knew it wouldn’t.

“So,” he said quietly, sliding back into Barrani as he withdrew his hands from the door frame and stepped into the bar. He gestured without looking back, his fingers flicking air as if he were brushing away a speck of dust.

Behind him, two guards followed; they were, by their look, Barrani as well.

Three. Against a single Barrani, she and Severn had a good chance—on a very lucky day. But against three? None whatsoever.

Her hands fell to her daggers.

The fieflord raised a dark brow. “Do not,” he said softly, “insult my hospitality. Had I wished you harm, you would never have reached this … place.” He glanced around the innards of the bar.

She said nothing. She had heard his name whispered for years. In the fiefs, it was common. Outside of them, his name was also known, but the Hawks at least didn’t feel any need to speak it with respect, on the rare occasions they used it at all. She’d gotten used to that. She’d forgotten too much.

Kaylin had never met the fieflord. Was certain that she would have remembered even a passing glimpse, had she had one. Because although the Barrani had all looked alike to her when she had joined the Hawks, and it had taken months to become used to the subtle ways in which they differentiated themselves when they could be bothered, she would have known that this one was different.

She almost called him Lord Nightshade, and that would have been too much. Too much fear. Too much reaction.

As if he could hear her thoughts, his gaze met hers. “So,” he said softly. “You are the child.”

Not even that word could make her bridle.

He moved toward her, and Severn moved, slowly, to block him. The Barrani at the fieflord’s back moved less slowly, but with infinitely more grace. They were cold, deadly, beautiful—and utterly silent.

“Severn,” the fieflord said quietly. “It has been many years since we last spoke.”

Kaylin couldn’t stop her brows from rising. “Severn?”

Severn said, quietly, “Not enough of them.”

The fieflord moved before either she or Severn could; he backhanded Severn. And Severn managed to keep his footing. “I will, for the sake of hospitality, tolerate much from outsiders,” the fieflord said. “But you were—and will always be—one of mine. Do not presume overmuch.”

“He’s not yours,” Kaylin said sharply, surprise following words that she wouldn’t have said she could utter until they’d tumbled out of her open mouth. She spoke forcefully in Elantran, her mother tongue. Barrani, if it came, would come later; to speak it now was too much of a concession. Or a presumption. Either way, she didn’t like it.

A black brow rose; she had amused the fieflord. Then again, so did painful, hideous death by all accounts.

“And do you claim him, then, little one?”

“The Lord of Hawks does,” she replied.

He reached out slowly, his hand empty, his palm exposed. Gold glittered at the base of his fingers, but he carried no obvious weapon. His fingers brushed her cheek.

As if she were a pet, something small and helpless.

“The Lord of Hawks has no authority here,” he replied softly, “save that which I grant him.”

“He has authority,” Tiamaris said quietly, speaking for the first time.

The fieflord’s hand stilled, but it did not leave her face as he turned. His eyes, however, widened slightly as he met the red of Dragon eyes. Unlidded eyes, they seemed to burn. “Is she yours?” He asked casually, and this time, he did let his hand fall away.

“She is as she says.”

“She has not said who she serves,” the fieflord replied. “And if I am not mistaken, she was born in the fiefs.” He turned to look at her again.

“I—I serve—the Hawklord. Lord Grammayre. And so does Tiamaris.”

“Really?”

“I have offered him my service,” Tiamaris replied softly, “and it has been accepted. While I am here, I am his agent.”

The fieflord surprised Kaylin, then. He laughed. It was a rich, lovely sound, and it conveyed both amusement and something she couldn’t quite name. “Times have changed, Tiamaris, if you can serve another.”

“I have always served another,” was the cold reply.

Kaylin had never seen a Dragon fight. Had a bad feeling that she was about to. The Barrani guards had forgotten Severn, forgotten her; they were drawn to Tiamaris as if he were the only significant danger in the room. Which was fair. He was.

The fieflord, however, raised a hand, and the Barrani stiffened. She knew some of the silent language of thieves, and saw none of it in the gestures of the fieflord. They knew him well enough that that gesture was command.

