“That is possibly why the Barrani themselves have so few of them.”
The Consort inclined her head. “Even so.” Her eyes, however, remained blue. “You do not seem surprised at the mention of this Spike.”
“No. We encountered him in our time in the West March—or rather, the time that overlapped with Lord Kaylin’s unintentional visit. Given the events of that time, I confess that Bellusdeo seemed the far greater threat.”
This caused the Consort’s eyes to lighten. It also caused Bellusdeo’s eyes to lose their red tinge. “I believe the Dragons would consider Shadow to be the greater threat, especially Bellusdeo.”
“We were not given the leisure to discuss what constituted the greater threat. At the time, the answer would have been our own kin.”
The Consort nodded again, grimmer now. It wasn’t that Kaylin hadn’t seen that expression on the Consort’s face before—she had. But on the Consort’s face, it somehow looked wrong to Kaylin, and possibly always would. She gave herself a mental kick. The Consort had been willing—was even now willing—to throw Ynpharion, or perhaps his companion guard, to the figurative wolves if Kaylin was unwilling to give her what she needed.
She was warmer and more welcoming than the Barrani she granted life, yes. But she was not mortal, not human; she was not a mother in the idealized sense of the word. Kaylin’s memory made a mother an ideal, a thing yearned for that was no longer possible to have.
She needed to stop that. One of her earliest lessons as a Hawk had been to “See what’s actually in front of you. Not what you’re afraid of. Not what you want to see. But what’s actually there.” With added Barrani words. She looked at Teela as memory poked her.
Teela was watching the Consort.
A series of clicks and loud, grinding whirs announced the presence of Spike. Emmerian, Ynpharion and the nameless Barrani guard stiffened, but while the Barrani hands slid to sword hilts, Emmerian’s reaction was largely contained to eyes that were almost blood red. Kaylin had seen that color before, but never in Emmerian’s eyes.
Kaylin stood immediately and held out her left hand. Spike—adorned with the jutting, sharp points that justified his name—flew lazily across the air and landed in her palm. She couldn’t close that hand without bleeding, and didn’t try.
“This,” she said to the Consort and the Arkon, “is Spike.”
“If you will forgive me?” the Arkon asked. The question made no sense until he opened his mouth. Since Kaylin only had one free hand—unless she wanted to jam Spike into her left ear—she caught native Dragon at full volume. Then again, Dragons only really had one volume.
The Barrani present had far too much dignity to even attempt to cover their ears. So did Severn.
Spike clicked; the spikes that surrounded him depressed and shifted. He was answering the Arkon, and the Arkon’s expression—one of ferocious concentration—implied that the Arkon could, with effort, understand the response.
“Where,” the Arkon asked, his gaze not moving from the creature in Kaylin’s hand, “did you find him?”
“I told you—”
“Never mind. It was not an actual question. Do you understand what he is?”
“He’s better than portable Records.”
“Pardon?”
“He’s like Records, but less intrusive. If you can make clear what you want to see, he can show you the information he has—it takes longer than the mirrors we generally use, but it’s easier to examine.”
“I feel it is a benefit to you that you have no gods,” the Arkon replied. “Because gods in general are not fond of blasphemy.”
“You know what Spike is?”
“If my suspicions are correct,” he replied with no doubt about those suspicions in his tone, “he is an historian.”
“You don’t seem to be worried by the fact that he’s Shadow.”
“No.”
“Why?” Bellusdeo asked.
“Because he is clearly attached to Kaylin. How and why, I am as yet uncertain, but Kaylin is not at risk.”
“Because she’s at home?”
The Arkon shook his head. “Look at her marks.”
