THE END OF HER JOURNEY IS ONLY

THE BEGINNING…

The Barrani would be happy to see her die. So Kaylin Neya is a bit surprised by her safe arrival in the West March. Especially when enemies new and old surround her and those she would call friends are equally dangerous…

And then the real trouble starts. Kaylin’s assignment is to be a “harmoniste”—one who helps tell the truth behind a Barrani Recitation. But in a land where words are more effective than weapons, Kaylin’s duties are deadly. With the wrong phrase she could tear a people further asunder. And with the right ones…well, then she might be able to heal a blight on a race.

If only she understood the story.…

Praise for New York Times bestselling author

MICHELLE SAGARA

and The Chronicles of Elantra series

“No one provides an emotional payoff like Michelle Sagara.

Combine that with a fast-paced police procedural,

deadly magics, five very different races and a wickedly

dry sense of humor—well, it doesn’t get any better than this.”

—Bestselling author Tanya Huff on The Chronicles of Elantra series

“Intense, fast-paced, intriguing,

compelling and hard to put down…unforgettable.”

—In the Library Reviews on Cast in Shadow

“Readers will embrace this compelling,

strong-willed heroine with her often sarcastic voice.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cast in Courtlight

“The impressively detailed setting and the

book’s spirited heroine are sure to charm romance readers,

as well as fantasy fans who like some mystery with their magic.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cast in Secret

“Along with the exquisitely detailed world building,

Sagara’s character development is mesmerizing.

She expertly breathes life into a stubborn yet evolving heroine.

A true master of her craft!”

—RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars) on Cast in Fury

“Each visit to this amazing world, with its richness of place

and character, is one to relish.”

—RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars) on Cast in Silence

“Another satisfying addition to an already vivid and

entertaining fantasy series.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cast in Chaos

“If you are searching for a rich and rewarding fantasy

read different from the usual fantasy fare,

then you can’t go wrong with Cast in Ruin and

The Chonicles of Elantra series. Heartily recommended.”

—SciFiGuy on Cast in Ruin

“Sagara does an amazing job continuing to flesh out her large cast

of characters, but keeps the unsinkable Kaylin at the center.”

—RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars) on Cast in Peril

Cast in Sorrow

Michelle Sagara

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This is for Mr. Liebgott, Ms. Gann, Ms. Evans,

Maggie Fehlberg, teachers all.

My teachers. They probably deserved better than I gave them, but they encouraged my love of reading, and when it blossomed—at an early age—into childish attempts to write books (I thought that books were individually drawn and bound, which of course makes no sense), they encouraged that just as fondly.

This book wouldn’t exist without them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

To say that Private Kaylin Neya was out of her element was to master the art of understatement. Fish out of water had nothing on the groundhawk whose entire life had been lived within the boundaries of Elantra—either on the city streets or in the fiefs at its heart.

This had become obvious the moment she entered the forest, walking between Severn and Teela and surrounded—literally—by Barrani. Or as she walked through forest, at any rate, because this far across the known map, it was all forest. Never an aficionado of fine art, she’d nonetheless seen paintings, and the occasional diorama of ancient forests, and she had known what to expect: tall, majestic trees, shade-dappled forest floors and shafts of brilliant, solid sunlight illuminating strategic patches of charming undergrowth, with the occasional frail animal thrown in for good measure. In the paintings, there were no Barrani, no dragons, and no angry Leontines; there were no drug dealers, no muggers, no frauds, and no rapists. The artists evoked a sense of peaceful idyll.

Hah.

Painters should have been Court diplomats—men and women who’d mastered the art of telling pretentious lies with more or less straight faces. For one, they left out the bugs. On some level, Kaylin didn’t blame them—if she’d had the choice, she’d’ve left them out, too. Unfortunately, she didn’t. The insects didn’t appear to bother the Barrani. She was glad—in an entirely petty way—that they occasionally bit Severn, because it made their choice of dinner snacks racial, rather than purely personal. He didn’t appear to take offense as much.

Then again, he had other things on his mind, chief among them, not tripping over inconveniently placed tree roots and landing on his face. His left eye had, over the course of two days, developed a purple-black tinge. He’d taken one wound to his upper left thigh, and two broad gashes across his left rib cage, one of which had exposed bone. He’d allowed her to heal the wounds by a few days’ worth, no more.

This was a greater liberty than any of the injured Barrani allowed her, and she was tired enough not to push the point. The Barrani version of gratitude for the gift of healing involved knives—or worse—in dark alleys.

Avoiding Barrani, however, was not an option.

The Lord of the West March and what remained of his soldiers formed up at the front—and the rear—of the delegation. To either side, what was left of the party that had set out from the High Halls walked in single file. Kaylin wasn’t given the option of choosing her position in that delegation: she was wearing a very fine, obviously magical, green dress, and the dress demanded respect, even if the wearer didn’t.

Travel, some idiot in her office had said, is fun.

Kaylin, surrounded by somber, tense—and deeply blue-eyed Barrani—had a few words to say about that. Teela made clear she could say them with her mouth shut. So Kaylin, navigating forest, footpaths, and a plague of blood-drinking, buzzing insects, began to make a list. It was, in her mind, titled Things Not to Do if You Want to Have Fun During Your Involuntary Leave of (Probably Unpaid) Absence.