“It is strange,” the fieflord said softly. “I know both you, Tiamaris, and the young man called Severn by his kind. But the girl? She is at the apex of events, and I have never met her.” He held out a hand, then.

She stared at it.

“Leave her be,” Tiamaris said, and his voice, soft, was suddenly louder than Marcus’s at its most fierce.

“I intend her no harm,” the fieflord replied. He had once again turned the full emerald of his eyes upon her, and she could not help but believe his words. “And I intend to make clear to the people of my lands that I intend they offer her none. Will you gainsay me?”

“I will not have you mark her.”

The fieflord said, quietly, “She is already marked, Tiamaris.”

To that, the Dragon offered no reply.

Which was too bad; it might have helped her make sense of the fieflord’s words. She stared at his hand; he did not move it. After a moment, it became clear to her that he intended her to actually take his hand.

“I am not patient,” the fieflord said, when he realized that she wouldn’t. “And I have little time to spare. You are here because of the sacrifices, of course. And it is in my interest to see an end brought to them as well.”

Still she stared. Might have gone on staring, dumbfounded, had Severn not said, curtly, “Take his hand.”

Her fingers touched the fieflord’s palm, and he closed his hand around hers.

Magic coursed up her arm. Her right arm. She was rigid with the shock of it, and angry. She tried to pull free, and wasn’t surprised when she failed.

“What are you—”

“Silence.”

She could feel the magic as it rode up her shoulder, sharp light, and invisible. She hated magic. But she bit her lip and waited; she was already committed.

Severn swore.

Tiamaris’s brows rose. “Lord Nightshade,” he began, but he did not finish.

The magic broke through her skin, questing in air as if it were alive. She could see it. Judging by the expressions of her companions, everyone could. It twisted in the space just above her, and then it coalesced into a blue, sparkling shape, like a ward.

It touched her cheek, in the exact same place that the fieflord had. A lesson, for Kaylin, and one that she would not forget: he did nothing without cause.

“You bear my mark,” he said quietly. “And in this fief, it will afford you some protection.” He paused, and then added, “This is a fief. It will not protect you from everything. Mortal stupidity knows no bounds. But in the event that you are harmed by any save me, they will pay.”

He let her hand go, then. “Now, come. It is late, and we have far to travel.”

“Travel?” Her first word, and it wasn’t terribly impressive. Then again, Severn said nothing at all.

“You are invited as guests to the Long Halls of Nightshade,” he replied, with just the hint of a bow. “But sunset is coming, and in the fiefs—”

She nodded. In the fiefs, night meant something different.

Her skin was still tingling a half hour later. The fieflord walked before them, and the Barrani guards, behind. Sandwiched in an uncomfortable line between these two walked Severn, Kaylin and Tiamaris, the wings of their namesake momentarily clipped.

“Severn,” she said, in a voice so soft he should have missed it.

Severn nodded, although he didn’t look at her.

“My face—what happened?”

“You—you’ve got a blue flower on your cheek,” he said quietly.

“A flower?”

“Sort of. It’s nightshade.”

“It’s what?”

“Nightshade,” Tiamaris said quietly. “The namesake of the fieflord. It’s a … herb,” he added.

“I have a tattoo of a flower on my face?”

Severn did look at her then, his brow arched. “You would have liked a skull and crossbones better?”

“Or a dagger. Or a sword. Or even a Hawk. A flower?”

“A deadly one,” Tiamaris said, with just the hint of a smile. “But it is very pretty.”

Had he not been a Dragon, she would have kicked him. Or had she not been shadowed by armed Barrani. As it was, she glowered.

Which broadened his smile. Dragon smile. “You should feel … honored. In a fashion. This is the first time that I have seen a human bear the mark of the fieflord.”

She turned the words over, picking out the information they contained. “How often have you seen him mark anyone else?”

“Not often,” Tiamaris replied, his eyes now lidded. “And no, before you ask, I am not going to tell you when.”

