“I mean, he’s trying to talk to her. It’s chaotic up there. One of the Dragons has just tried to reduce him to ash,” he added, frowning in something other than pain.
“That would be Diarmat.”
“The other Dragon is speaking—shouting—at the first one. Oh. So is Moran. She recognizes Annarion,” he added, as if this were necessary. He laughed.
“That’s funny?”
“No—what she just told the first Dragon is funny. The first Dragon has just told her thatmostBarrani don’t appear in midair without warning.”
“That’s what he said?”
“No—what he said was longer and politer. And more annoyed.”
Definitely Diarmat. It was a bad day when she found anything about Diarmat comforting.
“He isn’t trying to toast Annarion. He is trying to toast some of the Aerians—but she’s not defending them. Annarion’s telling her that you need her help.” He winced. “She says she’s kind of busy.”
“That’s how she worded it?”
“Yes. But shorter. She’s really angry at the Arcanist.”
“What is the Arcanist doing there? He can’t fly!”
“I told you—Annarion went to get the Arcanist. He then went to get Moran. The Arcanist just shouted something in Aerian—I don’t understand most of it, but the Aerians do. Even Moran.” He paused, winced again. “Especially Moran. She’s...angry.”
“She’s always angry.”
“No. Not like this. She is really,reallyangry.” In spite of the pain or the fear, his eyes were round. He was looking at Moran through Annarion’s eyes, and whatever it was he saw robbed him, momentarily, of words.
There was a thunderclap of sound. It was louder than Dragon roars—here, or there. It was louder than any thunder Kaylin had ever heard—but thunder described it best: it was the heart of the storm, and it was suddenly here.
* * *
She could not make herself heard in the wake of that sound. She turned to Mandoran, and saw that his jaw had kind of joined his eyes; it was wide open. She shouted to catch his attention, but no sound escaped her mouth. Or maybe it did—her throat felt raw—but none of it reached her own ears. None of it appeared to reach Mandoran’s, either.
The light in this quasi-cavern changed. The colors that had appeared faded brightened considerably as a hole opened up above Kaylin’s head and sunlight flooded in. Or at least she assumed it was sunlight. But there was no falling rock that implied natural—or unnatural—disaster; there was simply light. It was radiant.
She half expected the Shadow wrapped around her hands to burn. It didn’t. But the Shadow around Mandoran’s hands began to smoke as if it were on fire. She expected him to relax, but he stiffened until he was completely rigid.
The Dragons had stopped their roaring. She couldn’t hear the echo of either the Emperor or Bellusdeo. Even the familiar and the outcaste had fallen silent, as if sound itself was some kind of profanity and they had all entered a very stuffy cathedral.
Kaylin looked up, and up again, craning her neck back. Mandoran did the same, but raised his arms to cover or protect his face as he did. The Shadow within him froze and then began to melt away. This was good; he didn’t seem to be aware of it. Whatever he saw was somehow worse than Shadow that intended to devour him from the inside.
Most of the Shadow within her arms melted as well—but not all. In particular, the strands she’d wrapped around her hands to give her some purchase over the ones inside Mandoran remained where she’d wound them.
But she forgot about them as Moran dar Carafel descended, at last, from the sky.
She had known Moran for the entire time she’d known the Hawks. Moran had been in the infirmary before Kaylin had even been the official mascot. She had seen Moran give Marcus a dressing-down—in the infirmary—that had been impressive and awe-inspiring. Marcus caused a visceral fear in most people simply by growling; Moran had put her foot down, claiming control of her space and everyone who was in it.
That had been nothing compared to this.
The Aerie was not the infirmary. The Aerians were not the Hawks. They had a political hierarchy that had, by all accounts, made Moran’s early life a living hell. It had almost killed her.
Watching her now, Kaylin knew that this would never happen again. She wasn’t certain the Aerie would survive it. She couldn’t speak, but had stopped trying. Moran’s wings were, end to end, larger than Dragon wings. They were feathered, each feather distinct, concrete, although it hurt to stare at them for long. At the height she occupied, the color of her eyes should have been impossible to discern.
It wasn’t.
They were blue.
