Cast In Secret (38 page)

But the stairs led into what looked like a room, with walls that had been laid by stonemasons, and not by – well, whatever it was that chiseled cliffs. There were no windows here, but there was a door, and that door was open. Dust didn’t appear to make it this far down – she had no doubt that she was in a sub-subbasement – but light did; there were sconces in the walls, and they held burning torches. Which even smelled like oiled wood.

And not like charring flesh.

She flinched. Speaking to the Tha’alaan, speaking to Ybelline – that had felt natural, had reminded her of herself. But she also felt Uriel’s presence; the memories that she had
lived
had been scored in her mind like a brand. She had understood everything that he did. She would have done it all herself, it felt so natural.

What had Ybelline said? That the memories one first saw in the Tha’alaan were likely to be the memories that one could most identify with. And this was hers. It was a harsh reminder of the differences between her life and the lives the Tha’alani lived, sheltered as they were in their quarter.

But it was a life she
wanted
for them. Hells, it was a life she would want for any of her orphans, any foundling at all. In the end, she had seen that in Uriel. In the end, he had done what mattered.

But he did a hell of a lot more.

Yes. And he was dead, and whatever justice existed for men who would commit genocide, he was facing it now. Kaylin had her own problems. But she had been with him for long enough that she knew his bitter regret, his understanding – at the last moment, but
in time
– of the damage he had almost done. She couldn’t even say he’d done it unknowing; he hadn’t cared. The dead had driven him.

And in that, they had much in common. Too much, really.

Justice was such a narrow edge to walk along. Too far, and one became the cause of some other vendetta; too little, and one became immured to all suffering, if it didn’t affect one directly. How could you do
enough?
How could you make the right choice? Uriel had killed tens of thousands of innocents – but wasn’t he right? Wouldn’t some of those innocents have gone on to live a life of war and barbarism?

When did Justice become Revenge, and were they ever different? It made her head hurt. Because in the end, it didn’t matter. In the end, she had chosen to wear the Hawk – and in the light of those unexpected torches, it shone with a grace that spoke of flight, freedom, and duty. The Emperor’s Law might not be her law – the endless nattering of a whining merchant at Festival season really drove that home. But she couldn’t really think of a
better
law, and if she was willing to die to uphold it – and she was a Hawk – wasn’t that all that mattered?

Maybe that was the point of having a law, of not being a law-unto-yourself. It gave you the illusion that the law was above you, impartial; if you benefited from it, if Justice was somehow miraculously both done
and
recognized, it was a Justice that you trusted
because
it wasn’t in your own hands.

She shook her head. Her hair was damp and ratty, but the rivulets had long since ceased to flow.

The Emperor was above his own law; that much Sanabalis and Tiamaris had said. But he didn’t expect Kaylin to hold him above that law. He expected her to die defending it. She really didn’t understand kings. But having been Uriel for far too long, she really didn’t want a better understanding, either.

“And what, then, does Kaylin Neya want?”

The smooth, low voice that came from the other side of the door was one that she couldn’t mistake for anyone else’s.

“Dry clothing,” she said.

The door didn’t swing, it glided. Lord Nightshade stood on the other side of the frame, his arms folded across his chest, as if he’d been waiting a while.

How long had he been waiting?

How long had she been in the dark, in the –

“It has been little over two hours,” he replied. “It is dark now, and the Ferals are hunting. I can see that dry clothing is indeed necessary. Come.”

She had the urge to hug him, just to see how he’d look when damp and bedraggled. She had a suspicion that he wouldn’t look any different.

He did her the grace of ignoring the thought she was just too tired to suppress. Too tired, or too beyond caring. She felt… hollow, somehow. She wouldn’t have been Uriel for all the money in the world – not even for wings, had some god deigned to offer them in exchange. But what she had felt when she’d drawn the Tha’alaan into her arms – that
was
his, not hers. And it left a mark, an absence, even an ache.

