Michelle Sagara - Cast In Flight

“This blessing thing that you were asked to craft—does it actually give the flightless flight?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because two of the Aerians—the ones we caught—couldn’t, in theory, fly on their own. Their wings aren’t properly formed.”

“You think they were deliberately crippled?”

“No. It’s not like being outcaste. They have wings—but the wings wouldn’t support their full weight. They could manage to hit the literal street without going splat. But they couldn’t manage to lift off that same street.”

“You’re certain.”

“Yes. Evanton?”

“Yes, Kaylin. That is exactly what the blessing of air does.” He rose. “Do you think that the client you met is involved?”

“I wish I could say that hadn’t occurred to me,” was her stony reply. “But, in fairness, she wanted the bletsian for Moran. Who can’t fly. I didn’t press her for more information; I trusted you not to create something that would harm Moran. Now I have to ask—as a Hawk—how many other clients you’ve created these bletsian things for. And when.”

“I am not the only person who can craft them,” he replied, which wasn’t much of an answer. “Grethan, tea.”

* * *

Tea came twenty minutes later. Evanton frowned as Kaylin, in his words, entirely spoiled any appetite for lunch by eating her way through half of the cookie tin. She did, in her own defense, offer cookies to Severn, who took one.

“Aerian mages do not join the Imperial Order. I believe, in the history of the Southern Reach, there was exactly one. It is not,” he added, “recent history. The Tha’alani have an affinity for the element of water. It will not surprise you to know that the Aerians have a similar affinity.”

“Air?”

He nodded. “Air and fire. The abilities of the Aerians are similar to those of the Imperial mages.”

“Have any Aerians ever been Arcanists?”

“Funny that you should ask that question now.”

There were whole days when Kaylin regretted getting out of bed. She was torn, though. It was natural to hate and despise Arcanists; you practically lost your badge if you didn’t. She wanted to hate and despise something that wasn’t...her own people.

And that was one step too far. She struggled with it, and won, but only barely. On the other hand, barely still passed muster. “Sorry,” she told the older man. “I’m right out of humor for funny at the moment.”

“I can see that. There have historically been more Aerian Arcanists than there have been Imperial mages.”

“Why?”

“Because the Imperium, such as it is, is a largely human endeavor. The Aerians are not at home in halls that were not designed with wings in mind. They can—and do—work within them, but being a mage is not just, or even, office work. They dislike the cramped confines of both space and attitude.

“Arcanists are more racially diverse.”

“Most of them are Barrani!”

“Yes. Barrani have a general contempt for anyone who happens to be mortal. They are not Aerians; they are mortals, as far as the Barrani are concerned. But as is the case with the Barrani in other avenues of interaction, power—and money—speak. It is easier to feel at home in the Arcanum than in the Imperium. The Arcanum does not revere Imperial Law.”

“No kidding.” She exhaled. “Is there an Aerian Arcanist now?”

“What do you think?”

Kaylin’s Leontine, mixed liberally with borrowed words from two other languages, filled the small kitchen space.

* * *

“You are certain you saw whole wings?” Evanton asked when Kaylin at last stopped swearing and told him, in less colorful language, about the events of the day.

“Yes.”

“But only with the aid of your familiar?”

She nodded again. The familiar had taken off, landing, as he often did, on Grethan’s shoulders. Grethan had gone in search of food more suited to the small lizard than Kaylin’s cookies, or rather, what she thought of as her cookies. “I wonder why he likes Grethan so much?”

“Given your current mood, it emphasizes his intelligence,” Evanton replied.

“I thought maybe the wings were Shadow wings, somehow—but that doesn’t seem to be the case. The net, though—I’d bet all of last year’s pay that it was Shadow.”

Evanton was thinking. Loudly. “Might I ask you to do one thing the next time you’re with Sergeant Carafel?”

“You want me to look at her wings with the help of the familiar.”

“Yes. I think it might be instructive.”

Kaylin nodded glumly.

“If the wings somehow represent potential flight, it’s possible that Shadow is responsible for the actual flight.”

“But—how?”

“It is power, Kaylin.”

“It’s Shadow. Look, fire is powerful, but you can’t pour fire into wings and expect to take flight. You can probably expect to be cooked if you’re not careful, but that’s about it.”

“Shadow has always been the most flexible of the potential powers,” the Keeper replied, unruffled. “There is a reason that it has been studied; a reason that it has appeal. Shadow is, at base, transformative.”

“Yes—but I’m not sure you can control the transformation, and for the most part the transformation, all differences aside, is from alive to dead.”

“For mortals, yes.”

Evanton was mortal. In theory. Or he’d been born mortal. But he’d lived a long damn time, and if he looked ancient to Kaylin, he hadn’t aged at all in the years—admittedly few—she’d known him. “How do you know what Shadow does?”

His brows gathered in the what a stupid question look he usually threw at poor Grethan. “I’ve been through several iterations of men—and women—who seek power. Any power. Most of those attempts don’t directly affect me, as Keeper. But some—as recent history has proven—have come close to destroying everything. I will allow that if the weapons the Aerians were utilizing were of Shadow, it is highly likely that Shadow was the ostensible bletsian granted those who could not naturally fly.” He rose. “It so happens I have something for you.”

“Lillias’s bletsian?”

Evanton nodded. “I ask you to wait here while I retrieve it from the garden.”

Kaylin nodded. And had another cookie.

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