The parlor was not the only room in the house that had undergone transformation; the dining room had also been changed. Although the shape and size of the room was roughly the same as it had been at breakfast this very distant morning, the ceilings had sprouted a few feet of height, and the windows had grown to match them. They’d also gained both width and stained glass. The table, however, had shrunk, and the chairs had been replaced; they were darker, heavier, and flawless.
Helen did not tell people where to sit, and that was slightly awkward, because both Kaylin and Bellusdeo attempted to take the seat farthest from the Emperor. They would have collided had it not been for Severn, who slid a hand to Kaylin’s elbow.
She felt a little shock of warmth as his palm touched her skin. He guided her to a chair and pulled it out for her. What she really wanted was to sit Teela-style—with the chair back against the table, while her arms were draped over the top rail.
The top rail of these chairs, however, would have been too much of a stretch. She sat. Severn sat beside her. Bellusdeo sat opposite the Emperor, but this table was short enough that she wasn’t halfway across the room. The Arkon sat to one side of the golden Dragon. The Hawklord sat between the Arkon and the Emperor.
As a dinner, it felt a lot like an awkward council of war.
“Lord Grammayre,” the Emperor said. “It has been some small while since you have graced my presence in person.”
“I was surprised to hear that you were kind enough to join Kaylin for dinner. I have been, as you must imagine, embroiled in racial difficulties. I would never otherwise forgo the pleasure of your company.” The Hawklord said this with a completely straight face. Kaylin thought he sounded sincere. It wasn’t the first time she’d had questions about his sanity—he’d taken her on, after all—but it was close.
Bellusdeo’s eyes were orange-tinged gold, but they were as gold as they ever got when she was in the presence of the Emperor. Kaylin prayed—in that nonspecific way that people did who weren’t religious—that they’d remain that way.
The Arkon snorted smoke. “We are then to turn dinner into a political discussion?”
“Hush, Lannagaros,” Bellusdeo said. “For some of us, politics is polite dinner conversation.”
Although the Arkon grimaced, his eyes remained pure gold. He frowned—deeply—at Bellusdeo, who surprised Kaylin by laughing. She considered approaching the Arkon’s disapproval the same way, and decided against it; if Bellusdeo ever misread the situation, the fire that resulted wouldn’t turn her to ash.
But she felt herself relaxing as she watched the two Dragons, and she reminded herself that the Arkon was family to Bellusdeo, inasmuch as Dragons ever claimed any.
“And you’re involving yourself in the politics of the realm now, are you?” the Arkon said.
Bellusdeo’s smile was almost feline. “Only so far as the politics affect my home.”
“Meaning?”
“Sergeant dar Carafel is living with us, as I imagine you know.”
The Emperor said, “I did mention it. He was, however, deeply involved in the study of something long dead; it may have escaped his hearing.”
“I’m surprised you’d interrupt him when his concentration was that intense.”
“Had I not, we would not have arrived for dinner within a week of its actual time.”
Bellusdeo chuckled.
The Emperor’s eyes, Kaylin noted, were the darkest shade of orange in the dining room—but they lightened at her obvious amusement.
“He has always been like that. I was told he was like that when he emerged from the egg. Did they ever tell you about his shell?”
The Arkon actually flushed, which in a man of his apparent age was almost shocking. “Bellusdeo, please. I was a hatchling; it is not relevant now.”
“No. I was not privileged to speak with those who had known him from birth. What did they say?”
“He very carefully collected all the pieces he could find of his own shell, and put them into a tidy pile. He also bit anyone who came near them—and that would include the clutch workers. They were all,” she added, to the non-Dragons in the room, “significantly larger than he was.”
“I see now,” the Arkon said, “why my presence was deemed necessary.”
Kaylin almost laughed at his expression. But she understood, watching, that it was necessary. Bellusdeo was mocking him—but she was mocking him the way she mocked Maggaron. There was no edge in it, just affection and the expectation that she would be forgiven.
“It seems you have remained true to yourself,” the Emperor said gravely.
“And you?” Bellusdeo asked, surprising everyone at the table. “Have you?”