She frowned. “Does the Hawklord—”

“Lord Grammayre knows much,” he replied. “And if he feels it necessary to enlighten you, he will. Until then, I suggest you pay attention to the—”

Cobbled streets. Badly cobbled. She caught her boot under the edge of an upturned stone and tripped. Severn caught her arm before she made her way to the ground.

“Severn?”

“What?”

“When did you meet the fieflord?”

“Back when we were both in the fiefs,” he said. But he didn’t meet her eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want you to know.”

“All right, I guessed that. Why?”

He shook his head. “Don’t ask, Kaylin.”

She heard the change in his tone, and she suddenly didn’t want to know. “You know where we’re going?”

“No. When I spoke to him, he didn’t invite me into his Hall.”

“Should we be worried?”

The look he gave her almost made her laugh. It would have been a shaky laugh. She held it. “I mean, more worried?”

And he shook his head and cuffed hers gently. “You haven’t changed at all,” he said, with just a hint of bitterness.

The manor of the fieflord was not a manor. It was a small keep. Stone walls circled it, and beyond their height—and they were damn tall—the hint of a castle behind them could be seen, no more. The stone work of the walls was in perfect repair, and that made it suspect in the fiefs, where nothing was perfect.

The castle would have looked ridiculous had she not been in the presence of the man who ruled the fief from its heart. She’d lived most of her life in Nightshade, and she’d only once come near the keep. Rarely come down the streets that surrounded it. She’d spent a good deal of time honing her skills at theft, and no one survived stealing anything from the fieflord or his closest advisors. And in the end, they were happy enough not to survive; it was all the stuff in between that was terrifying.

She saw no one on the streets. It was not yet dark, but they were empty. She wondered if they’d been cleared by the Barrani guards, or if people were just unusually smart in this part of town. She didn’t ask.

The tall, stone buildings around the keep were better kept than those at the edges of the fief, but they were still packed tightly together, and they still felt old. As old as anything in the outer city. Shadows moved in the windows, or perhaps they were drapes closing; the movements were quick, furtive and caught by the corner of a wary eye.

Between some of those windows, gargoyles, carved in weathered stone, kept watch like sentinels on high, smooth wings folded, claws extended about the edge of their stone bases. She had often wondered if the gargoyles came to life when the last of day waned. She was careful not to wonder it now. Because in the shadow of the fieflord, it seemed too plausible.

The road to the keep was wide; a carriage could easily make its way to the gate, pulled by four—or even six—horses. But the gates themselves were behind a portcullis that discouraged visitors.

They certainly discouraged Kaylin.

She turned to Tiamaris, but Tiamaris didn’t blink. He nodded, however, to let her know that he was aware of her sudden movement.

“Welcome,” the fieflord said softly, “to Castle Nightshade.” He stepped forward as they approached the gates, and he placed a hand upon the portcullis.

It shivered in place, but it did not rise.

“Follow me,” he said. “Do not stop. Do not hesitate, and do not show fear. While you are with me, you are safe. Remember it.”

He spoke to Kaylin in his resonant Barrani, and although she’d spoken nothing but Elantran, she knew he knew that she understood him perfectly. Then again, she was a ground Hawk; all of the Hawks had to speak Barrani, or they weren’t allowed on the beat. She wondered, now, why she had thought it was such a good idea.

It seemed, to Kaylin, that he spoke only to her.

Dry-mouthed, she nodded.

He stepped forward through the portcullis. As if it were shadow, and only shadow. Drawing breath, Kaylin looked to either side for support, and then did as he had done: She stepped into the gate.

It enfolded her.

She screamed.

When she woke, her head ached, her mouth was dry and she would have bet she’d had a terrific evening with Teela and Tain in the bar down the street—if she could remember any of it. That lasted for as long as it took her to realize that her bed was way too soft, her room was way too big, her door lacked bolts and had gained height and her windows were nonexistent.

That, and she had a companion.

She reached for her daggers. They weren’t there. In fact neither were her leathers. Or her tunic, or the one pair of pants she had that hadn’t been cut to pieces.

