Killian’s frown shifted, deepened. Kaylin nudged Hope; he smacked her cheek but didn’t leave his wing extended.
Killian, however, adjusted his gaze until it fell on the Arkon. To Kaylin, it felt as if he was performing a monumentally difficult task, although the Arkon was standing right beside her.
“Your student?”
“One of few.”
“She shows great potential,” Killian then said. “But seems somewhat lacking in discipline and a clear understanding of our rules. Do you accept responsibility for her?”
The Arkon straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin. “I do.”
“Very well. You are...” Once again, his expression rippled, his face gaining the lines of a frown that emerged from a blend of concentration and confusion. “You are Lannagaros of the Winged Fury Flight. I had not heard that you had graduated.”
This did annoy the Arkon. “I graduated with distinction. I was accepted as a lecturer, and given some handful of students of my own. I had an office in this building. You may speak with Larrantin if you wish to ascertain this, but I am now very concerned. I wish to speak to the chancellor.”
Killian looked at the Arkon—really looked at him, as if he were suddenly confronted with an alien, unknown species that almost defied comprehension. It would have been comical in any other circumstance.
“There is no chancellor,” Killian said, his voice flat and uninflected.
This would have stopped Kaylin dead in her tracks. It almost stopped the Arkon, but not for the same reasons.
“No chancellor?”
“No.”
“Who was the last chancellor?”
“Chancellor Terramonte. He ascended to the position upon the departure of Aramechtis. He did not hold it for long.”
One of the two names caused the Arkon’s eyes to shift color. “What befell Terramonte? He would not have surrendered the seat.”
“But he did, Lannagaros. As did the council. There has been no other.”
“Did you not think to exalt Larrantin?”
“Larrantin has not applied.”
Kaylin thought of the book. The book the Arkon now held.
“Surely,” the Arkon continued, “there are candidates under your consideration.”
“I believe there are those who intend to forward themselves as chancellor, yes. They do not, however, understand the necessary forms.”
“Forms?” The Arkon’s exhalation was full of smoke.
To Kaylin, this was the type of plodding dream that contained details better suited to nightmares—because bureaucracy was a nightmare to Kaylin, and this sounded like an arcane version of exactly that.
The trembling at her feet grew stronger, as if the ground itself was a thin—and increasingly fragile—layer beneath which something much larger was sleeping. And waking.
“I think we have to move,” Kaylin said. The words were meant for the Arkon. The Arkon wasn’t listening to Kaylin.
“Forms,” Killian repeated. Dragon breath might have been an everyday, mundane occurrence for all the attention he paid to the smoke. “You have some small understanding of what is required.”
The Arkon nodded.
“There is a disturbance in the lecture halls,” Killian said. “I cannot afford to indulge in idle conversation.” He then turned his gaze—with the same apparent effort—to Kaylin. “If you are lost, I will show you the way out, but I cannot guarantee that it will be as safe for you or your companions as your last excursion.” Killian turned and began his slow, deliberate walk, as if expecting to be followed.
She cleared her throat.