He landed in front of Moran. He landed almost on one knee. It was impressive, and Kaylin wondered if any of the Aerians learning their drills above them had seen it, noted it, marked it.
Moran said something in Aerian. Kaylin didn’t actually recognize the word or phrase. Although she understood most day-to-day Aerian, she knew she was missing something cultural. And knew as well that it wasn’t taught in racial integration classes.
Clint replied. He replied, however, in Elantran. “Praevolo. We are yours to command.”
“Technically,” Moran replied, sliding into Elantran as well, “you’re the Hawklord’s to command. When I walk through those doors, I’m a Hawk.” She didn’t tell him to stand. She spoke to his bent head.
He raised that head and met her gaze. “While you wear those robes, you arepraevolo.”
“I’mpraevoloregardless,” Moran countered. “You’ve always known it.”
Clint shook his head. “You were born with the wings. You were not—you were never willing to acknowledge what that means. Until now.”
“It changes nothing,” Moran told him.
Clint’s eyes were a pale, steady blue. They weren’t angry blue, though; in the light, if one weren’t careful, they’d seem closer to ash gray. “It changes everything.”
“It doesn’t. The risk to you—and to your families—remains the same. In the current climate, it isn’t safe.”
“If it was safety we wanted, we would never have joined the Hawks. We would never have sworn to surrender our lives in the attempt to uphold and enforce the Emperor’s laws. You arepraevolo, now. Even those who doubted before have fallen silent. You are our flight.”
Moran motioned, and Clint rose. “I don’t want anyone to sacrifice their lives in anything but pursuit of the law.”
“That decision is not yours to make,” he countered.
“If you are mine to command, yes, it is.”
He grinned, his teeth a slash of even, perfect white. “How long have you been a Hawk? You understand exactly how command works behind those doors.”
Kaylin shrugged. Clint was right. Marcus was technically in charge; the Hawklord was technically the ultimate authority. But Hawks since the dawn of time, or at least the start of the Halls of Law, had ways of doing what they thought was the right thing. They understood the chain of command. They understood the rules. They also understood that, for small things, rules were flexible. You could stretch the hell out of them without ever actually breaking them.
People, she thought, just were notgoodat blind obedience.
Moran surprised Kaylin; she smiled. It was rueful, but genuine. “Fair enough.”
* * *
The tenor of Aerian interactions within the Halls of Law had changed; Clint wasn’t the only one who seemed affected by Moran’s decision. The very colorful dress that Moran wore looked entirely out of place in the office; even with the Hawk’s tabard hanging over most of it, it couldn’t be disguised. Nor did Moran make that attempt. She was as good as her word; when Bellusdeo preceded her into the infirmary, she shooed the rest of her unofficial bodyguard away.
The familiar screamed.
Moran stared at him, her eyes beginning to widen, as Kaylin, obeying instincts she hadn’t realized she’d developed, turned back toward the Aerian sergeant, and leapt—literally leapt—the distance that divided them. Her hair had time to stand on end, and her skin felt as if it were being flayed from the rest of her in one damn piece.
As the door opened and the world exploded in a flash of painful, painful color, Kaylin’s ridiculous first thought wasMarcus is going to be so pissed off.
* * *
The familiar’s golden bubble extended to cover only Severn and the Aerian. Bellusdeo was beyond its range, as were the Barrani corporals. They were thrown back—Bellusdeo into Kaylin and Moran, Teela and Tain down the hall. There was a moment of silence—the kind of silence that happens in the wake of something loud—and then noise returned, at a remove.
Teela was already on her feet, her eyes midnight blue. Tain was half a step behind her—but Teela had always had the best reflexes on the Barrani side of the department. Their tabards and their leathers were going to need either major cleaning or repairs.
Bellusdeo’s clothing was going to require complete replacement. She shed it without much regret, armoring up instead; the scales that adorned her Dragon body became small plates behind which the human form could shelter. All Dragons could do this—and were generally forced to it if they’d chosen to adopt their Draconic shape without enough preparation or warning.
“Fail to mention this to the Emperor,” the Dragon said. She wobbled.
“I can’t.”
“You can fail to volunteer the information. I’ve seen you do that a hundred times.”