First on the list: avoid making deals for crucial information with a fieflord. Even if the Halls of Law were desperate for that information. The particular fieflord in question, Lord Nightshade, didn’t seem to have any trouble navigating the forest, and the insects avoided him. He wore a tiara with an emerald at its peak, and robes that looked ridiculously fine in comparison to the practical Barrani armor that almost everyone else was wearing. She added a corollary to the first point: do not agree to attend a religious rite in the West March without first ascertaining that the fieflord in question did not also plan to attend.

Second on the list: do not travel with the Barrani High Court. It had seemed both convenient and smart to accept their offer of transportation; after all, the Barrani knew where they were going. Kaylin didn’t. Her knowledge of Elantran streets was second to none—or close—but the West March wasn’t in Elantra. At the time, because she’d had no idea how to reach the West March, getting there on her own had seemed impossible.

Impossible couldn’t be worse than this. She slapped her arm and squashed an insect. The chill in the air, as she smeared insect body across the sleeve of her incredibly important ceremonial dress, could have frozen moving water.

If the imaginary person for whom the list was being created had had no choice in either of the first two, she emphatically underlined point three: if you see a strange dress in a closet that only appeared after you’d entered the room of your inn, ignore it. Under no circumstances was such a dress to be worn. Unless you were Barrani, and maybe not even then. Yes, the dress was a lovely shade of green. Yes, it was comfortable. Yes, it was suitable for the Barrani High Court—and it didn’t require the help of two strong people to put on. It was even practical; the skirts were wide enough that Kaylin could run—at full stride—while wearing it.

Unfortunately, the Barrani didn’t respect or revere it because it was practical. They revered it because it was the manifestation of the will of the heart of the green. Some poor sucker, shoehorned into the dress, was meant to serve in a primary role in the recitation of the regalia—the very rite that a smart person would have gone out of their way to avoid attending if they were paying attention to point one.

Fourth on the list—although technically, it might be better placed between points two and three: avoid Barrani inns. The Barrani version of an inn was known as a Hallionne. Or the Hallionne, in plural. As inns went they were creepy, in part because they were alive and sentient—and mind-reading. Best not to forget the mind-reading part. They reminded Kaylin of nothing so much as the Towers or Castles in the fiefs, and no one with two brain cells to rub together voluntarily lived in either. She felt a twinge of guilt at this because she counted Tara, the Tower of Tiamaris, as a friend. But it had been a long two days—it was a very minor twinge.

Because the Hallionne were sentient, they were able to do things that normal inns couldn’t—like, say, choose the rooms in which their guests stayed. Want a different room? Too damn bad. You could stay in the room the Hallionne chose for you—or you could sleep under the trees, where the forest version of Ferals would eat your liver for a midnight snack. The Hallionne also had a pretty broad idea of physical shape and changed it apparently at whim.

The small dragon perched on her shoulder tilted his head, and after a pause, squawked in her ear.

Point five, which might also be point zero: do not take large, strange eggs home with you. They hatched into delicate, small dragons. Not that the actual dragons of Kaylin’s acquaintance thought so—but honestly, the little guy had miniature dragon breath. Except he didn’t spew flame; he spewed...clouds. That could melt steel without heating it first. That could kill Ferals. That could bypass the usual magical wards placed on doors.

Squawk.

Or maybe point five should be: do not have a dragon for a roommate. Because dragons for roommates attracted assassins the way Kaylin was currently attracting insects—and if you were planning on killing a dragon, you’d need enough magical conflagration to destroy a city block.

Or two.

And that much magic had certainly been enough to destroy the only home Kaylin had ever truly owned. Or rented. On the other hand, if your life goal was to live in the Palace, dragon roommates who just happened to be the only living female of the species were definitely the way to go.

The small dragon squawked again.

“All right, all right. Scratch that. Unhatched eggs are good.” Especially since the act of hatching seemed responsible for the fact that Kaylin—and Bellusdeo, the maligned dragon roommate in question—were still alive. That was not the usual outcome when an Arcane bomb exploded in your face.

He squawked.

“They’re bad?”

“Lord Kaylin,” Severn said. She glanced at him. “Is there some difficulty?” His words were both High Barrani and stiff as boards. They reminded her, immediately, that she was surrounded by Barrani Lords who were just as stiff, but probably less friendly. You could get some warmth out of most boards by burning them; at this point, Kaylin wasn’t so certain the same could be said of the High Court, or at least its present members.

Only Nightshade looked amused.

Amusing Nightshade was not high on her list of things to do, although it didn’t quite make the list of things not to do she was composing.

Let’s see. Six? Six: if a Hallionne offered to let you stay in his special, safe space, and the space looked like a haunted graveyard, don’t do it.

She was aware, as she stubbed her toe for the thousandth time, that she was being more than a little unfair. But the imitation graveyard had been a bedroom, of sorts. In the heart of the Hallionne, his brothers slept.

Small and squawky dragon sidekick had breathed on their tombstones, which had caused them to wake. The waking had been disturbing. The brothers themselves, disturbing as well but in a different way—they’d adopted the forms of Barrani Lords, but the minute they’d opened their collective mouths it was clear they had very, very little in common with the Hallionne’s most frequent guests.

Seven: if the Hallionne offers to let you take the portal paths through the outlands to the West March, say no. Loudly. Leontine optional. In theory, the portal paths were risky. Theory and practice aligned, but not in the ways she’d been told to expect.

