Michelle Sagara - Cast in Chaos

“Did it also involve the future of arguably the most politically powerful human in Elantra?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I am not interested in the details at this present moment. Continue.”

“It was also of a magical nature. Evanton thinks—thought—that there is an unusually strong flux in the magical potential of a specific area, and it’s causing things to go completely out of whack.”

“His words?”

“Not exactly.”

“What, exactly, were his words?”

“He thought I should speak with Sanabalis—”

“Lord Sanabalis.”

“Lord Sanabalis. Now.”

“Far be it from me to ignore the urgent advice of so important a man,” the Hawklord replied.

“He thinks it could be disastrous if we don’t—”

“It has already been almost disastrous. At this particular moment in my career, I fail to see how it could be worse. Take Corporal Handred with you, avoid any discussion of Larienne, and avoid, as well, any men who obviously bear his colors. Go directly to Lord Sanabalis, make your report, and return directly here. If I am absent, wait.”

“Sir.”

The Imperial Palace, home of future etiquette lessons, loomed in the distance of carriage windows like the cages outside of Castle Nightshade. The flags were, as they almost always were, at full height, and the wind at that height was impressive today; it buffeted clouds.

Severn, seated across from Kaylin, glanced at her arms. It wasn’t a pointed glance, but she rolled back one sleeve, exposing the heavy, golden bracer that bracketed her wrist. The unnatural gems, socketed in a line down its length, gleamed in the darkened interior of the carriage. He nodded, and she rolled her sleeve down, covering it. By Imperial Edict, and by the Hawklord’s command—which were in theory the same thing—she wore it all the time.

It prevented the unpredictable magic she could sometimes use from bubbling to the surface in disastrous ways. It unfortunately also prevented the more predictable—to Kaylin—magic that was actually helpful from being used, so it didn’t always reside on her wrist, edict notwithstanding. Her magic could be used to heal the injured, and it was most often used when the midwives called her in on emergencies.

But it was this wild magic, and the unpredictable and unknown nature of it, that was at the root of the Magical Studies classes she was taking with Sanabalis. The Imperial Court reasoned that if she could use and channel magic like actual working mages did, she would be in control of it. And, in theory, the Court would be in control of her, because indirectly they paid her salary, and she liked to eat.

It was also the magic that was at the heart of etiquette lessons. The Dragon Emperor was not famed for his tolerance and sense of humor. He was, in fact, known for his lack of both. But Sanabalis, Tiamaris, and even the ancient Arkon who guarded the Imperial Library as if it was his personal hoard—largely because it was—all felt that she would soon have to come to Court and spend time in the presence of the Dragon who ruled them all. They wanted her to survive it, although Sanabalis on some days seemed less certain.

The carriage rolled to a halt in the usual courtyard. It was not an Imperial Carriage; most Hawks who didn’t have Lord somewhere in their name didn’t have regular use of those. It did bear the Hawk symbol, and a smaller version of the Imperial Crest, but it also needed both paint and a good, solid week’s worth of scrubbing.

Still, it did the job. The men who always stood in the courtyard opened the side doors, but they didn’t offer her either the small step that seemed to come with most fancy carriages, or help getting out of the seat that was so damn uncomfortable on long, bumpy rides. They just opened the door, peered briefly in, and got out of the way.

She handed one of them the letter Caitlin had written. Marcus had signed it with a characteristic bold paw print under a signature that was—if you knew Leontines—mostly legible. Caitlin, on the other hand, had done the sealing. Marcus didn’t care for wax.

He hadn’t much cared for her destination, either, but only barely threatened to rip out her throat if she embarrassed the department, which was bad; it meant he had other things on his mind. His eyes had never once shaded back to their familiar gold.

The man who had taken the sealed letter returned about fifteen minutes later, accompanied by a man she recognized, although not by name.

“Lord Sanabalis,” this man said, with a stiff bow, “will see you. Please follow me.”

She started to tell him she knew the way, and bit her tongue.

Sure enough, she did know the way, because he took her to Sanabalis’s personal meeting room. It wasn’t an office; there was no sign of a desk, or anything that looked remotely business-like—besides the Dragon Lord himself—in the room. And it had windows that did not, in fact, give out lectures on decorum, dress, and the use of racially correct language to random passersby. The windows here, on the other hand, were impressive, beveled glass that looked out on one of the best views of the Halls of Law in the city.

“If this,” he told Kaylin, indicating one of the many chairs positioned in front of the one he occupied, “is about your class schedule, I will be tempted to reduce you to ash on the spot.” As his eyes were the familiar gold that Marcus’s hadn’t been since she’d returned to the office, she assumed this was what passed for Dragon humor, and she took a chair.

Severn did likewise.

“It’s not about the class schedule, although if you want my opinion—”

Sanabalis raised a pale, finely veined hand. It looked like an older man’s hand, but it could, in a pinch, probably drive a dent into solid rock. Dragons could look like aged wise men, but it was only ever cosmetic. They were immortal, like the Barrani. They lacked Barrani magnetism, and their unearthly beauty and grace, but Kaylin assumed that was because they didn’t actually care what the Barrani or the merely mortal thought of them. At all.

“I believe, given previous exposure to your opinions, I can derive it from first principles.”

Severn coughed. Kaylin glared at the side of his face, because for Severn, this was laughter that he’d only barely managed to contain. “There was an incident in Elani street today.”

So much for gold. His eyes started the shade-shift into bronze the minute she mentioned the street. “I take it,” she added, “you heard.”

“We were informed—immediately—by Lord Grammayre, yes. I am not at liberty to discuss it at the moment. I am barely at liberty to have this meeting,” he added. “But in general, you come to the Palace with information that is relevant, and often urgent. Do not, however, waste my time.”

“I didn’t cause the incident. I caused outrage because I didn’t immediately obey the orders of a pissed-off noble.”

“Understood. You have information on what did cause the incident?”

“Not directly.”

He snorted. Small plumes of smoke left his nostrils, which was unusual. “Evanton sent me,” she said quickly.

“The Keeper sent you?”

She nodded. “He started to talk about magical potential, and the sudden surge he felt in Elani.”

Sanabalis was silent. It wasn’t a good silence.

“He—the incident with Alyssa Larienne—he thought the magical potential shift was responsible for it somehow.”

“Let me reverse my earlier position,” he said quietly. “What were the other incidents?”

She told him.

His eyes were now the color of new copper. “And these incidents,” he finally said, rising and turning his face toward the window. “Did they all occur within roughly the same area?”