All in all, she thought she had been a happier person when she’d just loathed the Tha’alani. Finding out how little there was to hate had caused a bit of guilt and the usual humiliation that attended any realization of her own stupidity or ignorance; finding out how much there was to love was infinitely worse.

But she had let it go because she
had
to let it go. There was a job to do, wasn’t there? And a city to save. Not that she cared about the city all that much at this particular moment. No – it was the face of the girl, the water’s face. And also the unseen face of a child that she had never met, who was now in the hands of a man whose face she
had
seen, and didn’t much care for.

Things could get bigger around her; they could get bigger just because so much power happened to be involved. But the things that
she
cared about, the things that drove
her
– they could be as small as one life. Because if she forgot the one life, what else could she forget?

See as a Hawk sees. Marcus had said that. And Red, during an autopsy. They had meant different things by it, but mostly they’d been telling her to look at the things in front of her, and not the endless consequences, the endless permutations.

“Kaylin.”

She looked up.

“What happened?”

“Didn’t you hear it?”

“No. There are some things that the mark does not grant me.” He paused, and then added, “Or some things that you yourself do not grant. The only power I sensed was yours.”

“Can I do that?”

“You can,” he replied, his voice cool, but without edge. “You have my name, Kaylin. You could try to do more.”

His name tugged at memory, forming syllables that she could not actually speak when anyone could hear them.

“But you have not tried.”

She shook her head. What would be the point?

He frowned. “I am not considered unpowerful, among my kind. It is seldom that the attempt to
use
power is considered pointless.”

“I’m not Barrani.”

“No. And you are not – entirely – human. But you seem to be cold.”

She was. “And wet.”

“Yes. I would have considered it ill-advised to leap down the well,” he added. “But I will not question your decision. It brought you here.”

“I think – I’ll be able to enter the normal way from now on.”

“Kaylin – ”

She lifted a hand. “I need to find Donalan Idis,” she told him. “That’s why I came.”

“You will not find him this eve. And I suggest that before you start chattering like a waif, you repair to your rooms above. There is much here that I have left untouched, and my power this far beneath the surface does not always go unchallenged.”

“You don’t sound like that bothers you.”

He shrugged. “It is seldom boring.”

“I could use a little boredom, about now.”

“Care less.”

She was
really
cold. It was hard to talk through the unfortunate chattering her teeth seemed intent on.

He frowned, and before she could answer – or at least answer in a way that didn’t make her look pathetic – he stepped forward and caught her in his arms, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. If he noticed that she was cold and clammy, he offered no comment as he pushed the door open and began to walk down a long hall.

But as he walked, he said, “I seldom give advice, Kaylin. But if you want boredom, you must care less.”

“About what?”

“About everything.”

“If I care less,” she said, turning her face into the soft fabric of his robe, “Mayalee will die.”

“Yes. But when dealing with mortals you operate from the certainty that regardless of what you do, they will die anyway.”

“I want her to die when she’s
old,
and on someone else’s watch.”

“Ah. It is only a handful of years.”

“We feel them more keenly.”

“Scarcity often makes things more valuable than they would otherwise intrinsically appear. But it is not only the fate of one child that concerns you now,” he added. “It is not for that reason that you were sent.”

“I wasn’t sent – ”

“Not directly, no. That is not the way the Court works.” He stopped outside of a door that looked vaguely familiar. In a bad way. “Come. You must walk through these doors on your own. I cannot bear you.”

She mumbled something ungracious about magic and what could be done with it, but she could more or less stand on her own. Her knees were weak, and the ground seemed to refuse to stay still – but she’d seen worse.

The doors opened as he touched them, rolling back in a grim sort of silence. Beyond them stood trees.

“Yes,” he said, saving her the effort of asking. “You’ve seen these trees before.”

She grimaced; the trees weren’t, at this point, as much of a concern as the glowing frame of the door itself. She’d seen door-wards for most of her life on the right side of the law – but this was worse.