In theory, the outlands existed as a kind of potential space. They were gray and formless in their natural state. An entire group—such as, say, the group that set out from the High Halls what felt like months ago—could pass through the arch of the portal intent on reaching the same destination, but only two people were guaranteed to do so.

One of them was Kaylin Neya, wearer of the dress that deserved respect.

The other was Lord Nightshade, wearer of the emerald tiara. Like Kaylin’s dress, the tiara was given to someone chosen to participate directly in the recitation of the regalia. Unlike Kaylin, Nightshade seemed to approve.

She’d been surprised to enter the outlands to find the bowers of normal, if tall, trees. So had the Consort. The Consort. Kaylin wanted to add an eighth item to her growing list: don’t piss off the Consort. But in this case, she couldn’t. Kaylin understood why the Consort was angry. She also understood that given the same possible outcomes, Kaylin would stand by the choice she’d made.

She glanced at the Consort as she thought it; the Consort was dressed in white armor, a gift from the Lord of the West March. She carried a naked blade, and her hair was swept off the back of her neck. She was, on the other hand, the only Barrani to confine her hair. As if aware of Kaylin’s attention, the Consort glanced at her. Her eyes were blue. They were not as dark a blue as almost everyone else’s.

Teela’s were certainly darker.

“Honestly, kitling,” the Barrani Hawk said, frowning. “I can hear you thinking.”

On most days, the Barrani who worked in the Halls of Law looked both arrogant and bored. At thirteen years of age, Kaylin had found the arrogance irritating. The boredom, she understood. Today, she missed it.

“Teela—”

“If I hear one more word about the insects, I swear I will bite you myself.” She spoke in quiet Elantran for the first time in two days.

The rush of gratitude Kaylin felt at the sound of her mother tongue should have embarrassed her. Clearly, from Teela’s expression, it embarrassed one of them. “Do not,” Teela continued in the same Elantran, her brows furrowing, “start to worry about me.”

“But—”

“I mean it.”

“Can I talk about something else instead?”

“I’m certain to regret it,” was Teela’s brusque reply.

As it wasn’t a no, Kaylin said, “Why do so many Barrani try to divest themselves of their names?”

“Do they?”

“Illien in Barren. The walking dead in Nightshade.”

“Two small examples do not constitute a multitude.”

“Well, no. But I think that’s what Iberrienne was trying to do.”

Teela shook her head. “I think you’re wrong.”

Kaylin wasn’t so certain. Eighth on her list, then: do not speak the True Name of a Barrani Lord who you don’t intend to kill immediately afterward. She hadn’t planned it. But she had seen Ynpharion’s True Name, and she had seen the substantial shadows it both cast and fed. The shadow had taken the form of his name, and the shape. It was as if he had two names, identical in form, but entirely different in substance.

She didn’t understand how. But she was certain that the shadow name—for want of anything else to call it—had given the Barrani Lord the ability to transform himself into the Ferals that hunted in the less safe parts of the West March and its environs. It was as a Feral that he had first approached Kaylin.

It was as a Feral that he would have killed her, too. But her dragon sidekick had conferred a type of invisibility on her. Or on himself. That invisibility had given her the time to observe, and the time to plan—even if the plan was half-assed and desperate.

She knew the True Names of both Lord Nightshade and the Lord of the West March. She understood that in theory, this gave her power over them. But she now understood that theory was its usual pathetic mess. Neither Nightshade nor the Lord of the West March had ever fought against her knowledge. They accepted the threat she might one day pose. They did not feel threatened by her now.

They had, she understood, gifted her with the knowledge of their names.

But Lord Ynpharion had not. She’d spoken his name, strengthening its existence, in an attempt to burn away the shadows that clung to it. She’d succeeded. But there had been no way to ask his permission because before she had invoked his name, he wouldn’t have given it. He fought her.

He fought, and he lost. This was a new and painful experience for Kaylin, and it was not one she was anxious to repeat.

Ynpharion walked to one side of the Lord of the West March, in what should have been a position of honor. To the naked eye, he was as proud, as focused, as unflappable as any other Barrani present.

But Kaylin saw beneath that surface. She saw his self-loathing, his disgust, and his fury—most of it aimed squarely at her. The only reason he kept it to himself was his fear of exposure. Kaylin held his name.

No one but Ynpharion knew it. If he exposed the truth, it might justify murderous action—but it would justify, as well, eternal contempt. He had not lost volition to a Lord of the High Court; he was in thrall to a mortal. If the truth remained hidden, nothing would justify an attempt to harm the woman in the green dress; it would be—according to Teela—an act very close to treason. Kaylin, being that woman, was to serve as harmoniste for the recitation.

If Ynpharion attacked her now, his chance of success was slight. So were his chances of survival. Death would put an end to the humiliation, but Ynpharion was not young. He knew that Kaylin, mortal, would survive a bare handful of years. He was not enslaved for the rest of eternity—just the pathetic span of the years remaining her.

A handful of years against the eternal contempt of the High Court. He had chosen, for the moment, to endure. But his rage was a constant battery.

She could have lived with the rage, the loathing, the disgust. It was the fear she found hard. He was afraid—of Kaylin. He was afraid of a mortal. The fear fed into his self-loathing. It was a downward spiral of ugliness.

