Cast in Flame (35 page)

“So what she knew of me was slight, indirect. I had to rearrange everything before I could open the doors to admit her. But there was one room I hadn’t changed. I sealed it off when it became clear to me it would no longer be lived in. And it wasn’t. I would not allow the others to use it, you see; nor would I allow them to take anything from it. Anything at all. I wanted to preserve her things. I wanted to preserve them until she returned.

“I think—I think she must have known. I think they must have told her what I’d become—if I’d had the time to think it through, I would have realized this. But I didn’t, of course. I was excited. I was...happy. I was in such a rush to get everything
done
before the door was opened.

“And I finished. She opened the door. She walked in. She could see my front hall—but it wasn’t truly mine, by then—do you understand?”

And Kaylin did. “It was hers. It was the hall she cleaned and tidied. The rooms—they were her rooms. She left flowers in them. She changed curtains. She didn’t
know,
until the glass figures, that there was anything special about you, but she did all those things anyway. Until she was injured. How was she injured?”

“I don’t know. She fell, I think—but it was outside. Outside where I can’t go. It didn’t occur to me to resent my lack of mobility—and I didn’t. Not immediately. But they brought me no word of her. And she did not come.

“You can imagine what her reaction was when the doors did open.”

But Kaylin shook her head. “Actually—I can’t.”

“What would you have felt, dear?”

Kaylin met Helen’s gaze.

“If you opened the door to the home you thought destroyed, what would you have felt?”

Kaylin closed her eyes. “Suspicious,” she said, quietly. “Because it would be impossible.” But...she had opened a door in the heart of a Hallionne which lead to the apartment which she knew she’d never enter again. And suspicion hadn’t been her first thought; it hadn’t even made the list. She opened her eyes. “I don’t have words for it, Helen.”

Helen smiled. “I didn’t coalesce; not as you see me now. She had never seen me. I was her home, but I wasn’t part of the way she viewed it. But I was waiting. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so nervous. I have, of course, been worried; I have known fear, and anger, and even rage. But this type of nervous? No.

“But—she was nervous, too. I could almost
see
her straighten her shoulders as she entered my hall. She had the frown she wore when she was certain there was work to be done. I think she might have been disappointed to see everything so tidy. But—it was her tidiness. It was her order. I didn’t have flowers for her, though. I had the vases but they were empty. Flowers are difficult, for me.

“I had her small glass figurines. I put them everywhere she might have left flowers. I didn’t write her letters—although I could have. I held my breath. Hasielle held hers. And then she closed the door firmly behind her and marched toward the small room she’d occupied when she was my caretaker.

“And when she opened that door, and she saw her room—with the windows I’d given her on that day—she cried.

“I didn’t know what to do with her tears,” Helen added, lips folding in a fond smile that held a touch of pain. “She was happy. But she was not happy in a way I’d experienced before—not from any of the many masters of this house, and not from their guests. It was so strange, so odd, and so entirely like her.

“I wanted to talk to her, then. But—I may have mentioned I was nervous. She’d been gone so long, and I knew that she could just turn around and walk out the door again.”

“You could have prevented that,” Annarion said quietly. It was the first time since Helen had started that he’d spoken.

“Yes, of course. I could also prevent any of you from leaving.” She frowned, and then added, “Perhaps not you and your friend. But the rest, yes.”

The dragon squawked.

“Yes, dear, I know. But you know I wasn’t referring to
you.
”

“Imprisoning her wouldn’t give you what you wanted,” Kaylin said. “Because then you wouldn’t
be
a home. You’d be a jail.”

“Yes, dear.” Helen smiled. “I didn’t appear to her. I watched her, of course. I was worried. She was older and frailer. I made certain everything was solid enough that nothing would hurt her. I was almost afraid to
have
stairs.” The nervousness, of course, had long since faded, and she recalled it with affection.

Kaylin, recalling her own nerves and their often catastrophic results, wanted to be old enough that she could look at them the same way. It was an odd thought.