Lord Nightshade stopped and turned. “Kaylin?”

“I can’t help but notice that the doorway is glowing.”

“Ah.”

“Is it going to dump me somewhere else?”

“That depends.”

“On what, exactly?”

“On you.”

He reminded her, at that moment, of every teacher she had ever disliked. But she’d come here for a reason. Squaring her shoulders and clenching her hands into fists, she took a step.

She felt the light as if it were ice; she lost the ability to see the moment she crossed its threshold, taking care to place her foot squarely on the path that led to Nightshade. Her legs froze, her arms were suddenly trapped by her side, and the
cold
... She bit her lip. She could move enough to do that.

But she didn’t feel the pain of it. It was too minor.

Something didn’t want her to enter the Castle. That much, she could think. The rest of her thoughts were subsumed by ice, by Winter’s heart. The cold could kill. It could kill
her,
here, and everything she’d ever done would count for nothing.

She forced her hands to move. She wasn’t sure why until they touched the base of her throat, and then she
knew.

What is the essence of water?

Closing her eyes, she remembered what lay at the heart of the pendant she had accepted from the ghost of a Dragon lord. A single, complicated character, a series of strokes and crossed hatches and dots, pattern so precise it might take years just to write it.

Writing it wasn’t the point. She stopped struggling to move, and began, instead, to speak. Speaking was far harder than lifting her arms had been. The cold intensified; the ice grew thicker. It was hard to even breathe.

She couldn’t later say what the word
was
; she couldn’t later repeat it. It wasn’t that kind of word. She wasn’t even sure, in the end, if her lips formed the syllables at all – but she felt them, each one, as if they were an enormous step, a series of hurdles, that she had to clear if she were going to survive.

A spare thought floated past:
I hate magic
.

And another:
Don’t hate it. It’s part of what you are
.

And last, at a great remove, a familiar voice:
Kaylin. It’s time to wake up now
.

The ice was gone. She staggered forward, because staggering backward would mean she might have to do it again. She found the ground with her hands, and it was firm and hard – more rock than dirt, although she could feel the curved roughness of tree roots beneath at least two of her fingers. Her hands were blue. And her arms.

She thought it was because of the cold, until she realized what exactly she was seeing.

The marks.

Her arms were bare.

“Well done,” Lord Nightshade said softly. “I thought you might be lost, there.”

And what would you have done? What would you have done then?

The soft sound of a shrug – yards of fabric, traveling up and down by an inch or two – told her clearly that he had heard what she hadn’t said.

“The Castle will test you,” he told her. “It is your test, to pass or fail.”

She nodded, as if that made sense. Maybe in his world, it did. It was certainly a very Barrani attitude. Before she could say as much, she felt arms under her arms, and she was lifted to her feet, which she still couldn’t feel.

“You’ve become acquainted with the elements,” he said, waiting while she placed her feet more or less beneath the rest of her. She could see that she was wearing a dress that was pale ivory in color; the skirts brushed the ground, obscuring her toes.

“Elements?” She could see the trees now. She could see that she wore something metallic around her waist, something fine and thin.

She felt his frown; she couldn’t see his face. Could see a lock of his hair as it trailed down her shoulder toward her waist. It reminded her, absurdly, of Teela’s hair, when Teela couldn’t be bothered to braid it – it got into everything.

And Kaylin had loved it, as a child new to the Hawks. She could think of herself at that age as a child, now. Teela had let her brush it, sometimes, and braid it, sometimes – always with dire threats of physical pain if she was careless enough to actually pull any of it out.

She hadn’t been joking, either – Kaylin had seen enough of the Barrani Hawks to know that much – but even knowing it, she had done it anyway.

“Elements,” Lord Nightshade was saying.

She tried very hard not to shiver. Not to be cold. She tried to make sense of the single word he’d spoken twice. After a moment, still swaying on her feet, she said, “Water?”