She wasn’t spared his descent.

Kaylin had no trouble finding hidden depths of self-loathing and disgust on bad days. She didn’t really need to bear the brunt of Ynpharion’s, as well. At the midpoint of day two she’d given serious consideration to walking him off the nearest cliff. Sadly, the forest path didn’t seem to lead to a conveniently high cliff.

The only refuge Kaylin had found was in silent complaint. And, damn it, pain. The soft, supple shoes she’d taken from Hallionne Sylvanne were proof against normal wear, but they didn’t provide much protection when foot connected at the toe with gnarled roots.

Teela caught her before she could fall. “Lord of the West March,” she said, above Kaylin’s head.

He turned, glanced at Kaylin, and nodded. “We will call a brief halt.”

* * *

The two mortals were not the only people present to benefit from the break. Lord Evarrim joined them. He barely acknowledged Kaylin’s existence. That was normal. He didn’t spare a glance for the small dragon perched like a bad shawl around her neck, which wasn’t. His lower jaw sported some of the same bruising that Severn’s eye did, but it was less obvious on the Barrani face.

On the other hand, he was Barrani; any obvious injury was unsettling.

Evarrim was no longer wearing the tiara that Kaylin had once considered so pretentious. Nor was he dressed in Court robes; he wore an unadorned chain shirt and plate greaves. “Cousin,” he said.

Teela’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you determined to remain for the recitation?”

Even the insects fell silent.

“I am determined, cousin, to escort the Consort and the harmoniste to the green.”

Evarrim was apparently immune to the glacial cold of Teela’s voice. It was impressive; most of the office—or at least the mortal parts—would have been under their desks or scurrying for a convenient just-remembered meeting. “And not the Teller? Interesting.”

The Teller was Nightshade.

Kaylin’s gaze bounced between the two Barrani. Teela’s eyes were a shade darker; Evarrim’s were as close to green as they’d been all day. The bastard was enjoying himself. “Your concern is noted,” she finally replied. “It is irrelevant, but noted.”

He rose. “Very well. The Consort and the Lord of the West March have expressed a similar concern; they are, of course, more guarded.” He bowed, stiffly. He actually walked stiffly. But he walked away.

“Teela—”

“Don’t even think it.” Teela rose, as well. She didn’t march into the forest, but she left Kaylin and Severn alone with their lunch, hovering ten yards away, sword in hand.

“What was that about?” Kaylin asked—quietly. Teela was far enough away that whispers shouldn’t carry, but they might; Barrani hearing was in all ways superior to human hearing.

He exhaled. “What did Teela tell you?”

Kaylin grimaced. “What makes you think she told me anything?”

“You’re fidgeting.”

Kaylin shot a guilty glance at Teela’s back. “She hasn’t told me much that we don’t already know. We know the recitation involves True Words; it’s like the story Sanabalis told the Leontines. We know that the story isn’t chosen by the Lord of the West March, the Teller, or the lowly harmoniste; the heart of the green decides.”

“Did she explain what the heart of the green is?” When Kaylin failed to answer, he asked, more pointedly, “Did you ask?”

Teela had been talking about the death of her mother. So no, Kaylin hadn’t really asked.

She feinted. “It has something to do with the Hallionne. I’m not sure the Barrani understand it fully.” She removed the small dragon’s wing when he stretched and covered half her face. “The recitation of the regalia has an effect—a lasting effect—on those who listen to the telling. It’s the biggest reason the Barrani make the pilgrimage to this insect-plagued, weed-covered, Feral-infested—” She stopped as Teela glanced over her shoulder, and lowered her voice again. “The Barrani who’ve passed the test of name in the High Halls are expected to travel to the West March and listen to the recitation.

“There, if they’re lucky, they’re empowered. Somehow. Don’t give me that look. I wasn’t making lists. I don’t know how the effect is measured. But...the ceremony has an effect.”

“On all participants?” He gave the dress a pointed look.

She frowned. “I’m not sure. I’d guess no. But on some.”

Severn nodded.

“Some ambitious moron on the High Council came up with a great idea. It was during one of the Draco-Barrani wars.” She frowned. “I’m guessing not all adults are affected by the regalia in an obvious way. Maybe someone thought adults were less malleable. But anyway, one of the nameless High Lords suggested that if the regalia had subtle effects on the adults, it might have stronger, more useful effects on children. Those children would then be like a super–next generation, and they might make a difference in the wars.

“The High Lord of the time liked the idea.

“So twelve children were chosen. Teela was one of the twelve. Or maybe there were thirteen—they speak of twelve lost, and Teela’s not lost. The children were considered gifted; smarter, faster, that kind of thing. They all came from significant families.” She glanced past Teela, and caught a brief glimpse of Nightshade. “The children were brought to the West March.

“The denizens of the West March were not happy. Because they weren’t happy, they didn’t offer the visitors from the High Halls the hospitality of their homes; the children—and the Lords they traveled with—were placed in the Hallionne of the West March.”

“The Hallionne that’s considered unsafe by the rest of the Hallionne.”

Kaylin nodded. “It wasn’t considered unsafe at the time—but staying in the Hallionne was the equivalent of being told by family that they don’t have room for you and you should go to the nearest Inn.”

“The Barrani of the West March didn’t want the children exposed to the regalia?”

