Cast In Fury (47 page)

She would have been embarrassed to admit that the first thing she did was make sure it hadn’t somehow killed him. But she was also embarrassed to admit that she went out drinking with Teela and Tain. The baby’s eyes were round…and blue.

“Kayala, what does blue mean?”

“Kitling?”

“Eyes. Eye color. What does blue mean?”

“That,” the Matriarch of the Pridlea growled, “is a
Barrani
color.” Which pretty much answered the question. “If his eyes look blue, they could be reflecting the light.”

“Or capturing it,” the Arkon said.

The baby reached out, and Kaylin lifted him closer to the light, and the shape that cast it. Human babies didn’t have this much coordination. From Kayala’s sharp intake of breath, Leontine babies probably didn’t either.

But when his downy paws touched the word, the light slowly dimmed. He began to cry again. Her side was sore, and she was certain that running around in circles wasn’t going to help. So Kaylin began to speak softly to the child. Nonsense words. Baby words. Soothing words.

Words.

The Arkon said nothing very loudly, and Kaylin had the grace to flush. But he was old enough to take care of himself, and the baby was, in the end, more important and immediate than her dignity. Nor did he choose to criticize her; instead he led, and she followed. At each sigil, the child quieted for a moment, and at each, he was lifted to touch some element of the word—a line, a dot, a stroke. When the light dimmed, he would cry, and when he cried, Kaylin would whisper or hum or even sing—because it seemed to help, and it was better than doing nothing.

The light in the room slowly faded. The blue of his eyes slowly grew.

And when the last word had dimmed, the darkened shells slowly faded from sight.

The Arkon frowned; he was staring at Kaylin. She realized this when Sanabalis cleared his throat loudly.

Before she could speak—or think of something to say that wasn’t baby nonsense—she felt a warmth at the base of her neck. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, one last word hovered in the air before her face. It was golden in color, and the light it cast was not as bright as the light of the Dragon’s words, but it was still recognizably the same language.

Her lips moved as she spoke it.

The child reached out, and she smiled at him, and lifted him one last time into the light. His paws batted a dot out of the way, and it left a smear of golden light in the air. He clearly liked this better than screaming, and he did it again. And again.

Half an hour later, when his lids grew heavy, the word faded, as if it had existed only to amuse and entertain; as if it were nothing more than a very fancy child’s toy.

And she held him, and looked at the Arkon.

The Arkon bowed to her. It was a long, slow fold, and she had no idea what to say in return. But before she could try, Sanabalis touched her elbow; she looked at him, and he shook his head.

“I will speak with the Emperor,” the Arkon said, when he rose.

“But—but—what will you tell him?”

“What I have seen.”

“Will it—can we—is the—”

The Arkon winced and lifted a hand. “I have heard that you share a dislike of formal education with Lord Tiamaris,” he said, “and I believe it best that you choose—as Lord Tiamaris does—silence. I do not understand what I have seen,” the Arkon said. “But it bears study. I will recommend that we take the risk.”

“Arkon,” Sanabalis said, and offered the Imperial Librarian a bow as perfect, and as low, as the Librarian had offered Kaylin.

“I cannot speak for the Emperor, and I cannot therefore tell you what his decision will be. If he chooses mercy—and its attendant risks—there will be conditions placed upon the child’s life.”

She nodded.

“You may return to the Pridlea, if you desire its company. I will meet you there when I have finished.”

Sarabe was somber and red eyed. The weeping—and there had obviously been weeping—was done. The guilt and the certainty that she might have been able to
do something
earlier to save her sister would take longer, and it would leave marks. Because guilt did.

Tessa, Graylin and Reesa surrounded her; the four wives were one big pile of fur. Somewhere in that pile were Sarabe’s daughters; Kaylin could see the gold and gray of their fur in flashes, and could make out which limbs were theirs.

She held the baby and sat at a distance, watching. Severn sat apart as well, and that half smile she had felt in the fiefs adorned his face. So did new stitches and a couple of livid bruises. He caught her glance and the smile deepened as one of Sarabe’s daughters snarled—a muffled sound—and bit one of her sisters. How she could even find one of her sisters to bite, Kaylin didn’t know.

