Michelle Sagara - Cast In Shadow

She started to speak, stopped and waited.

He lost about four inches in height. “I should have known,” he said softly. “Look, Elianne—”

“I’m called Kaylin, now,” she said quietly.

“Shit, I barely remembered the old name.” Which was probably true. “You got out,” he added. “We heard about it. I thought it was a lie—I thought you were dead, like the others.”

She closed her eyes. She could not look at Severn.

Severn said nothing.

“But it’s started again,” the old man continued. His hands were over his face when she opened her eyes. Old hands, now. Seven years had changed him. “Connie’s lost her boy. I found him.”

“What did you do?”

“I sent a runner. You don’t know him,” he added. “He came after your time. I sent a runner to the damn Lords of Law.”

She nodded.

But Severn didn’t. He stepped in, toward Brecht, and grabbed him by the shirt collar.

“Severn—” she began.

“He’s lying,” Severn said. Menace enfolded the scant syllables.

“Lying? Why?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell us, Brecht?” Before she could say another word, Severn’s long knife was in his hand. Brecht was no fool; he didn’t even try to reach for a bottle.

“Severn, this is stupid. Look—the Lords of Law have the body,” she snapped.

“They have it now. Brecht, who did you send the runner to?”

Brecht was absolutely stone still.

And Kaylin, caught by Severn, by the change in him, was still as well. But she was a Hawk. She’d spent seven years under the harsh tutelage of both Lord Grammayre and Marcus. The hair on the back of her neck began to rise, and her arms goose-bumped suddenly.

She looked at Tiamaris and saw that his eyes were a deep, unnatural red; that he had already turned away from the pathetic bartender and the not so pathetic Shadow Wolf.

Toward the door. The open door.

In it, the answer stood. And he smiled. “Why, to me, Severn,” he said softly, in perfect Barrani. “Thank you, Brecht. You’ve done well, and you will be rewarded.” His Elantran was also perfect, and she was surprised to hear it. Then again, Brecht probably didn’t speak any Barrani worth listening to. Unless you liked inventive cursing.

Kaylin wasn’t certain that that reward wouldn’t be death; Severn’s eyes were black. She knew what that meant. Hated it. Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed his knife hand, curling her fingers round his wrist.

He stared at her. Stared at the hand that she had willingly placed around his wrist. Understood what she was asking, understood that she would never ask in words.

Severn slowly released old Brecht and turned at last to face the outcaste Barrani lord known, in this fief, as Nightshade.

He was tall.

Taller than either Teela or Tain; taller than Tiamaris. He had hair that was a shade darker than ebony, and it was long; it slid down his back like a cape.

Teela and Tain made her feel ungainly, clumsy and plodding. Nightshade—lord of this fief—made her feel worse: young again. Afraid. Just standing there, in the door, his hands idling against the wooden frame. They were ringed hands, and she hated that.

In fact, had she not been so unsettled, she would have hated him. But, like the rest of the Barrani, he seemed above any emotion she might offer. His eyes were cold, emrald-green; they did not blink once. She hoped it stung. She knew it wouldn’t.

“So,” he said quietly, sliding back into Barrani as he withdrew his hands from the door frame and stepped into the bar. He gestured without looking back, his fingers flicking air as if he were brushing away a speck of dust.

Behind him, two guards followed; they were, by their look, Barrani as well.

Three. Against a single Barrani, she and Severn had a good chance—on a very lucky day. But against three? None whatsoever.

Her hands fell to her daggers.

The fieflord raised a dark brow. “Do not,” he said softly, “insult my hospitality. Had I wished you harm, you would never have reached this … place.” He glanced around the innards of the bar.

She said nothing. She had heard his name whispered for years. In the fiefs, it was common. Outside of them, his name was also known, but the Hawks at least didn’t feel any need to speak it with respect, on the rare occasions they used it at all. She’d gotten used to that. She’d forgotten too much.

Kaylin had never met the fieflord. Was certain that she would have remembered even a passing glimpse, had she had one. Because although the Barrani had all looked alike to her when she had joined the Hawks, and it had taken months to become used to the subtle ways in which they differentiated themselves when they could be bothered, she would have known that this one was different.

She almost called him Lord Nightshade, and that would have been too much. Too much fear. Too much reaction.

As if he could hear her thoughts, his gaze met hers. “So,” he said softly. “You are the child.”

Not even that word could make her bridle.

He moved toward her, and Severn moved, slowly, to block him. The Barrani at the fieflord’s back moved less slowly, but with infinitely more grace. They were cold, deadly, beautiful—and utterly silent.

“Severn,” the fieflord said quietly. “It has been many years since we last spoke.”

Kaylin couldn’t stop her brows from rising. “Severn?”

Severn said, quietly, “Not enough of them.”

The fieflord moved before either she or Severn could; he backhanded Severn. And Severn managed to keep his footing. “I will, for the sake of hospitality, tolerate much from outsiders,” the fieflord said. “But you were—and will always be—one of mine. Do not presume overmuch.”

“He’s not yours,” Kaylin said sharply, surprise following words that she wouldn’t have said she could utter until they’d tumbled out of her open mouth. She spoke forcefully in Elantran, her mother tongue. Barrani, if it came, would come later; to speak it now was too much of a concession. Or a presumption. Either way, she didn’t like it.

A black brow rose; she had amused the fieflord. Then again, so did painful, hideous death by all accounts.

“And do you claim him, then, little one?”

“The Lord of Hawks does,” she replied.

He reached out slowly, his hand empty, his palm exposed. Gold glittered at the base of his fingers, but he carried no obvious weapon. His fingers brushed her cheek.

As if she were a pet, something small and helpless.

“The Lord of Hawks has no authority here,” he replied softly, “save that which I grant him.”

“He has authority,” Tiamaris said quietly, speaking for the first time.

The fieflord’s hand stilled, but it did not leave her face as he turned. His eyes, however, widened slightly as he met the red of Dragon eyes. Unlidded eyes, they seemed to burn. “Is she yours?” He asked casually, and this time, he did let his hand fall away.

“She is as she says.”

“She has not said who she serves,” the fieflord replied. “And if I am not mistaken, she was born in the fiefs.” He turned to look at her again.

“I—I serve—the Hawklord. Lord Grammayre. And so does Tiamaris.”

“Really?”

“I have offered him my service,” Tiamaris replied softly, “and it has been accepted. While I am here, I am his agent.”

The fieflord surprised Kaylin, then. He laughed. It was a rich, lovely sound, and it conveyed both amusement and something she couldn’t quite name. “Times have changed, Tiamaris, if you can serve another.”

“I have always served another,” was the cold reply.

Kaylin had never seen a Dragon fight. Had a bad feeling that she was about to. The Barrani guards had forgotten Severn, forgotten her; they were drawn to Tiamaris as if he were the only significant danger in the room. Which was fair. He was.