she shouted.
His angry demand was broken in the middle by the sound of her voice. It should have stopped him.
But he stared at her, at the dress she was wearing, at the bare display of shoulders and arms, her bare feet, at the blood—curse the fieflord, curse him to whichever hell the Barrani occupied—on her cheek, before he changed direction, started the chain spinning.
And she knew the expression on his face. Had seen it before a handful of times in the fiefs. It had always ended in death.
This time, though, she thought it would be the wrong death. She moved before she could think—thought took too much damn time, and she came to stand before him—before him, and between Severn and the fieflord, who had silently come into the room as if he owned it.
Which, in fact, he did.
“Severn!” She shouted, raising her hands, both empty, one brown with the traces of her blood. “Severn, he didn’t touch me!”
Severn met her eyes; the chain was now moving so fast it was a wall, a metal wall. He shortened his grip on it, but he did not let it rest.
“Severn, put it down.”
“If he didn’t touch you, why are you dressed like that?”
“Put it down, Severn. Put it away. You’re here as a Hawk. And the Hawklord wants no fight with the fieflord. You don’t have the luxury of dying. Not here.”
If he did, she wasn’t so sure that his would be the only death. “Don’t start a fief war,” she shouted. Had to shout. “He didn’t touch me. I’m not hurt.”
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
“The mark is bleeding,” she snapped back. “And I don’t need you to protect me, damn it—I’m a Hawk. I can protect myself!”
He slowed, then. She had him. “I don’t need protection,” she said again, and this time the words had multiple meanings to the two of them, and only the two of them.
His face showed the first emotion that wasn’t anger. And she wasn’t certain, after she’d seen it, that she didn’t like the anger better.
“No,” he said at last, heavily. The chain stopped. “It’s been a long time since I could. Protect you.”
Tiamaris, Dragon caste, said in a voice that would have carried the length of the Long Halls, “Well done, Kaylin. Severn. I believe it is time to retreat.” And she saw that his eyes were burning, red; that he, too, had been prepared to fight.
“Your companions lack a certain wisdom,” the fieflord said, voice close to her ear.
“What did you do here, fieflord?” Tiamaris’s voice was low. Dangerous.
“What you suspect, Tiamaris.”
“That was … foolish.”
“Indeed.” He made the admission casually. “And I am not the only one who will pay the price for it. Take her home. She will need some time to recover.”
Severn slowly wrapped the chain round his waist again. He stepped forward and caught Kaylin as her knees buckled. His grip, one hand on either of her upper arms, was not gentle. Kaylin did not resist him.
“The deaths, fieflord?” Tiamaris said quietly. Or as quietly as his voice would let him.
“Three days,” the fieflord said, “between the first and second.”
“And it has been?”
“One day since the last death. If there is a pattern, it will emerge when we find the next sacrifice.”
“Why do you call them that?” Kaylin looked up, looked back at him.
“Because, Kaylin, it is what we believe they are. Sacrifices. Did the Hawklord not tell you that?”
No, of course not, she thought, bitter now. Bitter and bone-weary.
“You will return to the fiefs,” he added softly. “And to the Long Halls.”
“The hell she will,” Severn said.
They stared at each other for a long moment, and then the fieflord turned and walked away.
It was, of course, night in the fiefs.
And they were walking in it. Or rather, Severn and Tiamaris were walking; Kaylin was stumbling. Severn held her up for as long as he could, but in the end, Tiamaris rumbled, and he lifted her. He was not as gentle as the fieflord, because he was not as dangerously personal.
She preferred it.
“Kaylin,” Tiamaris said quietly. “Do you understand why the fiefs exist?”
She shrugged. Or tried. It was hard, while nesting in the arms of a Dragon.
“Have you never wondered?”
“A hundred times,” she said bitterly. “A thousand. Sometimes in one day.”
Tiamaris frowned stiffly. “I can see that Lord Grammayre had his hands full, if he chose to attempt to teach you.”
“I don’t need history lessons. They won’t keep me alive.” The words were a familiar refrain in her life; they certainly weren’t original.
“Spoken like a ground Hawk,” Tiamaris replied.
She shrugged again. Although he wore no armor, his chest was hard. “I believe,” he said quietly, “that I will let Lord Grammayre deal with this.”
“No,” she said, tired now. “I think I know what you’re asking.”
“Oh?”
“You’re asking me if I’ve ever wondered why the Lords of Law don’t just close the fieflords down permanently.”
“Indeed.”
“Hell, we’ve all wondered that.”
“There is a reason. I think you begin to see some of it. The fiefs are the oldest part of the city. They are, with the exception of ruins to the West and East of Elantra, the oldest part of the Empire; they have stood since the coming of the castes.
“I … spent time in the fiefs, studying the old writings, the old magics. I was not alone, but over half of the mages sent with me did not survive. The old magics are alive, if their architects are not. There are some places in the fiefs that could not easily be conquered without destroying half of the city, if they could be conquered at all. They almost all bear certain … markings.”
Her head hurt, and she didn’t want to think. But she made the effort. “The tattoo,” she said faintly.
“Yes. It is the only living thing I—or any one of us—has seen that speaks of the Old Ones. It is why you have always been of interest.”
“Have I?”
He said nothing, then.
In the dark of the fief’s streets, shadows moved. They were pale white, a blur of motion that hunched three feet above the ground. Severn cursed.
Kaylin was still dressed in the finery of Nightshade, but she wore her daggers again; she hadn’t bothered to change, because there was no privacy, and she wasn’t up to stripping in front of everyone. Severn had taken her clothing. “What?” she asked. Too sharply.
“It’s the ferals,” he said.
She really cursed. She had always been able to outcurse Severn.
In the moonlight—the bright moon—she could see that Severn was right: the ferals had come out to play. And if the Hawks weren’t bloody careful, some poor child would come out in the morning—to play—and would discover what the ferals had left behind.
She’d done it herself, once or twice. Whole nightmares remained