Cast in Honor (Chronicles of Elantra, #11)(103)

Kattea shook her head again. No.

And Kaylin wanted to shake the girl until her teeth rattled. Which was wrong. She knew it was wrong, but they had so little information that any might prevent the looming disaster.

“Yes,” Ybelline said quietly, as Kaylin startled. The Tha’alani castelord was standing so close to Kaylin they should have been touching. They weren’t. “But that is the shadow fear casts, always. Kattea’s fear. Our own fear. But we cannot be you. We cannot be Kattea. What we can justify in the heat of the moment, we must live with forever; it becomes part of not only who we are, but who our people are. Every action we take shapes and defines us.

“And there is enough darkness at our roots. We have struggled for generations to lift ourselves out of our past. We will not go there again.”

The small dragon squawked; it was a softer sound and reminded Kaylin of crooning. With edges.

Kattea started to cry. The tears trailed down her cheeks, but didn’t give way to sobbing; her breath wobbled, but she held herself upright. Sleeves dashed tears away almost angrily. “My dad was a Sword,” she said, spitting the words out as if only force would eject them. “A Sword.”

She had said that before.

“Most of the Swords died. Some of the Swords were ordered over the bridge—two bridges—and they made people follow. My dad was one of them. It was his job, he said. He was supposed to keep the city safe. He was supposed to be there to stop fear from turning people into—” She stopped.

“Animals,” Kaylin supplied. “The Swords patrol. The Hawks investigate. When something big goes down—raging fire in the city, for instance—the Swords are sent out. They’re trained to lead. They know how to make people listen. They can stop panic from becoming as much of a danger to people as the fire would be.” She swallowed. Turned to Ybelline and almost knocked her over.

“There wasn’t enough room, in the fief. It was crowded. Dad said—” She swallowed. “Dad said—” But she choked.

“Was the Emperor in the fiefs?” Scoros asked. “The Emperor is really the commander in chief of both the Swords and the Hawks.”

“No. He—he died.”

Silence.

“All the Dragons died. Mom said you could hear them roaring for a day after the clouds moved in.” She swallowed. The still tears now threatened to become ugly tears. Ugly tears, on the other hand, were practically the only tears Kaylin could cry. “I want—I want to make a deal. With you.” She didn’t say this to Scoros.

She said it to Ybelline. Ybelline nodded, but didn’t move from Kaylin’s side.

“If this is really the past, if this is really our past—”

Kaylin knew what Kattea wanted then. Knew it before the words left the girl’s mouth.

“If this is our past, if this is my past, if this is what the city was before—before the gray—it means my mom and my dad are still alive.”

“Kattea, no. I have told you.” Gilbert spoke. Gilbert not only spoke but moved, becoming part of the human landscape again. His third eye shuttered as he approached Kattea. She actually stepped away, and he stopped. “My apologies,” he said, to the room at large.

“I didn’t understand,” she continued, refusing to meet Gilbert’s eyes. “When we came here, I didn’t understand what it meant. But I understand it now. I want to see them. I want to see my parents.”

*

Those ugly tears? They threatened to fall right now. In their wake, anger followed. Kaylin wasn’t remotely certain who she was angry at, either. She was angry at Kattea, yes. Kattea might—just might—have information that could save Elantra. If the Emperor knew of it, he’d order the Tha’alani to do what they were not willing to do otherwise: read her mind. Sift through her life. Pick out the useful bits.

Kaylin wasn’t even certain she’d want to stop him.

“If you let me see my parents, I’ll let you—I’ll let you read my mind.” She folded her arms, crossing them a little too tightly around her upper body, as if by doing so she could hold herself up.

“Kattea,” Gilbert said again. “I told you—”

“I don’t care, Gilbert.”

“They won’t know you. You are not their child. The parents who raised you are dead, and you cannot go back to them. Nor can you bring them back. If you save these people, they will not be your parents in future. It is not the way time works. It will only cause pain. To you.”

And it was pain that they didn’t have time for. Kaylin opened her mouth, and Ybelline’s palms cupped her cheek. Both of her cheeks.

Do not resent her.

How can you not? If I were her—

Would you not wish to see your mother, even now?

I don’t remember my mother.

That is not an answer, Kaylin.

It wasn’t.

Do not judge her. Not one of us do, or will. She is frightened.

And when had that mattered in Kaylin’s life? Oh, it was an ugly, ugly thought. In answer, the Tha’alaan joined her. They did not deny the ugliness; they embraced it as if—as if it were natural, normal. As if it were something they were certain would pass, because ugly thoughts, just like graceful ones, were part of life.

If you think it will break her, deny her; if you think it will help us, accede. Do not judge the desire. If I were her, I would have it. Even if the world were ending around me. If the last thing I could see were the parents who loved me—I would find them.