“No. But most of the Barrani of the West March aren’t Lords of the High Court, so they didn’t have a voice. They couldn’t prevent the children from appearing at the recitation—but they tried anyway. They died.”

“During the recitation?”

Kaylin nodded, remembering the cadence of Teela’s voice. Teela, who never really talked about anything except drinking and work. One of those Barrani had been her mother. “The children listened to the recitation. It was—it was a complicated tale. I think Teela said that a harmoniste and a Teller had been chosen by the heart of the green, and both collapsed the moment it was done. It was considered auspicious; most of the recitations have neither. Just the Lord of the West March.”

“A harmoniste and Teller have been chosen for the upcoming recitation.”

“I’m the harmoniste. Believe that I noticed.”

“What happened?”

Kaylin shrugged. “The children changed. It wasn’t obvious during the telling; it became obvious after. They’d returned to the Hallionne before it became clear how dangerous they were. They didn’t apparently feel much loyalty toward the Barrani; I think most of the Lords responsible for their journey died in the Hallionne at their hands.”

“How did Teela survive unchanged?”

“That would be the question.” She hesitated again. “The Ferals that almost killed us—”

“Don’t call them Ferals around the Barrani; it annoys them.”

“They haven’t come up with a better name. Fine. The Not Ferals that almost killed us are related, somehow, to the lost children the Barrani said were dead. When we were fighting in the forest before we reached Hallionne Bertolle, one of our attackers called Teela by name.

“And she answered. She called him by the name he used to use before he—before. Nightshade recognized the name: Terrano.” She hesitated again. She glanced around the smallish clearing; Nightshade wasn’t visible. “Severn, I think Nightshade wanted me to attend the regalia because of the lost children.”

“Was one of them his?”

Kaylin blinked.

The thought had honestly never occurred to her. Nightshade wasn’t married. He had no consort. But when the children had been taken to the West March—the same West March she was approaching—Nightshade had been a Lord of the High Court, and not Outcaste. She literally had no idea what his life had been like before the fiefs. He might have had a consort, a wife, of his own. Barrani loyalty was always situational; if Nightshade was made Outcaste, what were the odds that a wife of any position would choose to accompany him into the dismal exile of the fiefs?

“I...I don’t know. I have no idea if Nightshade has—or had—children.” And she wasn’t going to ask. But the thought was arresting and disturbing, and she tried, mostly successfully, to push it aside. “I don’t think the lost children want Teela dead. I think they want her to—finally—join them. It’s like they think she was left behind, or held back.”

“And Evarrim is aware of this.”

“Evarrim is a—”

Severn cleared his throat, and Kaylin took the hint. “The whole High Court is probably aware of it by now. Terrano wasn’t exactly subtle. I’d guess most, if not all, of the High Court is worried.”

“They don’t trust Teela.”

Kaylin rose. “They’re Barrani; they don’t trust anyone.” The small dragon sneezed in her ear. “I think,” she added, glaring at the small dragon, “we’re moving again.”

* * *

The forests of the West March, or its environs, weren’t exactly light-filled to begin with. The trees were too tall. But when evening began to set in, Kaylin missed the light. Moonlight was barely visible from where she was standing—and she’d chosen the spot because from here she could see at least one of the moons.

She stayed in range of Teela. She kept Severn more or less in line of sight. But what she wanted—what she missed about a city that was in theory vastly more crowded and consistently noisy—was a bit of privacy. There were no doors in the forest, and no small, enclosed space she could call her own.

But she didn’t have that in Elantra anymore, either. The attempt to assassinate Bellusdeo had not only destroyed her flat, it had destroyed a large chunk of the building itself.

The small dragon snapped at something large and chitinous that was crawling up her arm; the damn bug didn’t even crunch. “Do not breathe on it,” she said when he opened his little jaws.

The small dragon snapped its jaws shut and whiffled.

“Kitling.”

She looked up from a furious attempt to kill a buzzing, flying bloodsucker. The tone of Teela’s voice made insect blood loss a triviality. She walked away from the only obvious—to mortal vision—moonlight, making a beeline for Teela.

Teela was not the only Barrani to draw weapon; the entire clearing had fallen silent.

Kaylin listened. She heard nothing.

Even the insects were quiet for one long, drawn breath. Severn unwound his weapon chain—and to her surprise, that made almost no noise, either.

The Consort lifted her chin. “From the north,” she said. The Barrani turned.

In the forest, night was spreading across the ground.

Chapter 2

The Lord of the West March spoke three short phrases that Kaylin did not understand. Light flared in the forest, spreading across flattened undergrowth and fallen branches until it hit a wall of darkness it couldn’t penetrate.

The Consort was right: the wall of darkness existed only to the north of the group; to the west, east, and south the summoned light faded naturally. As Kaylin reached Teela’s side, the small dragon dug claws into her shoulders, throwing his wings wide. He almost dislodged the precariously embedded stick that kept most of her hair out of her eyes. Reaching up, she fixed this. She couldn’t afford to be half-blind. She also tried to remove him; in response he batted her hands away with his head.

And a hiss.

His wings, however, were rigidly spread. They were, Kaylin suddenly realized, covering half her face—and her left eye. She stopped trying to remove him, and instead turned to look at the moving, black wall through his wing.

“We have Ferals,” she said.

The Lord of the West March was less prone to be annoyed by her inaccurate description. “Where?”