“But she was there in the morning, in her bed. She woke early, as she always did. She made the bed. She cleaned the room. She headed into the kitchen, and she fussed about, cleaning things that didn’t really require cleaning. She was very quiet. She had never done any cooking on her own before—and none of her masters lived on the premises. Cooking for one, she later told me, was not really cooking.

“But she worked. I thought she might inform her masters that I was safe again. She didn’t. I’m not sure she knew quite what to do with herself. I certainly didn’t understand what to do for her. I wanted her to stay.

“And she wanted, in the end, to stay. I am not quite like your Tara. I think I was damaged enough in the wars that I do not always see clearly or understand what I see.”

Given Tara’s interpretation of the thoughts she could easily read, Kaylin thought Helen was wrong.

“Within a few weeks she was less hesitant. And she started to sing while she worked. I didn’t clean everything for her, because she liked to have something to do. I did clean things that required too much lifting or too much crawling. She settled into her routine here. She would go out and come home with food. But she began to work in the garden, as she called it. It was not so much of a garden at that point. I don’t know if it’s because I didn’t leave enough for her to do in the house—but I think she liked to help things grow.

“And she grew flowers, that first year. She brought them into the house, as she had before. They made her smile. They made me smile. I remember the night she first placed them on the table—the dining room table, which she never used. She was expecting a guest. She didn’t have clothing suitable for a dining room, in her own opinion. But she wore the best clothing she had, and she made dinner—for two. She used the plates that were used by her masters—never for herself, of course.

“And she served her first course, and water, and wine—which she herself couldn’t abide, she found it so bitter. It was all so very strange. I watched the door. I knew she expected someone important—but no one arrived. I had never asked her if she had family; she had never once thought of them where I could hear her.

“But no one arrived. The candles burned, wax melted; I kept the food warm while she waited. And she did wait. I think two hours passed while she waited, and then she rose. I thought she would leave. Instead, she turned to the mirror and said, ‘I know you’re here. You’ve been here all along, haven’t you?’ There was nothing in the mirror but Hasielle’s reflection—that, and the table, the candles, the flowers she had brought. She wasn’t looking at herself.

“‘You were here when I served the Sorcerer and his subordinates. You were here while they searched. You were here when I fell. I thought you’d left. I heard about the difficulties the Sorcerers began to face in my absence. They replaced me, of course—I couldn’t do the work. And the building fell to ruin—stairs broke. The chandelier in the front hall. The stairs that lead both toward the tower and toward the basements. The floors themselves wore; the boards thinned. Windows shattered.

“‘I was certain you must have left,’ she continued, for I didn’t know how to respond. ‘And I grieved. I shouldn’t have. You never showed yourself to me, after all. You made me no promises. You weren’t like me; the Sorcerers spoke of you with respect. Well, with what passes for respect from their lot. But...you understood that my small glass child was important to me. When I broke it, you somehow fixed it. I couldn’t believe that you would let the house fall to such ruin in my absence, but the women they hired to replace me spoke of all that had happened.

“‘And I had to come back. But—you were here. You were waiting. My home was waiting for me. I was so afraid when I walked through that door. I didn’t want to see ruins and destruction and neglect. And I didn’t. We’ve never talked,’ she continued. ‘And I would like to. I am told that if you wish it, you can speak to me as if you were
like
me.’

“And she was right, and that night, I did.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“She was my first tenant,” Helen said, when no one spoke. “And if that first night was awkward—and oh, dear, it was—it was only the beginning. And I have learned that no matter how much we desire beginnings, all beginnings have awkward moments. Fear makes us awkward. But trust dispels fear, in the end.

“You meant to ask, when you arrived, to see the apartment I had for let; you meant to ask me how much I intended to charge you, and how I wished to be paid. Is that not true?”

Kaylin nodded.

“And were I a more traditional landlord, I would have answers to that question. I would, of course, have some flexibility. I would ask you in turn how you intended to pay; I would ask you about your place of employment. I might, as a matter of course, ask for references. But as you see, these are not meaningful questions, on either of our parts. You are, clearly, someone who can give me what I require. If this is an interview, you have impressed me with your suitability.

“What questions do you now have for me?”

Kaylin hesitated. The small dragon did not. He squawked enough for an entire flock of birds—when they were fighting over the same crusts of bread.