She loved to watch the Pridlea converge like this, but she needed to breathe more than they apparently did.

Kayala sat apart as well. “Sarabe will be fine,” she said. “She has us. And our husband. You did well, Kaylin.”

“Marai died.”

Kayala nodded. “But her son did not.”

“Not yet.”

As if on cue, the Pridlea Matriarch rose. “The Arkon is waiting for you in the hall. Will you take the child, or will you trust me with him?”

“How do you know he’s out in the hall? And yes, I trust you with him. I trust you with anything I value in my life,” she added. “Even Marcus.”

Kayala snorted. She reached out and took the baby. “Your color is terrible, even for a human. You need sleep, kitling. Corporal, make sure she sleeps. And eats.”

Severn nodded gravely, the smile still hovering on his lips.

“And I know he is there,” Kayala said, when she’d settled the babe in her arms, “because I can smell him.”

“What does he smell like?”

“A Dragon.”

The Arkon offered Kaylin the same bow he extended to her at the end of their walk. Kaylin endured it self-consciously. She was used to people looking down on her; she was definitely not used to
this.

Sanabalis was there as well; they were both wearing the same deep blue robes. If blue were blood, that would be its color, she thought.

“The child,” the Arkon said, “will be allowed to mature. The Emperor has chosen to spare him.”

“That took four hours?”

Sanabalis raised both brows, which was as much expression as she’d ever seen on his face.

The Arkon looked decidedly less respectful. “It took
only
four hours, and at that, only because we received word from the Lord of Hawks that your presence is required.”

“Oh.”

“The matter of where he will live, however, is undecided.”

“He can’t live here,” she said flatly.

“It would be best for him if he did,” the Arkon replied. “Among his own people, his origins will be known, and he will grow in the shadow of their fear. Is that the life you would choose for him?”

“No. But the Pridlea—”

“He is not their son.”

“Sarabe is his aunt,” she said, “and his only living kin.”

“By Pride Law, that is not true.”

“But—oh. You mean me.”

The Arkon nodded.

“I can’t raise a Leontine baby!”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But he has no legal kin save you.”

“I can talk to Marcus—” She stopped. She thought about Orogrim. Thought about the lives that Sarabe and Marai had led. Sarabe had been lucky. And this child?

Kaylin loved the Leontines. She also loved being human. But her kind were standing with pitchforks outside of the Tha’alani Quarter, made stupid and ugly by fear.

“No,” she said softly. “He can’t live in the Palace. But…I think I know where he might be able to live.”

“Rennick,” Kaylin said, when Rennick ran by, cursing under his breath.

“What?”

“It’s a dress rehearsal. You said a dress rehearsal is the last chance to fix problems. Just relax.”

“It’s a dress rehearsal in the nominal sense of the word,” he shot back. He was running his hands through his hair. Watching him these past three days had been a bit of a revelation for Kaylin. Not that she hadn’t seen him shouting before, because it was impossible to spend more than an hour with Rennick and avoid that, but because he was almost frenzied in his worry about little details. Costumes. Makeup. Stage props. Even the mages, who were generally held in awe, got the short end of his temper for somehow setting up lights in entirely the wrong way. That they did not reduce him to ash probably had more to do with his title as the
Imperial
Playwright than their own forbearance. No one could believe that the Emperor would miss him, but on the other hand, no one was certain that the Emperor wouldn’t frown on disrespect done to a title he offered.

“And going bald is going to change that how?”

“Bald? What are you talking about?”

“She is, I believe, referring to the way you’re pulling your hair,” Sanabalis said, his voice dry enough to catch fire in the wrong type of sunlight.

“Oh. Ha-ha. Jenn,
not
that shrub. That’s clearly marked on the back of the board—it goes to the left of the
well.
” He practically sprinted in the direction of the offense, and Kaylin shook her head.