“In the wall.” When he failed to answer, she added, “I see the darkness moving in as a wall. The light doesn’t breech it.”

“Lord Evarrim? Lady?”

“I see the...wall...that Lord Kaylin describes. I cannot see anything moving in it.”

“Lord Severn?”

Severn held a blade in each hand; he came to stand beside Kaylin, and then took one step forward. He didn’t set the chain spinning. “I see the shadow. I don’t see what it contains.”

Neither could Kaylin—with her right eye. But the translucent wing that covered the left eye clearly showed forest Ferals. She frowned. “There are three,” she said. She spoke softly, squinting. “I can’t be certain, but I think there are two Barrani behind the Ferals.”

“Do you recognize them?”

This was not a reasonable question to ask of a mortal, even a human Hawk. “No. Neither are Iberrienne, if that’s what you’re asking. I think one is female. They’re not obviously armed,” she added, aware that this didn’t mean they were harmless.

“An’Teela?”

For a long moment, Teela stared into the moving wall; the Barrani shifted formation, drawing into a tighter front line that faced north. “I see the shadow,” she finally said. “Lord Evarrim, can you bring it down?”

Evarrim replied tersely, “I have been making that attempt.” His tone made clear that it wasn’t wise to emphasize his failure.

The darkness wasn’t a flood; it was slow, but inexorable, and as it moved, it swallowed the edge of the light, changing the shape of safety in the clearing. The Ferals seemed content to move beneath its cover; they didn’t snarl, growl, or speak; they didn’t charge. Kaylin glanced at Ynpharion. He was instantly aware of her, but for the first time since the Lord of the West March had led this wilderness trek, his loathing and fury were directed at something other than Kaylin.

She didn’t ask him what he could see. At the moment, she knew. He saw the moving darkness, and he wanted to obliterate anything that was hidden within its folds. She readjusted the small dragon. Living masks were awkward.

“Is the darkness transforming the trees?” The Lord of the West March asked.

Kaylin frowned. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Does the light continue?”

That was what was wrong. “Yes. It does. It’s why I can see them at all.”

She heard a shout and turned; the other Barrani held their ground. “Incoming from the west.”

The Lord of the West March glanced once at his sister. “Call them back,” he told her softly.

The Consort’s eyes widened, their color darkening. She looked as if she wanted to argue but in the end, she did as he asked. Her commands, Kaylin understood. “Lord Kaylin, stand beside me. Under no circumstances are you to now run—or fight—on your own.” She lifted her chin, frowning. “Where is Lord Calarnenne?”

Kaylin froze. Nightshade was not standing within the boundaries of the Lord of the West March’s light. When he’d chosen to leave, she didn’t know—but she knew where he now was, because she could see him clearly. He had crossed the threshold of moving darkness, to the west of the farthest Feral, and he was now making a silent approach, using the cover of standing trees, toward one of the two Barrani who walked behind those Ferals.

As if, she thought, he had seen them. Maybe he had. Maybe the tiara that graced his brow at the whim of the heart of the green allowed it. She was only grateful that wasn’t the case with Teela.

Nightshade, don’t.

He failed to answer. Inasmuch as he could, he had shut her out entirely. And she knew what it would cost to force him to listen, or worse, obey.

You could not. He sounded amused. It is true that names are cages, Kaylin. But understanding the shape of the cage does not immediately give you the key.

They’re not who they were.

No. But Terrano approached your Teela; he had no desire to kill her. Something remains.

“Lord Kaylin?”

“He’s beyond the darkness,” was her flat reply.

Teela’s brows joined a moment over the bridge of her nose. She did not put her momentary disgust into words. Instead, she turned to the Lord of the West March. “If you will allow it, cousin, I will distract them while you retreat with the Consort.”

He shook his head. “There are three to the west, at a greater distance. Your ability with sword has always been impressive, but I am unwilling to sacrifice you in a staying action; we have lost too many already.”

“I am the only person present who might survive it.”

“Yes. That is problematic in its own right. What the fieflord chooses to do makes no material difference to his position; he is already Outcaste. We are ready.”

The light in the clearing grew harsher, brighter, before he had finished. Arrows flew in a volley; some struck the Ferals. None touched the Barrani behind them, although two splintered before they could. The darkness wavered, thinning under the renewed light.

“Follow the Lady, Lord Kaylin, if you cannot see the path itself. Step on nothing outside of its boundaries.” He drew sword. The Consort grabbed Kaylin’s arm.

“I’m the only person who can see—”

“Not for much longer,” the Consort said, voice the same texture as the edge of the sword she carried. “My brother is waking the heart of the forest, and we do not wish to be standing here when it fully responds.”

The Ferals snarled and leaped; one growled what sounded like a Barrani battle cry. The small dragon squawked; Kaylin said, “Go if you can help them.” He dug in instead, as the Lady began to run, still attached to Kaylin’s arm.

At their backs, the call of a horn shattered the silence.

Barrani words followed, some of them wedged between the growls and snarls.

* * *

If there was a path beneath the Consort’s feet, Kaylin couldn’t see it, but she didn’t doubt it was there. The Consort never hesitated; she didn’t stumble, she didn’t call a halt. The Barrani didn’t require it; what she saw, they saw. The only person to break small branches or crush undergrowth or stub her toes was Kaylin.