Helen’s brows rose, although her eyes retained their more-or-less normal appearance.

“He would be living with me,” Kaylin said quietly, when the dragon paused—probably for breath—and Helen had failed to speak.

“Yes, he’s made that quite clear.”

“What is he saying?”

“You are really going to have to do something about your linguistic difficulties,” Helen replied. “At the moment, he is asking about my rules.”

“All that was one question?”

“He is informing me of his. They are interesting. I am not entirely certain they are in keeping with what
you
would expect of a home.”

“I’m not sure
I’m
in keeping with what you’d expect of a tenant. I don’t keep regular hours. Gods know I’ve tried, but it doesn’t generally work out as planned. I’m not particularly tidy; I don’t let food rot in the open air, and I don’t track mud—or worse—in through the door, but I’m not exactly a gardener, and I’m really not a flower person. I also don’t own very much at the moment, and I don’t have any furniture or other useful things.

“Bellusdeo would be living here, as well. She is, as mentioned, a Dragon. In case you don’t get out too much, her gender is significant to the
rest
of the Dragons. It’s significant to those who don’t want there to
be
any more Dragons. She’s—”

“The reason your former home was destroyed. Yes, dear, I know.”

“Would she be safe here? Emmerian—”

Bellusdeo cleared her throat.

“
Lord
Emmerian, who is not present at the moment, is responsible for signing off on the security of any building she chooses to live in. He has a list of demands that are taller than I am. I’m not going to list them all because frankly, I don’t remember most of them. But they kind of all mean the same thing: Bellusdeo must be safe.”

“And not her roommate?”

“They don’t give a rat’s ass about her roommate.”

“I,” Bellusdeo cut in, “on the other hand,
do.
”

Helen nodded. “There is no need to glare at me like that, dear. I’ve been aware of that since you entered my front hall. I am sorry to say that if Kaylin chooses to live here, she will not have an entirely free run of guests.”

Kaylin blinked. “Pardon?”

“You will be as much my home as I will be yours,” Helen replied. “No one who means you harm in any way will be allowed through my doors. If they somehow manage to enter, they will not be allowed to leave—not the way they arrived.”

“So...no thieves?”

“It depends on the reasons for their theft.”

“It does?”

“Well, dear, it does to
you.
”

Kaylin flushed. “I know what it’s like to be hungry,” she said. “And desperate. I just don’t think many hungry or desperate people are going to make it all the way to Ashwood. Not where it’s currently situated. And I’m a Hawk, so randomly killing people who intend harm without causing it first would be really, really career-limiting. And yes, it’ll still matter if it’s you and not me.”

“Yes, I would accept Maggaron as well, if that’s what you desired.”

Since that hadn’t been the question Kaylin was struggling with, she reddened.

“You are worried about your marks?”

“Yes.”

“You needn’t be, dear. The marks reflect the Chosen, after all. There is nothing that you would do with them here that would threaten me.”

As she spoke, Kaylin rolled up her sleeves. The marks were glowing a faint, luminescent gray. She hadn’t noticed because they didn’t hurt.

Teela noticed; so did Severn. The silence around the table shifted.

It was broken by the distant sound of howling.

* * *

Helen was the first to stand. She still looked like a delicate, frail old lady, but she moved like a Barrani. At her sudden, two handed gesture, the food on the table vanished. So did the cutlery, the dishes, and the teapot. “I think,” she said, gazing past them all into the evening sky, “it’s time we went indoors.”

Severn had drawn his weapons, unwinding the weapon chain; Kaylin had drawn two knives, balanced for throwing. These were not her ideal fighting conditions. They were, on the other hand, the ideal conditions for the Ferals.

And Kaylin had no doubt at all that the howls she heard were the voices of Ferals; they had haunted her nightmares for years. One of the things she loved best about visiting Tiamaris was the existence of his nighttime Feral patrols. She loved that Morse headed out with the earnest and dedicated to kill those Ferals before the Ferals could kill any of the fief’s residents. She loved that they didn’t have to cower in terror or run until they dropped—and died.