Lord Nightshade stood in the center of the almost empty room. If there were no windows, light was abundant, and it was both soft enough to soothe the eye, and harsh enough to see clearly by. The floor beneath his feet was marble and gold, and he seemed to be standing in the center of a large circle.

“You will forgive me,” he said, making a command out of what would, from anyone else, have been an apology. “I did not expect your passage here to be so … costly. Your former clothing was inappropriate for my halls. It will be returned to you when you leave.”

The when sounded distinctly like an if.

She wasn’t naked. Exactly.

But her arms were bare to the shoulder, and she hated that. She never, ever wore anything that didn’t fall past her wrists, and for obvious reasons. The thick distinct lines of swirling black seemed to move up and down her forearms as she glanced at them. She didn’t look long.

Dizzy, she rose. Her dress—and it was a dress of midnight-blue, long, fine and elegantly simple—rose with her, clinging to the skin. It was a pleasant sensation. And it was not.

Teela and Tain were the Barrani she knew best, and they never came to work dressed like this. It made her wonder what they did in their off hours. Which made her redden. She wondered who had changed her, and that didn’t help.

But the fieflord simply waited, watching her as if uncertain what she would do. She lifted her right arm, and saw that the gold manacle still encased it, gems flashing in sequence. A warning.

“Yes,” he said softly. “That was … unexpected. I have not seen its like in many, many years—and I suspect not even then. Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift.”

“From the Lord Grammayre?”

She nodded.

“It did not come from him. Not directly.” He stepped outside of the golden circle inlayed upon the ground and approached her. But he approached her slowly, as if she were wild. “My apologies,” he said, less of a command in the words. “But I wished to see for myself if you bore the marks.”

“And now?” she asked bitterly.

“I know. If you are hungry, you may eat. Food will be brought. These rooms have been little used for many years. They are not fit for guests.”

“Where are my—where are Severn and Tiamaris?”

“I found it convenient to leave them behind,” he replied gravely. “But they are unharmed, and they know that you are likewise unharmed. If they are wise, they will wait.”

“And if they aren’t?”

“These are my halls,” he said coldly. “And not even a Dragon may enter them with impunity.”

“But he’s been here before.”

The fieflord raised a brow. “How do you know that, little one?”

“I’m not called ‘little,’” she replied. She wanted to snap the words; they came out sounding, to her ears, pathetic.

“And what are you called now?”

“Kaylin. Kaylin Neya.”

His other brow rose. And fell. “Interesting. Yes, you are correct. Tiamaris has indeed visited the Long Halls. If any could find their way in, uninvited, it would be he. But I think, for the moment, he is content to wait. It will keep your Severn alive.”

“He’s not mine,” she said. And I don’t want him alive. But she couldn’t bring herself to say the words to the fieflord. Didn’t want to know why.

He held out a hand.

She tried to ignore it. But she found herself lifting hand in response. As if this were a dream. He took the hand; his skin was cool. Hers was damp.

“These are the Halls of Nightshade,” he said quietly. “Come. There are things here I wish you to see.” Without another word, he led her from the room.

She expected the doors to open into a hall.

So much for expectation. They opened instead into what must have been a forest. Not that she’d seen forests—not up close—but she’d seen them at a distance, when Clint had taken her flying to the Aeries of his kin. Here, the trees grew up, and up again, until they reached the rounded height of a ceiling that she could only barely glimpse through the greenery.

She walked slowly, her hand still captive to the fieflord’s, but he seemed to be in no hurry. And why would he? If he didn’t manage to get himself killed, he had forever. Time meant nothing to him.

At his side, in waking dream, it could almost mean nothing to her. She touched the rough surface of brown bark, and then moved on to the smooth surface of silver-white; she touched leaves that had fallen across the ground like a tapestry, a gentle riot of color. All of her words deserted her, which was just as well; she didn’t have any fine enough to describe what she saw.

And had she, she wouldn’t have exposed it. Beauty meant something to her, and she kept it to herself, as she kept most things that meant anything.

“There is no sunlight,” he told her, as if that made sense. “But outcaste or no, I am still Barrani Lord—they grow at my whim.”