Severn saw as Kaylin did: a bunch of trees and small plants in a nighttime sky. He was not as important as Kaylin’s dress; no one grabbed his arm, no one dragged him, and no one treated him as if he was likely to get distracted and wander off.

But he sheathed his weapons for the run; the Barrani, with the single exception of the Consort, did not. The small dragon had folded his wings at the start of the run, but he perched on her shoulder, rather than draping himself across both, as he usually did. None of them looked back; none of them mentioned the Lord of the West March or those who might have stayed by his side.

Nor did they mention Nightshade; they probably hoped he’d be killed.

Kaylin was good at running. But the years in which she’d learned to run in pursuit of a criminal rather than in terror from one made this flight hard. She knew they had the numbers to stand and fight—and they’d just taken a greater part of that number on a run through moonlit forest, leaving one of the few Barrani High Lords she actually liked to stand on his own.

As incentive, it wasn’t.

Even her certain sense that she wasn’t a match for any of the five she’d personally spotted didn’t make it better.

It is not easier for the Consort, a disembodied voice said. Nightshade’s. But she understands her duty and her responsibility. If the Lord of the West March is lost, he will be replaced. If the Consort is lost, the replacement will be difficult, and it is all but guaranteed to be a long time coming. There will be any number of Lords willing to make the attempt to fill her role—but very few will succeed, and if they fail, they are also lost to us.

She grimaced as the top side of her feet hit the underside of a raised branch and sent her staggering. Her weight didn’t unbalance the Consort, but it was close.

And if she is lost, he continued, there will almost certainly be a succession war. You have never seen one.

Her death won’t kill the High Lord.

No. But she has not yet had children. If she perishes here, she will not. Any Barrani who can touch the lake of life will therefore be mother to the High Lord to come. I understand that politics have never been of import in your life, but you are a Lord of the High Court and you must come to understand at least the obvious basics.

A branch slapped her in the face, which caused the small dragon to hiss in fury. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m not used to carrying a passenger.”

Where are you? Kaylin all but demanded.

I am at the side of the Lord of the West March. He has not fallen, and, Kaylin, he will not. You are only a few miles from the edge of his domain, and in his domain, he has strength that not even the High Lord in the High Halls possesses.

“Nightshade,” she said, in out-of-breath Elantran, “is fighting beside your brother now. They’re both alive.”

The Consort didn’t reply. She didn’t appear to have heard. But she gave the arm she was using as a rope line a brief squeeze—and then increased the pace. This had one advantage: it gave Kaylin very little time to think.

* * *

There was no obvious moment at which the forest transformed. It didn’t fall away; it didn’t immediately open up into an obvious clearing. The path the Barrani followed remained invisible to Kaylin; it didn’t widen or flatten enough for carriages or wagons to use. Which made Kaylin wonder exactly how the carriages the High Court had abandoned would have made it here in the first place.

In spite of this, she knew when they’d arrived. Something about the forest changed; it took her a moment to realize what. She could hear birds. It was still night, but the differing shades of gray were clearer. The Barrani party slowed to a walk. They did not, in any other way, relax.

Nor did the Consort let go of Kaylin’s arm; her fingers were now tingling, the Consort’s grip was so tight. “Let me do the speaking,” she said. To Kaylin’s surprise, she spoke in very quiet Elantran.

It was a warning, of sorts. There was no one in sight—present company excepted—to speak to. Severn approached the Consort but stopped ten yards back. The rest of the Barrani remained armed; Severn chose to leave both hands loose by his side. It was hard to tell if he was paler, or if the run had exhausted him, but if it had, he failed to acknowledge it.

He waited.

Birds sang. From within the group, birds apparently answered. Kaylin felt less relieved about the sound than she had moments ago. The arrows that studded the path in rapid succession didn’t help. Or it didn’t help her; the Barrani surrounded her and didn’t even blink; clearly this was the Barrani version of a gate check. Two of the Lords of the High Court lifted bows of their own; after a moment two arrows arched into the air, landing with audible thunks in the trees high above where the Consort stood.

The Consort raised an arm; moonlight touched her fingers and her hands, silvering her skin in a way Kaylin found disturbing. It wasn’t magic—it wasn’t the magic that caused Kaylin’s skin to ache until it felt raw. But it wasn’t natural; the moonlight touched nothing else here. Kaylin couldn’t see the moon for the trees. Arrows flew again. Three, this time.

Kaylin took a step back, or tried; the Consort had not released her arm. She opened—and closed—her mouth. The Consort’s eyes were midnight-blue. They were standing in the home of the Lord of the West March, the seat of his power. This was supposed to be safe ground. But Kaylin knew the Barrani, and there was no mistaking that eye color as the rest of the Consort’s skin began, like her raised hand, to shine.

Silver had never seemed so wrong. Pale skin had never seemed so threatening. It was not a color Kaylin associated with life. She was afraid. She was afraid for the Consort. The fear of her hatred, her anger, and her endless disapproval was swallowed by it.

Kaylin, what is wrong?

She didn’t have the words for it.

Kaylin!

Look, she told him, whispering although no one else in the world could hear. Look through my eyes. She felt his presence for a moment.

Tell me what’s happened. Quickly, Kaylin.

She didn’t use words; she didn’t have to use them. He saw what she had seen. Tell me I don’t have to worry, she thought.

You will not believe it. Not when we speak like this.