The Emperor stiffened; his eyes became more orange. The line of his lips thinned. His hands didn’t become fists, but they rested on the table, stiff as boards.
The Arkon reached out and placed one hand over Bellusdeo’s. “That is perhaps not a question for the dinner table.” His voice was gentle; a brief eddy of pain marred, but did not eradicate, his affectionate expression.
“And am I to speak only of trivialities and things that do not concern me?” she demanded. Her eyes were more orange, too.
“No,” Kaylin said. “We can talk about Caste Court exemptions instead. Because at the moment, those do concern you.”
“I am not—”
“You’re the one standing guard in the infirmary.”
Bellusdeo bit back a reply, and nodded. She was, to Kaylin’s surprise, spoiling for a fight. But she wasn’t four. She reined in her temper, biting back words. Kaylin was going to be grateful if the evening ended without any of the Dragons resorting to their native tongue. “Yes, you’re right. And Lord Grammayre is no doubt being polite in his interest about the Arkon’s early years.”
The Emperor was more than willing to leave the subject behind, even if the one he was retreating to was tangled and political. He did glance thoughtfully at Kaylin before transferring his pointed gaze to the man who was commanding officer of all of the Hawks, ground or sky.
“You have always disliked Caste Court exemptions, Lord Grammayre.”
Every Hawk—no, every person who worked in the Halls of Law—hated Caste Court exemptions. Admittedly, it was the Barrani who made the most use of them; it was life-threatening to be involved in any investigation that pointed at Barrani criminals, which was most of the reason the force had Barrani Hawks to begin with.
Before the Hawklord could reply, the Emperor said, “As I am here informally, the general rules that govern behavior in the audience chambers need not apply here. You may address me as ‘Majesty.’”
It was Severn who choked on his soup, which surprised her. I find the Draconic idea of informality...ridiculous.
So did Kaylin, for what that was worth. Given that the Emperor had all the power, she didn’t labor under any misconceptions.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. As you are aware, some difficulty has arisen in regards to a member of the Hawks who serve the Imperial Law.”
“I am exceedingly aware, yes. My secretaries and their undersecretaries dread even activating their mirrors at the start of their shift. It appears—and I have failed to ascertain the truth of this—that they have taken to referring to the Caste Court collectively as ‘the harpies.’”
The Hawklord choked on his soup, just as Severn had. Kaylin took comfort from the fact that she hadn’t. Maybe Diarmat’s forbidding, ridiculous, humiliating lessons had some value, after all.
“My apologies, Your Majesty. I was not expecting that.”
“You feel it is inaccurate?”
“I feel it is unfortunate.” He smiled as he said it. “I will not vouch for accuracy but feel compelled to point out that my secretary refers to these particular communications in a way entirely inappropriate for repetition at the dining table.”
“Then we are in accord. They will no doubt note your attendance at this dinner.”
“They will. Moran dar Carafel is currently in residence. But they have no recourse to forbid it.”
“I take it, from your private’s expression, that you wish us—ah, apologies, me—to remand this case to your jurisdiction. You will, of course, have grounds for this request.”
“I do.”
“You understand that the Caste Court will demand your flight feathers—if not your entire wings—should I condescend to do this.”
“They are demanding my wings now. But they are inconvenienced in this demand by Imperial Law. Even were I to be considered a traitor to my flight and my race, they would have to have grounds on which to make that accusation. If they did, they could of course try me and have me executed.”
“If you agreed to be tried by the Caste Court, yes.”
“I do not think I could perform my duties as an outcaste.” And Kaylin remembered that the outcastes lost their wings. “There is some possibility that charges will be forthcoming,” Lord Grammayre continued.
“So I’ve been told.”
Kaylin, however, had not, and she almost pushed herself out of her chair and across the table in angry outrage.
Helen’s hand—Helen’s physical hand—clamped down on her right shoulder. “The next course,” she said, “will be served now.”
* * *
Over the next two courses—none of which were the main meal, and all of which were distinctly unappetizing because they were too fancy—Grammayre and the Emperor danced around the question of the remand. The Emperor made no commitment, and the Hawklord was wise enough not to demand one.