“And if you don’t want them?”

He gestured. The tree just beyond the tip of her fingers withered, twisting toward the ground almost as if it were begging. She stopped herself from crying out. It was just a plant.

She didn’t ask again, however. And she kept her wonder contained; she looked; she touched nothing else. He had offered her a warning, in subtle Barrani fashion. She took it.

“Where are we going?”

“To the heart of this forest,” he replied. “Be honored. Not even my own have seen it.”

“Your children?”

His brows drew in. “Are you truly so ignorant, Kaylin?”

“Apparently.”

His hand tightened. It was not comfortable. Another warning. But he chose to do no more than that, and after a pause, he surprised her. He answered. “I have no children. I am outcaste.”

Outcaste was a word that had meaning for Kaylin, but in truth, not much. Although one human lord served as Caste-lord for her kind, the complicated laws of the caste did not apply to the rank and file. It certainly didn’t apply to the paupers and the beggars who made a living—or didn’t—in the fiefs. The Leontines, the Aerians and the humans—mortal races all—were not defined in the same way by caste; they were more numerous, and their lives reached from the lowest of gutters to the highest of towers. Not so, the Barrani.

“I spoke simply of my kin, those who chose to follow me. The forest speaks to them, but it speaks in a language that is … not pleasant to their ears. They will not hear it, and remain. And I am unwilling to release them.

“I release nothing that is mine.”

She said nothing for a while. For long enough that she found the silence uncomfortable. Not awkward; awkward was too petty a word. “Did you build this?”

“The forest?”

“The … Long Halls.”

“No.”

“The castle?”

“No. I have altered it over the years, but in truth, very little. It was here, for the taking.” His smile was thin. “I was not, however, the first to try. I was the first to succeed.”

“It had other occupants?”

“It had defenses,” he replied. “And I forget myself. You ask too many questions.”

“Questions are encouraged, in the Hawks. When they’re not stupid.”

“Indeed. Here, they are not. The answers can be fatal.” He stopped in front of a dense ring of trees; their branches seemed to interlock at all levels, as if they had deliberately grown together. She didn’t like the look of them. But then again, at the moment she didn’t like the look of herself, either. What she could see, that is; the dress, the funny shoes, the bold, black design on her arms. She drew her arms down.

His hand came with one. “You do not understand the marks you bear,” he said, his voice a little too close to her ear.

“And you do?”

“No, not completely. But I understand some of their significance. In truth, I’m surprised that you still survive.”

“Why?”

He smiled, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted his hand and touched the trees that barred their way. They shuddered. There was something terrible about that shudder, something that looked so wrong she had to turn away. It was as if the trees were silently screaming.

But they parted. Like curtains, like great rolling doors, their limbs untwining, their trunks shifting. Roots moved beneath her feet—or something did. She really wanted to pay less attention.

“Come,” he said, when there was room enough for passage.

Her hand fell to her hips, and came up empty. Daggers, of course, were someplace else. But the desire for them, the reflex, was still a part of her. And it was growing stronger.

“Nothing will harm you here,” he told her, the smile gone. “You bear my mark. You are in my domain.”

I’ve lived in your fief for more than half my life, and it wasn’t ever safe. But she said nothing. And it was hard.

The trees were not as thick as they appeared; the darkness of their branches curved above like a roof or a canopy, but it lasted a scant ten feet, and then it was gone.

They stood in a great, stone room, beneath the outer edge of a domed ceiling that gave off a bright, green light. And as they walked toward the center of the room, that light grew brighter, changing in hue. She looked up; she couldn’t help it.

Above her, carved in runnels in the smooth, hard stone, were swirling patterns that were both familiar and foreign. She lifted a hand. An arm.

“Yes,” the fieflord said quietly. “They are written in the same tongue as the mark you bear. It is known as the language of the Old Ones.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“No one does. There is not a creature alive that can read the whole of what is written there. But I have never seen the writing glow in such a fashion. I believe that the room is aware of your presence.”

“But who—or what—are the Old Ones?”