“Which part of ‘don’t speak to me’ wasn’t clear?”
Which was, Kaylin assumed, an answer. It was the wrong answer, as it turned out.
When Kaylin hit the Tower’s top floor, the doors were open. She hesitated at the top of the stairs. In general, when the Hawklord was angry, they were shut; he made her open them the normal way, which always caused some pain.
Severn said a single word under his breath. It wasn’t particularly polite.
“Private. Corporal. Please come in.” The Hawklord’s wings were high, which was all she could see of him, his eyes and their color facing away from them. He stood in front of his mirror, which was not reflective. Although he spoke softly, he enunciated just a little bit too well.
He was staring at a Records capture of Moran at the front doors. In her dress. With her bracelet. And her expression as she looked down on Clint’s bowed, lowered head.
“Do you recognize Clint’s posture?” he asked without turning, his voice soft, the syllables still a shade too pronounced.
“No, sir.”
“Be more expansive. What do you think he is doing?”
“Kneeling.”
“And his wings?”
She’d wondered about that. They were wide and high in a way that would have suggested aggression—if he’d been standing. “I’m sorry, sir. This was definitely not taught in racial integration classes, and I paid attention to everything I was taught about Aerians.”
“The qualifier is—and was—noted.”
Kaylin waited for the question Marcus had asked. Significantly, the Hawklord failed to ask it.
“You will not recognize the dress,” he continued. “You will not recognize the significance of the bracelet.”
“Sir.” She chose the safest syllable.
He chose to let her. “There was no trouble on the way to the office this morning.”
“No, sir.”
“Did that surprise you?”
Had it? Yes. If she thought about it, it did. “Because of the dress?”
“Yes, Private. Because of the dress.” His eyes were a shade of gray that was tinged with blue. “I saw her fly once. When I was younger. I am not dar Carafel. I could never presume to rise so high.” The words were said with only the faintest tinge of bitterness—and Kaylin recognized, in them, some part of her own envy and frustration at the unfairness of the universe. It was unsettling; she’d never heard it in the Hawklord’s voice before.
“Flight,” he continued, “has a meaning for you that it does not generally have for those whocanfly. Valuing it, idolizing it as you do would be like idolizing breathing, for humans. Or walking. It is something we take for granted—until it is lost, and we are groundbound. Humans who lose the ability to walk have similar difficulties.
“But, Kaylin—when thepraevoloflies, we feel it. All of us.”
“She can’t fly, though.”
“No, not yet. But seeing her today, I cannot believe that she will never fly again.” And he smiled. “Things are about to become interesting. The human in the holding cell is not dead. There has been only one attempt to poison him since yesterday—but the Aerians are not fools. Those who are complicit in the previous difficulties became so because they were afraid. Their families, where family exists, are in the Southern Reach, and dar Carafel rules the Reach.” He shook his head, lifted his hand toward the mirror’s surface and stopped, motionless and silent as he looked at Moran’s image.
He then turned to face Kaylin, the undispelled image of Moran at his back.
“You will be having dinner guests this evening.”
Kaylin nodded.
“I would like to invite myself to dinner.”
And froze. When it became clear that the Hawklord was not going to add any more words until she answered him, she turned to Severn, who predictably shrugged.