Michelle Sagara - Cast In Flight

Mandoran’s snort was rude, but wordless. Teela pointedly turned her attention back to Moran. “You think that the praevolo was magically created?”

“I think the power of the praevolo must have been, yes. We know that a flight’s worth of Aerians of both genders went into seclusion. They prayed,” she added with a hint of self-consciousness. “Those that were unworthy faced the wrath of the gods.”

“They died?”

Moran nodded. “They did not approach the gods with the proper humility and respect,” she added. “Believe that I heard this particular story frequently. I couldn’t make sense of it until I joined the Hawks. I had no idea how many gods crowded each other for space in Elantra until then.” Her gaze darted to Bellusdeo and away. “I didn’t entirely understand how dangerous the Shadows could be in a global sense until very recently, either.

“Be that as it may, I believe it was an investiture of power. And it worked.”

“But the power isn’t conferred that way now?” Kaylin asked.

Moran shook her head. “But it’s only the flights of the Upper Reach—or the offspring of those flights—that are born with the wings. It’s not a constant; there isn’t always a praevolo. We went three generations without one. But the birth of one—of me, in this case—implies that their power will be needed.”

“Has this proved historically true for the Aerians?” It was Bellusdeo who asked—of course it would be. If the genesis of Moran’s damaged wings was related in any way to Shadow, it would suddenly become hugely relevant to the golden Dragon. She had lost a world to those Shadows, and she had the memory of immortals. She did not forget for one second.

“I am not permitted to speak of that.”

“You aren’t permitted to speak of this, either, if I had to guess.”

Moran flashed a wry grin. “Technically, there is nothing in this discussion that circumvents the proscriptions. But...yes. Yes, they’ve been relevant. I’m aware that the relevance could be entirely in the hands of historians; historians weight everything with their own particular set of observations and meanings. And even if it was forbidden, and my discussion were to be discovered, the hands of the Caste Court are tied. I cannot be made outcaste.”

Kaylin had assumed, until this moment, that this was because she was special, that her unique gift granted her immunity to the judgments of the Caste Court. But memories of Lillias, and of Clint’s lecture, now blended together with Moran’s information.

“They can’t cut off your wings.”

Moran stiffened. “My wings,” she told Kaylin, “are not immune to damage, as you’ve seen for yourself. They could quite possibly cut off my wings, if they had enough power and the will to do so.”

Kaylin felt cold in the brief silence that followed. “The Caste Court doesn’t cut off wings.”

“No.”

“They remove them.”

“Yes.”

“Magically.”

“Yes.”

Kaylin’s Leontine response was loud and heartfelt. And long.

* * *

She wanted to ask if the wings could be put back. If they’d been magically taken off, why couldn’t they be magically returned? She wanted to ask how the wings were magically removed. How did that work? Could the Caste Court magically remove arms or legs, too? Or were wings like arms and legs? Once they were removed, did they rot?

Bellusdeo, however, had other ideas—and they weren’t bad or wrong; they just weren’t where Kaylin’s head was mired. Kaylin therefore surrendered curiosity and pulled herself back into the discussion at hand.

“Were all such emergencies of, or related to, Shadow?” Bellusdeo asked.

“You mean the ones I’m not supposed to talk about?” Moran replied.

“Their relative secrecy is less of a concern, I admit.”

The sergeant grinned. “I confess, Lord Bellusdeo, that you are not like any other Dragon I’ve ever met. I can’t give you a definitive answer, and not because of secrecy. I honestly don’t know.”

“But they believe—or you believe—that it is involved now?”

“I am not, sadly, in the councils of the Caste Court. If I am not outcaste, I am—what is your word?”

“Pariah?” Mandoran helpfully supplied.

“Yes. I am a relative pariah. Speaking to me will not immediately target an Aerian for Court censure—but befriending me would draw much more attention than the rank and file really want. And don’t make that face, Private.”

“What face?”

“The one which implies you’re about to storm off to the Halls and shout at the closest Aerians.”

“I won’t,” Kaylin told her, thinking of Clint. And Lillias.

“They have families. They have flights. They have, in many cases, children. Their concerns are very correctly with the people for whom they’re responsible. I am never going to be one of them.” Her voice softening, she said, “And I’m happier that way. I don’t want to be the reason their lives are destroyed. They don’t owe me that.”

“And you don’t owe them anything?” It was Teela who asked.

Moran’s smile was grimmer. “I’m a Hawk,” she said. “There’s that, if nothing else.”

To Kaylin, being a Hawk was not supposed to be a—a consolation prize. It was more, it was much more, than that. The tabard, the ranks, the laws, were supposed to be the thing that cut across the racial differences. No matter who, or how, they’d been born, Hawks had chosen to serve. To protect. And that service was offered independent of race, to anyone of any race.

“I’m proud to be a Hawk,” Moran told Kaylin, as if Kaylin had been shouting out loud. “I wasn’t very good at it, at first. As you might imagine, I didn’t relish authority. I didn’t trust people in power. I didn’t trust the people of my own rank—and the Aerians were colder than even the Barrani. But I was determined to show them all. To prove to the doubters that I could, and would, do the work. The same work.” She shook her head. “It’s hard. The Hawks don’t understand what my life has been like.”

“Have you ever explained it?” Teela asked.

Moran look horrified at the idea. “And become an object of scorn or pity?”

“It would have the advantage of being based on facts. As far as I can tell, you were already an object of scorn.”

“Perhaps. But not pity. Never pity. Do you know what would have happened to the Aerian Hawks if they knew the truth?”

Kaylin said, “Maybe you should let them decide whether or not it’s worth the risk.” But Clint—and she adored Clint—had made clear that to interfere in Moran’s business courted a fate worse than death. And maybe the rest of the Aerians would feel, did feel, the same way.

If Kaylin were Moran, and in Moran’s position, and that was what she could expect, Kaylin would be damned if she exposed herself to the hope of more. She understood why Moran had remained silent, then. If life was crap, you could accept it. There was no point having a temper tantrum, and in the wrong streets of the city, a tantrum would just hasten your death. You learned to accept what you couldn’t change, and you accepted it quickly.

Justice, fairness, kindness—you could rail against the lack of those things in your life. Kaylin knew, because she’d done it. And then, she’d set about trying to survive that life, because justice, fairness and kindness were simply not on the menu anywhere she could afford to eat. Figuratively speaking.

She knew that hope was worse, somehow. If you had hope that things would change, you stood on the edge of a precipice. You stood on the edge of an abyssal chasm. And if hope was betrayed, you ended up worse off than when you’d started.

Yes, she understood.

But she also understood that without hope, without that taking of chances, nothing changed. Nothing could change. It was something she hadn’t known when she’d first stepped foot across the Ablayne. It was something she had grown to understand with time.