“I had word that Moran dar Carafel has donned the ceremonial raiment of her position.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. As of this morning. She came to the Halls in almost complete regalia.” He deliberately avoided looking at Kaylin. “I do not know if you have seen the Records capture that arrived yesterday afternoon.”
“In theory, I have not. The Caste Court has demanded its embargo.”
The Hawklord didn’t seem to be surprised that the Emperor had, theoretically, chosen to respect any part of this demand. Kaylin, however, was.
“Theoretically, then, a human male is involved. He is currently in the holding cells for attempted assault—magical in nature—of Hawks.”
“Actual assault of a resident of Elani,” Kaylin helpfully added.
“I fail to see how an assault of that nature could be under the rubric of caste exemption,” the Emperor said. His eyes, which had been orange, now shaded into a more familiar orange gold. The Emperor’s eyes were never pure gold, in Kaylin’s experience.
“Oddly enough, Your Majesty, so did I. I have,” he added, “examined extant Caste Court Records—where they are available—and the man in question is definitively human; he is not outcaste Aerian.”
“They couldn’t make that claim of outcaste Aerians,” Kaylin interrupted, thinking with a pang of Lillias and the blessing she had procured for Moran, a gift Kaylin had still not given to the Aerian sergeant.
“Outcaste Aerians remain, for the purposes of Imperial Law, Aerian,” the Hawklord replied.
“Since when?” Before he could answer, she continued. “I know the actual laws. I know the actual laws better than half the older Hawks. Outcaste means something. You make someone outcaste, you’re essentially saying they’re no longer part of your entire race.”
“That is not entirely true,” Bellusdeo said. “The Barrani outcastes—”
“Aren’t Aerians,” Kaylin snapped.
Careful. She looked across the table and met Severn’s gaze. Swallowed.
Bellusdeo, who was used to Kaylin, didn’t even seem to notice the interruption. But the Emperor, who wasn’t, did. Kaylin slammed into the wall of his orange eyes, but the Eternal Emperor’s expression was neutral. She glanced at the Arkon; his eyes were still golden.
“You speak,” the Emperor said, “as if you have actually met outcaste Aerians.”
This time, it was the Hawklord whose eyes shifted color; his wings definitely rose. He was far too well-bred to spread them at the dining table.
“I have,” Kaylin told the table.
“And I would like to know who,” a voice said from the hall. Kaylin looked past the dining table—everyone probably did—to see Moran dar Carafel, framed by the door.
* * *
She was dressed as she had been for her martial and defiant walk to the Halls of Law, with a couple of essential differences. The first: her hair. She had bathed, and it was a shiny, straight fall down her back. Her eyes were blue, but given the tone of her voice—appropriate for the infirmary and a sergeant—Kaylin expected that. Her injured wing had not yet been rebound; it was high, in all its damaged glory, the spots that had defined her life hidden from view by the rest of her.
“Private?”
“Kaylin,” Kaylin replied. “I’m not on duty.”
A very fancy stool appeared at the table. Apparently Moran was going to join them for dinner, after all.
Everyone at the table except Kaylin rose. Kaylin belatedly remembered that this was something people did at a dinner table when someone significant joined the party. That was the frustrating thing about so-called manners. None of them really made any sense. Then again, neither did Caste Court exemptions, as far as Kaylin was concerned, and she’d learned to live with those. She rose, as well.
She could feel an apology hovering in the air—Helen’s. She willed Helen not to say it out loud until after the guests had left, and Helen, hearing everything that Kaylin could think, remained silent.
Moran glanced at the stool, and then at the gathered, standing guests. Some of the swell of what Kaylin had assumed was rage left her—or at least it left her wings. Her eyes remained very blue as she marched toward the stool and sat on it. She was about as graceful as Kaylin would have been had she been angry.
And she was also now the angriest person at the table. In general, angry dinner companions were never a good thing if one liked uninterrupted eating, but at the moment, her anger eased the tension between Bellusdeo and the Emperor. Since that was the theoretical point of the dinner in the first place, Kaylin accepted the angry Aerian with far less discomfort than she normally would. Even when the Aerian’s glare was turned, like a giant, blunt weapon, on her.
