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There were two guards at the black facade of the gate. They offered Nightshade a deep obeisance, a formal and graceful bend that did not deprive them of weapons or footing. He did not appear to notice.
But they offered no less respect to Kaylin. It made her uncomfortable; it put her off her stride.
“They are here for protection,” he told her as he made his way to the portcullis. “And I am seldom in need of protection here.”
She hesitated, hating the portcullis. It never actually rose; it was a decorative set of heavy, black iron bars that should have been functional. She’d seen them before a dozen times in other buildings, and had learned to listen to the grinding of the gears that raised them.
But these? They weren’t. Raised.
You didn’t enter Castle Nightshade without an invitation, and when you did—you walked through the lowered portcullis; it was a very mundane depiction of a magic portal. And it took you somewhere else. She wondered if the courtyard that could easily be seen through the spaces in the bars was real, or if it was a backdrop, some sort of tiresome illusion.
She really, really hated magic.
“Kaylin?” Lord Nightshade said. It sounded like a question. It was, of course, a command. He held out a hand to punctuate the fact, and she forced herself to move slowly enough that it didn’t seem like an obvious hesitation. Given that she wasn’t her audience, she couldn’t tell whether or not the watching Barrani guards could tell the difference. She doubted they cared.
But they were … different.
“Of course,” Lord Nightshade said in a voice that barely traveled to her ears. “They know what you fought, Kaylin. They know you survived. They could not, with certainty, say the same of themselves in a like situation.”
And the Barrani respected power.
She took a deep breath and followed Lord Nightshade into the castle.
Her stomach almost lost lunch. She hadn’t had time for dinner, which was good; dinner wouldn’t have been an almost.
But she wasn’t in the vestibule, which had the advantage of looking like the very rich and opulent end of “normal,” she was in a room. A room that had no windows but shed an enormous amount of light anyway.
The floor was cold and hard, but it was beautiful; a smoky marble shot through with veins of blue and green, and the hint of something gold. It was laid out in tiles that suggested the pattern of concentric circles, and at the center of those, she stood, her bag on her shoulders, her uniform hanging unevenly at the hem. In other words, out of place in every possible way.
Not so, Lord Nightshade.
He gestured; she looked up as he did, because his hand started at waist level and stopped just above his head, drawing the eye. She couldn’t help it. Years of working the beat at the side of Teela and Tain hadn’t in any way made her ready for Lord Nightshade; he was Barrani in the almost mythic sense, and they—they 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.
“I have to leave. Now. You have your duties,” she added, “and I have mine. But I will never forgive you if you keep me here, and I will never forgive you if any delay you cause costs me.”
The man’s gaze never wavered. But he drew his sword and nodded at the other guard. “I will accompany you,” he said. “Where will you go?”
“To the upper city,” she replied, pushing past him.
“The ferals—”
She knew. It just wasn’t allowed to matter. Not for the first time—and not for the last—she wished she was an Aerian; she could fly above the reach of ferals with ease, had she but wings.
She started to run, stopped, and turned to look at the guard. “What is your name—no, what should I call you?”
A dark, perfect brow rose. “Andellen,” he said at last, as if she’d asked him something that had never been asked by another living creature. Or not one who wanted to stay that way.
“Good. Andellen. I don’t know the Castle. I need to get out. Can you lead me?”
He nodded. Whatever hesitation he had shown had vanished the moment he had agreed to accompany her. He was stiff; he wasn’t at all like the Barrani Hawks she knew. He spoke High Barrani, and he chose a sword as his weapon; the Hawks usually used a very large stick.
He also wore armor.
But the armor didn’t seem to slow him down, or if it did, it didn’t matter; he was moving at a speed that Kaylin could barely match.
They made the vestibule, and Kaylin gritted her teeth as she passed through the portal and into the world.
There was no time for conversation. They made a lot of noise as they ran, and that was bad. It was dark, although the skies were clear enough that the moon provided light. For them, certainly. For the ferals, as well.
Fighting ferals usually involved a lot of running, but that took time. She made her way straight toward the Ablayne, and the single bridge that crossed it, praying silently. It’s funny how someone who couldn’t follow the names of half the gods in Elantra could pray with such conviction.
At her side, the Barrani guard ran. He glanced at her only when she stumbled, but did not offer her any assistance; she found her footing and continued, thinking of Worley’s house. Thinking of how best to reach it. Thinking of only that. It helped.
When they reached the bridge, she exhaled, a long, slow movement of chest. The bright and dark moons across the water were a benediction. The guard, on the other hand, didn’t have the grace to look winded. Had she the energy, she would have whiled away time in idle hatred for all things Barrani; as it was, she looked up at him once. His expression, being Barrani, gave nothing but ice away.
Which was good; had he intended to stop her, it would have looked worse.
She started to adjust her pack, and Andellen surprised her; he grabbed it instead. His hair flew in the stillness as he shouldered its weight, but he said nothing.
And she let him do it. As if he were Teela or Tain.
She led now, and he followed; he probably knew the entire city by heart, but the only roads he usually traveled were those ruled by Nightshade. She wanted to ask him how often he left the fief, but she couldn’t spare breath.
Wasn’t certain he would answer if she could.
The streets were now lined with stalls; there were men and women beneath the low glow of torches and the high lamps that decorated the skyscape; they would work all night, and well into morning, decorating, carving, nailing or sewing as the Festival season required. This was their best chance to make money for the year, and if sleep suffered, it suffered.
They noticed her as she ran past, but that was probably because of Andellen. He didn’t wear a uniform. He wasn’t a Hawk. And a smart person didn’t get in the way of a running Barrani.
She made it past her apartment, turned the corner, skidded and fell; she rolled to her feet, cursing like a Leontine—and in Leontine—and kept going. Five minutes passed like a lifetime. And it wasn’t her life.
And then, two rights, one short left, and three small buildings, and she was there. A lamp was hanging by the side of the door, the dark, glowing blue of the midwives’ beacon. She leaped up the three warped steps and pushed the door open; it wasn’t locked.
Marya was waiting for her. Her eyes were dark, and her face was that kind of pale that speaks of whole days without sleep. “Kaylin! She’s in the—” Her dark eyes rounded when she saw what followed Kaylin in.
“Marya,” Kaylin said, half shouting as she grabbed the midwife’s hands before they picked up the nearest candlestick, “he’s with me. I don’t have time to explain. He won’t touch anything. He means no harm.” She could not force herself to add, trust him.
Before Marya could answer, a thin, attenuated cry carried the distance of still room and closed door. A younger woman, fingers clutching the frame of the door for support, appeared as the door swung open and slapped the wall. “Marya—she’s started to bleed—”
“Kaylin’s here,” Marya said, her voice pitched low, but pitched to carry. “Kaylin’s here now.”
And Kaylin pushed past the poor girl and into the bedroom. “Get water!” she shouted as she ran to the bed. “Drinking water!”
But Marya was already in motion, a comfortable, busy blur. Marya had worked with Kaylin before; she would know what was needed, and when.
Kaylin took the hand of the woman whose eyes were beginning their slow slide into shock. She pressed her free hand up and against the stretched, hard curve of belly and winced as the body told its story.
Late. She was late. She could feel the rupture.
She looked up and met the eyes of a young man that she didn’t recognize; he was so white he was almost green. “Get out,” she told him. He shook his head, mute, his defiance the product of fear.
“Marya—”
