LITMIR.BIZ

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Aerian for Court censure—but befriending me would draw much more attention than the rank and file really want. And don’t make that face, Private.”

      “What face?”

      “The one which implies you’re about to storm off to the Halls and shout at the closest Aerians.”

      “I won’t,” Kaylin told her, thinking of Clint. And Lillias.

      “They have families. They have flights. They have, in many cases, children. Their concerns are very correctly with the people for whom they’re responsible. I am never going to be one of them.” Her voice softening, she said, “And I’m happier that way. I don’t want to be the reason their lives are destroyed. They don’t owe me that.”

      “And you don’t owe them anything?” It was Teela who asked.

      Moran’s smile was grimmer. “I’m a Hawk,” she said. “There’s that, if nothing else.”

      To Kaylin, being a Hawk was not supposed to be a—a consolation prize. It was more, it was much more, than that. The tabard, the ranks, the laws, were supposed to be the thing that cut across the racial differences. No matter who, or how, they’d been born, Hawks had chosen to serve. To protect. And that service was offered independent of race, to anyone of any race.

      “I’m proud to be a Hawk,” Moran told Kaylin, as if Kaylin had been shouting out loud. “I wasn’t very good at it, at first. As you might imagine, I didn’t relish authority. I didn’t trust people in power. I didn’t trust the people of my own rank—and the Aerians were colder than even the Barrani. But I was determined to show them all. To prove to the doubters that I could, and would, do the work. The same work.” She shook her head. “It’s hard. The Hawks don’t understand what my life has been like.”

      “Have you ever explained it?” Teela asked.

      Moran look horrified at the idea. “And become an object of scorn or pity?”

      “It would have the advantage of being based on facts. As far as I can tell, you were already an object of scorn.”

      “Perhaps. But not pity. Never pity. Do you know what would have happened to the Aerian Hawks if they knew the truth?”

      Kaylin said, “Maybe you should let them decide whether or not it’s worth the risk.” But Clint—and she adored Clint—had made clear that to interfere in Moran’s business courted a fate worse than death. And maybe the rest of the Aerians would feel, did feel, the same way.

      If Kaylin were Moran, and in Moran’s position, and that was what she could expect, Kaylin would be damned if she exposed herself to the hope of more. She understood why Moran had remained silent, then. If life was crap, you could accept it. There was no point having a temper tantrum, and in the wrong streets of the city, a tantrum would just hasten your death. You learned to accept what you couldn’t change, and you accepted it quickly.

      Justice, fairness, kindness—you could rail against the lack of those things in your life. Kaylin knew, because she’d done it. And then, she’d set about trying to survive that life, because justice, fairness and kindness were simply not on the menu anywhere she could afford to eat. Figuratively speaking.

      She knew that hope was worse, somehow. If you had hope that things would change, you stood on the edge of a precipice. You stood on the edge of an abyssal chasm. And if hope was betrayed, you ended up worse off than when you’d started.

      Yes, she understood.

      But she also understood that without hope, without that taking of chances, nothing changed. Nothing could change. It was something she hadn’t known when she’d first stepped foot across the Ablayne. It was something she had grown to understand with time.

      “You’re being arrogant again, kitling,” Teela said.

      Kaylin blinked. “Me? Arrogant?”

      “Yes—in the most well-meaning way possible, but the end result is probably the same. You haven’t lived Moran’s life, she’s not asking for your advice, and you’re presuming that you can offer advice that would fundamentally improve her life.” Teela’s eyes were now blue green. “I personally prefer well-meaning, but would just as soon avoid condescension.”

      “I never give you advice.”

      “Exactly.”

      “It’s just that I want—” To help. Kaylin bit back the rest of the words. Maybe Teela was right. But she didn’t feel powerful enough, significant enough, to be arrogant. To be condescending. Awkward, flushing, Kaylin turned to face Moran. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Teela thinks I have an obsession with Aerians.” It took her another minute to fully meet Moran’s gaze.

      Moran, however, didn’t look offended. Gently, she said, “I’m like the corporal in one regard. I prefer well-meaning. And, Kaylin? The Aerians have taken you under wing—and that phrase has a different meaning for my people. They’ve been kind to you. They’ve offered you acceptance, understanding and tolerance. You have no reason to resent them.”

      “I can’t resent them on your behalf?”

      “I don’t resent them,” Moran replied. “And I don’t expect them to be perfect. You’re already upset at them, and they’ve done nothing wrong.”

      “Shouldn’t they have to do something right?”

      “Not according to Imperial Law, no.” When Kaylin failed to reply, she continued, “I don’t know what your life in the fiefs was like. I’ve never asked. You don’t know what my life in the Aerie was like. You’ve never asked. You assumed it was like the rest of the Aerian lives. The truth is harder, of course—but I often think we all have harsh, hidden truths. I would never have starved. I was not moved to theft or thuggery simply to keep myself fed or warm.

      “I did whatever the Caste Court told me to do. I obeyed them. I tried—for years, I tried—to be what they wanted. There was only one thing left in my life that I loved, and I knew what would happen to it if I rebelled. And if I endured every insult, every beating, every ugly half-truth, in order to preserve the things I loved, how can I judge the rest of the Aerians for doing the same damn thing?

      “How can I tell them what they should be doing instead? How can I tell them to put their lives outside the Halls at risk when I didn’t have the courage to do that myself?”

      Kaylin was silent.

      “You understand?”

      And she did. It was why she still had trouble dealing harshly with beggars and street thieves. She’d been there, she’d done that, she’d been desperate. Were they breaking the law? Yes. On this side of the bridge they were.

      She bowed her head a moment, found her voice and lifted it again. “Can we go back to the praevolo, or would you rather we not talk about it at all?”

      “Let’s compromise. Once we leave the dinner table, you never ask me about it again.”

      “Deal.”

      Moran then turned to Lord Nightshade. “I don’t know how you came by your information, but I’d like to hear what your informant had to say. I consider my own sources to be highly dubious at this point.”

      * * *

      “Some centuries ago, I met an Aerian,” Nightshade began. “He was dar Carafel, a young man with magnificent wings and a strong dislike for politics. He had had some conflict with his flight, and when that conflict became dangerous, he fled. It was not possible to hide his wings—he was not a mage. Nor had he lived a life in which anonymity was essential. His father was a man of considerable power and considerable expectations.

      “A child had recently been born to the flight, and that child possessed pale, flecked wings.”

      Moran was silent.

      “It was, of course, a cause for celebration—but not for the young man. Not for his father. The balance of power

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