“I’m not sure this is the place to discuss it,” Kaylin began.
“Don’t stall.”
“I’m not stalling. I’m being serious.”
“She is not incorrect,” the Hawklord said, coming to Kaylin’s rescue.
“It involves me,” was Moran’s flat reply.
Not even the Hawklord could argue with that, although Kaylin’s first instinct was to do so. The problem with that instinct was that she’d have to lie. She would never have met an outcaste Aerian if it weren’t for Moran, and clearly both the Aerians knew it. “It does,” Kaylin admitted. “But not in a bad way. And I think Lord Grammayre is right—this isn’t the place to have this conversation.”
“Given the conversation you were about to start,” Moran replied, “it can’t be any worse.”
“For me? No. For you? I thought you weren’t—”
“I heard what you said. Helen was kind enough to repeat it. I thought my intervention would be welcome.”
Kaylin highly doubted that. But the truth was, the Hawklord seemed genuinely pleased to see her at the table. Grammayre, like the Emperor, was not a man known for his ability to mimic pleasure or joy—at least not in the office, which was the only place they interacted.
“Your company,” the Emperor said, “is always welcome.”
Blue faded into purple and then returned. Moran inclined her head. “Your Majesty, you do me too much honor.”
“We all, to some extent, bear the burdens of our office,” he replied. “And yours was, is, and has always been, significant to your people. It has been many years since I last saw those robes or that bracelet.”
Moran’s head tilted slightly, as if she were leaning in to catch the echo of words she hadn’t expected. She glanced, once, at her familiar table-mates, and then spoke. “You knew my predecessor?”
“Not well, no. I had occasion to meet with him, of course.”
“You did?”
“He was dar Carafel by birth, a member of the Caste Court.”
She grimaced, just as Kaylin would have done. Kaylin had always assumed that Moran was a decade and a half older than she was; she lost that certainty, watching the off-duty sergeant. “I see.”
“You are dar Carafel.”
“I was adopted into dar Carafel, yes. I am not a member of the Caste Court.” Her voice implied strongly that she would become a member over her dead body. Then again, she was a Hawk.
“No, you are not. You are a sergeant in the Hawks. There are no Aerians I prize more highly, if that is an acceptable word. You serve my Law, and my city, almost as if it were your own.”
“It kind of is,” Kaylin said quietly.
“The injuries you have taken,” the Emperor continued as if Kaylin hadn’t spoken, which was probably for the best, “were taken in defense of the city. Those injuries are responsible for your current predicament. And mine. And Lord Grammayre’s. They are not, however, a source of shame. Nor should they ever be. Were it not for the sacrifice of the Aerians, many, many more would have died.
“I would vastly rather meet with the Lord of Hawks than the Caste Court. I will overlook the fact that you are dar Carafel, in this room.”
Moran’s eyes widened, and she bit back a brief laugh; her cheeks reddened as she lowered her chin.
Bellusdeo was staring at the Emperor’s profile, almost arrested. He noticed, raising one dark brow at her expression. “Surely you did not think I possessed no sense of humor, Lord Bellusdeo?”
To Kaylin’s surprise, Bellusdeo also reddened. She was, however, more defiant—probably because she could be. Nothing short of attempted assassination was likely to lead to her death at the Emperor’s hands. “I can be forgiven for that, I believe. You have evinced none of that humor in my presence since my arrival in Elantra.”
“Some things are too important for humor,” the Emperor replied. His eye membranes lowered. “Humor requires a certain detachment, implies a lack of concern.”
The gold Dragon snorted. This time, there was no smoke in it. “Is that how you see it? Humor is grounding. It steadies troops, it eases tension.”
“I am not a man famed for my sense of humor.”
“No, I can see that. I rather considered you might be famed for its lack.”
“That is harsh.”
She smiled. “Yes. It is, and I will tender apologies for it, now.” She turned to Moran. “As I will tender apologies to you, for interrupting.”