It was true that the audience for this dress rehearsal was slightly out of the ordinary, but the Emperor had chosen to attend the
actual
first night. In his stead, Ybelline waited in the small audience, with her peers and the students of the Tha’alanari. It was
this
audience that worried Rennick. Truth be told, while he was sane enough to fear the Emperor’s wrath, he privately didn’t believe the Emperor could tell a good line from a bad one, and he wasn’t overly concerned about his reaction.

But the Tha’alani reception—that was important, to Rennick. And at least for the first few weeks of the run, this was the
only
showing at which the Tha’alani would be in attendance. There was some wild speculation about a change in cast at that time, but Kaylin had been very carefully ignorant when asked. She had seen the striking woman that Rennick had grudgingly given the role of Tha’alani Castelord, and while that woman and Ybelline were never going to be the same, Kaylin knew it didn’t matter. All she had to be was
good.

She hadn’t expected to see Evanton as part of the stage crew, and he looked mildly surprised to see her, but Rennick was a smart, resourceful man.
I want the antennae to look real. I want them to look exactly like Tha’alani antennae.

Evanton, therefore, had been dragged in by someone to achieve that startling effect. He considered it a waste of time, at first, but by the end of a few hours with Rennick, he had set about the work with something like passion. And while she had never thought of the wizened enchanter as a…makeup artist, she had to admit that he was worth whatever they paid him. Given what
she
had to pay him for her meager enchantments, she was sure it was a
lot.

He wasn’t in the audience, but he was somewhere backstage.

As were Dock and Cassie. Rennick was very careful, when dealing with the foundlings, to keep his voice even and his words clear; he even kept the growing obscenities to a minimum, and given what he’d been like the past few days, that was the most anyone could ask for. On the other hand, Marrin had also visited frequently. To give Rennick his due, he’d allowed it without a word. He admired the Leontine who had turned a hall for unwanted orphans into a personal cause.

“All right, everyone nonessential clear the stage. We’re up in half an hour.”

Kaylin was considered nonessential. Severn had already vacated the arena some time before. “Sanabalis,” Kaylin said, “I’m going to find Ybelline.”

“She’ll be in the outer hall. They’ve turned it into a parlor.”

In the two weeks since she’d woken in the infirmary, her side had stopped aching and her wounds had completely healed. She was allowed to patrol her beat, although Marcus’s long-suffering look made clear just what Moran would do to him if there were any incidents.

“I need to get her out of the office. She’s bored, and she’s causing unrest.”

“And it’s only for the morning,” Kaylin said, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. Two weeks of office work had convinced her that Marcus was, at heart, an absolute
saint.
“I’m still Rennick-watching in the afternoons.”

“The point of patrolling is to be present when and if there’s trouble,” Moran said curtly. But in the end, she relented, because, as she said, she couldn’t stand to see a fledgling batting its wings against the ceiling.

The Council of Elders accepted the Emperor’s decree. They weren’t happy about it, that much any moron could see—but they were respectful. Then again, it was Sanabalis who delivered the news. They were satisfied, however, by news of Orogrim’s death, and Marcus was fully exonerated. If that word could be applied to the very, very informal Caste Laws by which they governed.

Kayala and the Pridlea still remained in the Palace, however. In the morning, if all went well, they would return home—and there would be a home; Marcus had been busy. He had taken time off to see to the “state of his home,” and in that time, he had only paused once: for Marai’s funeral.

It was very, very sparsely attended.

Sarabe and her children were there, as were Marcus and the rest of the Pridlea. Lord Sanabalis came, and Lord Tiamaris joined him. Severn brought Kaylin by Imperial Carriage; she was still in theory confined to bed, but Moran had not argued about the funeral.

And that was it.

But it was enough, Kaylin thought.

Sarabe was not mentioned by the Elders. Or by Marcus. Kaylin wanted their collective word—preferably signed in blood—that they would never attempt to harm her; Marcus, however, seemed to trust them enough to bring his youngest wife home.

She wandered out into the Hall. The first person she saw was Severn, which, given the press of guests, servants and palace guards, said something. He smiled, detached himself from three Tha’alani—all younger than he was, by the look of them—and joined her.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She nodded. “I think if we don’t do this soon, Marcus will rip my throat out and eat it for breakfast. He misses the Pridlea,” she said.