Cast In Flight. Michelle Sagara

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      “You were the Barrani who marked Private Neya?”

      Kaylin almost stood; Annarion’s expression had drifted from mild interest into disgust and anger and disappointment.

      “It is not one of my many titles,” came the cool reply. He was staring at her, at the rise of her wings, or her one wing, at the bindings that kept the other more or less safe and in place. “Is it you?”

      “Don’t ask questions when you already know the answer.”

      “Among my kin, it would be considered polite.”

      “We’re not among your kin here.” She glanced at Annarion. “We’re in Kaylin’s home. And Kaylin has never entirely grasped the intricacies of manners.” She entered the dining room as a place—with a stool—magically appeared for her at the table. It was beside Kaylin, and required some minor shuffling.

      “I asked you,” Moran told the private, “to stay out of this.” She didn’t sound enraged. She sounded disappointed, which was worse.

      “They tried to kill you.”

      “Believe that I’m aware of that.”

      “I’d like them to never try again.”

      “And I’d like to have normal, healthy wings and a living mother,” Moran said with a shrug. “We don’t always get what we want, especially when it comes to the big things.” She glanced at Nightshade. “You were about to explain to the table what the praevolo is.”

      “But you are now here; your knowledge has precedence.”

      Moran shrugged again. The gaze she leveled at Nightshade was about as warm and friendly as Teela’s. “My view is colored. If you’ve heard about the Illumen praevolo, you didn’t hear about it from the Caste Court or the Upper Reaches; you heard about it from the rank and file. I’d like to know what they think.”

      “You’ve never asked?”

      “No. It’s not something that is ever discussed in the Halls. By any Aerian.”

      “Very well, if you have no objections.”

      “My objections have rarely counted for so little.” She shot Kaylin a glance, and Kaylin flushed the color of guilt. There was so much awkward tension in the room, it might as well have been a fractious office meeting with the Lords.

      “This is not the world to which the Aerians were born.”

      “No.”

      “It is the world they reached, in an era long past, through a stretch of endless sky, the etande, as it was called.”

      Moran was staring at the side of his face, her brows slightly furrowed.

      “They had their reasons for leaving their home.”

      “The World Devourer?” Kaylin asked.

      “No, nothing so immediately deadly. You are aware that the Aerians’ flight is...improbable? They are, in build and general density, almost human. The activities that do not depend in any way on flight are not hampered by physical strength or build. Their wings, were they attached to the body of similarly weighted avian, could not achieve flight.”

      Kaylin frowned. No, she hadn’t been aware of that, and she wasn’t in a great hurry to claim her ignorance.

      “They are not magical creatures. In an absence of any magic, they will not cease to exist. They will, however, cease to fly.”

      Moran was really staring at the side of his face now, but the midnight of her blue eyes had drifted into an early shade of clear night sky while she listened.

      “So...their world ran out of magic?” Kaylin asked.

      “Yes.”

      “And our world is more magic-rich?”

      “Yes. Understand that in a world without magic, door wards and streetlights would not function. In order to utilize magical energies, there must be some sort of conduit—in most cases, training. But not in all.”

      “And the Illumen—”

      “Yes, the importance of the praevolo in this escape was critical. It was the duty of the anointed to find a different world; the Aerian ancestors entered the etande without a compass.

      “The praevolo is said to have preserved the power of flight for the people, and the praevolo followed a trail that only they could see; it led to this world. It is here they arrived—a world of Dragons, Barrani, humans, Leontines.

      “And here, too, there was Shadow.”

      “Too?”

      “I believe—although I am not certain, as the legends were somewhat garbled—”

      “That it was Shadow that drove the Aerians from their first home,” Moran said quietly. “At least that is most of our tale. The Shadows deprived our wings of flight.”

      “You are skeptical?” Nightshade asked her.

      “Yes, actually. The Shadows seem a thing of magic, to me. But it’s possible that, to destroy Shadow, the ancestors found some way to destroy magic. I don’t think they understood what the cost would be, and I think that the Shadows did wane in that world. But the people could not survive—not as they had.”

      “Ah. And so, indirectly, the necessities of war with Shadow did cause the death of flight.”

      Moran nodded.

      “So the praevolo was born during that time?” Kaylin asked.

      “It’s complicated,” Moran finally replied. “Understand that we have legends and tales; we’re not Dragons. We don’t have ancient Records to which we can refer. I’m not sure that born is the right word.” She hesitated. “It’s the word that’s been used. In theory, the praevolo is born to the Aerian people at a time of great need or great conflict. But I believe, even in the tales that are handed down, that the first praevolo was born then.”

      “You don’t think born is the right word?”

      “I was born. I wasn’t created. There was no cabal of ancient, powerful mages standing beside my mother as she conceived me; there were none in the birthing rooms where I was born.” Her smile was wan. “When I first encountered Records in the Halls, I searched them. And I went outside of the Halls, searching. I wanted information.”

      “Were you not told anything about your wings?”

      “I was told a great deal,” Moran replied. “I heard times beyond count that I was unworthy of the gift I had been given. I was told constantly about humility, chief among the characteristics I was to develop to be worthy.”

      “Yes, of course, dear,” Helen said, although no one had spoken. She carried a drink—a hot drink, in a very mundane mug—to Moran, and set it in front of her, where lazy swirls of steam rose.

      “I СКАЧАТЬ