“I imagine,” the Hawklord said, “that she was grateful for the interruption.”
“By law,” the Emperor then continued, “the outcastes are considered a matter for and of the Caste Courts. If the outcaste chooses to do so, they can throw themselves onto the mercy of the Imperial Courts—but that is not easily done if their position and their relative power is not secure enough to begin with.” Seeing Kaylin’s expression, he added, “The outcastes are protected by Imperial Law if they request such protection. I do not believe such a petition has ever been made by an Aerian.”
“I told you—I asked you—to stay out of this,” Moran told Kaylin, her tone at odds with the words themselves. The former verb was the more correct one.
“I did. I didn’t search the streets for outcaste Aerians—you know as well as I do now that I wouldn’t have even noticed them if I’d passed them in the streets. They don’t have wings, Moran. They look human to the casual eye. You have to speak with them to notice that their eye color changes—and most people in the city aren’t going to do that if the Aerian doesn’t want to be social.”
“Then how did you meet an outcaste?”
“Evanton.”
Moran frowned. “Evanton? The one that sells garbage and surprisingly useful enchantments from time to time?”
“Yeah. Grouchy old guy, but makes good tea. And cookies.”
Bellusdeo did exhale smoke then. Her eyes were tinted orange as she dragged her gaze from the Emperor to Kaylin, and dropped it on her head.
“What? Everything I’ve said is true. He is a grouchy old guy. He does make good tea, even if he doesn’t like tea.”
“There are days,” Bellusdeo replied, “where I understand perfectly the abominable lessons you are forced to take under Lord Diarmat. Informality is one thing. Disrespect is quite another.”
“Your meeting with Evanton?”
“Evanton had been approached by a woman. She wanted him to make something for her. Don’t look at me like that—you know he enchanted my daggers so they don’t make noise when they leave their sheaths.”
“I am not entirely certain I approve,” the Dragon Emperor said. The Hawklord stiffened.
“Is it illegal?” Bellusdeo’s voice was chillier.
“Not yet.”
“Well then, carry on,” she said—to Kaylin.
“I’m not usually called in as a delivery service.” She hesitated, looking at the table. This was a far larger crowd than the one she’d originally envisioned when she’d agreed to deliver what was, in essence, a gift. “But the woman wanted the item delivered to Sergeant dar Carafel of the Hawks.”
“Did you meet this woman?” Moran demanded.
“Getting there,” Kaylin said. “And yes, I did. I wasn’t willing to deliver anything without at least meeting the person first. I trust Evanton,” she added quickly, in case it was necessary. “There’s no way he would make something harmful and ask me to pass it on—and he made it clear that he was making it.
“She looked like an older woman. Maybe in her fifties? Sixties? Maybe younger, but under some stress. I didn’t—” Kaylin inhaled. Exhaled. “I didn’t realize she was Aerian because she had no wings.”
“How did you recognize what she was?” the Arkon asked quietly.
“Her eyes. Her eyes changed color. And I know Aerian color shifts like I know the back of my own hand.”
* * *
She turned, then, to the Hawklord and Moran; both were still and silent, as if Kaylin’s words had pinned them irrevocably in place. Moran broke that silence with difficulty; her eyes were a complicated color, a mix of purple and blue—a pale shade that implied sorrow and surprise in equal measure. “Did she tell you her name?”
“What did she ask Evanton to make?” the Hawklord demanded at the same time. The collision of Elantran questions caused an awkward pause, but it was to the Hawklord that Kaylin replied.
“A bletsian, she called it. Evanton said it’s a blessing of air.”
Moran closed her eyes. This was not uncommon among races whose eyes gave away their base emotional state, but it took Moran a full, silent minute before she opened them again—and the left side of her jaw was twitching. “And her name?”
Kaylin thought Moran knew. “She said her name was Lillias.”
Moran rose.
The Hawklord rose, as well. “Moran.”
“I want you to take me to her,” the sergeant said to Kaylin.
“I have no idea where she is,” Kaylin replied, uneasy now.
“Then I want you to take me to Evanton.”
