“Isn’t it?” Helen asked softly.
“No!”
Mandoran snorted, some of his normal color returning to his face. “You walked into the heart of the green to try to help Teela. Yes, she was pissed off about it. She still is. You often do exactly what Nightshade did.” He shook his head. “It’s never wise to love Barrani, if you are one. For mortals—for you—you only have to maintain it for a couple of decades, after which you’re too old.”
“Too old to love?”
“Too old to shoulder the burden of it. Barrani are never too old. It’s why we avoid the hells out of each other when we’re older and smarter.” He grimaced. “I won’t repeat what Annarion just told me to do.”
“Thank you,” Helen said before Kaylin could ask.
“On the other hand,” Mandoran added, “I think this makes me grateful that my own family line is ash and dust at this point.”
Helen raised a brow.
“There’s no pressure.”
“I believe you could petition the High Court to have your line reinstated—you are, after all, alive, and you are demonstrably of your line.”
“I was a useless youngest son,” Mandoran replied, grinning. Kaylin was almost certain he was lying. “But I think I’m going to accompany Kaylin to the Halls today.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. Do you have any idea what my day is going to be like as is?”
“None at all. But I do know whatmyday is going to be like if I stay here.”
“It’s not like he’s going to hurt you.”
Mandoran laughed. “If you think this doesn’t cause pain, you’re not as smart as you look.”
“You think I look like a mortal idiot.”
“And your point is?”
“No one likes to watch their friends in pain when there’s nothing they can do to help them,” Moran said. Kaylin hadn’t even heard her enter the dining room.
She turned, and then stopped short as she saw the Aerian sergeant.
Moran was wearing something Kaylin had never seen her in before. It was—or appeared to be, at first glance—a dress, but as she watched Moran walk, she adjusted that assumption. What had appeared to be skirts were separate but flowing legs; they moved as if they had a will of their own—or at least a breeze of their own. They were white and powder blue and azure and gold, colors that hinted at sky, at day, at light. The sleeves, however, were indigo, full draping cloth flecked with silver and gold and pale, transparent gauze. And the chest was the color of sunset—or sunrise. The bracelet was the only thing on her bare right arm.
“You can’t go to work dressed like that.”
“I can,” Moran replied. “The tabard will cover it.”
“That’s not—”
“There are no rules to the contrary. You wear black because dirt and blood show less—but it’s not necessary, either. You could wear any functional clothing as long as you wore the tabard.”
“I couldn’t wearthat—I’d trip over the hem.”
“No, Kaylin, you wouldn’t. This is a dress designed for flight, and possible fight. It will not trip me, it will not get caught in anything, it will not tear.”
“But—but—” She exhaled. Met Moran’s military blue gaze.
“This is the ceremonial dress of theIllumen praevolo. And that,” she added, taking a stool and pulling it up to the table, “is what I am.”
* * *
“I like the dress,” Teela said. Both she and her partner were lounging in the foyer, having chosen to miss breakfast.