“Moran—” Lord Grammayre said again.
The Emperor, however, raised his voice—without apparent effort or strain. “Dinner is in progress. I am certain that Lillias will also be dining, if in different circumstances. The Keeper is unlikely to consider a sergeant’s desire an immediate emergency. You will visit tomorrow, if you must do so at all.”
Both of the Aerians sat.
Bellusdeo said, gently, “What is a bletsian, Moran?”
Moran swallowed. After a longer pause, she said, “If it’s a blessing of air, it’s meant as a gift. It might allow me to...fly. It won’t allow me to fly naturally or forever, unless Evanton is vastly more powerful than any of my own kin. But such blessings were conferred by my people in very rare circumstances—and not always to the flightless or those who had been crippled.” She used the last word bitterly, angry at herself. Or her people. Or the world.
The Hawklord said nothing.
“You knew,” Moran said, accusation giving the words an edge that was never going to make a dinner table fun or relaxing.
Lord Grammayre said very, very little.
“You knew.”
“Your life was difficult enough. She was—and is—outcaste.”
“She did nothing wrong. She committed no crime by the laws of the people! She—”
“She thwarted the powerful.” The Hawklord’s voice was soft. “Your Majesty, forgive us.”
It was Kaylin who spoke next. “The reason we have laws is that legally thwarting the powerful shouldn’t be punishable by death or—or dismemberment. The laws are supposed to speak for people who don’t have the power to speak loudly enough for themselves!”
The Emperor smiled. His eyes were, to Kaylin’s surprise, an orange gold, but more gold than they had been all evening. “This perhaps leads directly in to Lord Grammayre’s interests. I am the Emperor,” he continued, his voice softening in a way that did not imply kindness or gentleness. “My word is law. You understand that, do you not, Private? If I chose to have you dismembered, or if I chose to reduce to ash where you were sitting—”
“You would have to go through Helen, and if you managed that, through me,” Bellusdeo countered.
The Emperor lifted a hand, demanding at least temporary silence.
“I point out to the young and optimistic private a truth she has perhaps overlooked. Should I desire it, I could lay waste to half the city before I could be stopped—and it would be legal. I am the Emperor. The Empire is mine. The laws were created for my convenience. I can change them at any time.”
Well, yes, because he was the Emperor. Kaylin held her peace, but it was very hard. Bellusdeo’s eyes were orange. The Arkon’s, however, remained gold. The Arkon trusted and served the Eternal Emperor, and in the end, Kaylin trusted the librarian. She tried not to panic, and mostly succeeded.
“The laws are not always convenient to me,” the Emperor continued. “There are times when I desire to reduce whole delegations that affront me in the audience chambers of the palace to their composite ash. There is one group in particular I would like to eat, but I fear they would be unpalatable to even a Dragon.
“I have chosen not to do so. I have made laws that can be safely enforced, and in order to ensure that they are, the enforcement is left to the mostly mortal, whose understandings of the frailty of mortals are more visceral, more personal.
“I did not make this choice out of the ‘goodness of my heart.’” He used the Elantran phrase here; he otherwise defaulted to High Barrani. “Perhaps you do not understand this. I will now endeavor to explain. The Empire, as I stated emphatically, is mine. If I do not choose to destroy its citizens, if I do not exercise the prerogative of both rulership and anger, I will allow no others to do so—not without great effort on their part.
“And I do not so choose. What I will not allow myself, for the sake of my hoard, I will allow no others.” He pinned Kaylin to her seat with the steady, unblinking orange of his eyes. “You fail to understand the value of the respect that comes from fear. I did not expect that.”
“Respect doesn’t come from fear. Obedience and terror do. I didn’t respect Barren or Nightshade. I was terrified that they would kill me if they noticed me at all. I did whatever I was told to do because of that fear.
“I don’t obey my sergeant because I’m afraid of him. I’m afraid that I won’t live up to him. I’m afraid that I’m no good at my job—but I try. I try to get better. I want his respect, because he’s damn good at what he does. His job is his duty. My job is my duty. And I’m not doing it because I’m afraid of you.”