The Consort moved her hand, opening her palm and turning it up toward the sky. Three arrows flew. To Kaylin’s surprise, they didn’t hit anything; they were struck—in almost perfect unison, by three arrows traveling in the opposite direction. The Consort watched the arrows fall, her chin slowly lowering as she did.

Her hair was bound, like Kaylin’s; unlike Kaylin’s, the run hadn’t dislodged any of it. Teela approached—without any signal from the Consort—and released the Consort’s hair. It fell down her back in a cascade of silver as Teela once again retreated. The Consort’s lips lost color.

Ask the Lord of the West March—ask him what’s wrong—ask him what I should do.

Do nothing unless she releases you. She has taken the risk. Respect it.

It would be a helluvalot easier to respect it if I understood it.

He laughed. He laughed, but the laughter died abruptly as the first of the birds came to land in the Consort’s upturned palm.

* * *

Except it wasn’t a bird. It had the shape, but none of the movement; although it had what looked like wings, they never flapped; they were rigid and extended, a dark plane of shadow, and as the creature alighted in the Consort’s open palm, she saw that it had claws. But it had no face, no head; the whole of its body appeared to be...wings. Those wings wrapped themselves around the Consort’s hand, obscuring both it and the light it shed.

She grimaced. She didn’t lose color—in Kaylin’s opinion there was none left to lose. What she lost was illumination. Some of the disturbing light was leeched out of her exposed skin. No one drew audible breath in the clearing; no one but the Consort. Her breath was even, steady, voiceless.

Kaylin wanted to scream. She opened her mouth and the small dragon bit her ear. She turned to glare at him, which was a relief; he met her furrowed brow with wide, opal eyes. Opal, shining eyes. He also yawned, exposing almost solid teeth.

For a long moment, the shadow remained perched in the Consort’s palm, and then it began to sink, vanishing into her skin as if absorbed. Light faded, then. The Consort’s grip on Kaylin’s arm loosened. As if that were permission, Kaylin pulled her numb arm free and slid an arm around the Consort’s shoulders. She didn’t ask any of the questions she desperately wanted to ask. Instead, she let the Consort lean heavily against her.

“Lord Evarrim,” the Consort said. “Lord Haverel.”

Both men bowed in silence; they asked no questions. The archers who had fired the first three arrows failed to materialize; the path failed to widen; the West March—if that didn’t refer to this entire godsforsaken forest—continued pretty much as it had begun.

No, Nightshade said, voice soft and tinged with something unfamiliar. It is not. Be cautious. You are almost upon the green.

Nightshade, what was that?

A messenger, he replied. Unless she forced the issue, he wasn’t going to tell her more. She suspected he didn’t actually have the answer, and felt his keen amusement. You are learning, he said.

The two lords so named stepped forward. “Lady?” Lord Haverel bowed. His glance strayed briefly to Kaylin—who apparently had the ignorant effrontery to touch the Lady while trying to bear the greater part of her weight.

“The way is clear,” she said. “Gather. We will continue to—” Her blue eyes rounded as the second bird appeared and began its gliding descent; it was joined, seconds later, by a third, a fourth, a fifth.

Kaylin didn’t need to speak to Nightshade to know this was bad. She wasn’t certain what this disturbing ceremony was supposed to be or do. “Lady—”

The Consort lifted an arm, lifting chin and exposing the long, white line of her throat. She pulled herself free of Kaylin, planting her feet as the two lords—Evarrim and Haverel—stepped aside. As the sleek, black forms continued to glide above her in a slowly decreasing circle, she lifted both of her arms, exposing her palms.

Both arms raised, she looked as if she were inviting embrace—but her expression was fixed; her arms were shaking. “If I falter,” she said, to Kaylin’s surprise, “you have permission to heal me.” She spoke in formal High Barrani, her words surprisingly distinct. Kaylin waited for the disturbing glow to once again grace the Consort’s pale skin. It didn’t.

“You can’t do this,” she said, in Elantran. In High Barrani it would have sounded too much like a command. In her mother tongue, it sounded like the plea it was.

“They cannot be allowed to fly,” was her soft response.

“They clearly flew here.”

“They will not stop here, if they are given no harbor.” The Consort closed her eyes. Two of the shadows alighted almost delicately, their stiff wings folding around her open hands, encasing them. Like the first such creature, they had claws, and like the first, they seemed to sink into her hands, into her skin. But this time her hands, the length of her arms, became a shade of very unhealthy gray-green as they vanished. Her shaking arms fell, as if they weighed too much to be lifted. But they stopped at the height of her heart, palms open again, and waiting.

Kaylin had seen corpses that color in Red’s morgue. The Consort trembled for one immobile moment before she steadied herself and opened her eyes. Her eyes were Barrani-blue. Her arms were trembling, but she held them before her, palms once again empty and open.

Kaylin, however, had had enough. She took one look at the gathered Barrani; they were silent, blue-eyed, witnesses. None of them spoke. None of them moved.

Do not interfere—

Shut up.

The Consort was taller than Kaylin. Everyone in this party was. But her arms weren’t raised above her head, where their reach would be impossible to match. Kaylin extended her own arms, and laid her hands above the Consort’s, their backs resting against the Consort’s icy palms. She heard one sharp, drawn breath. It was Teela’s. No one spoke.

The shadows descended, gliding along a decreasing circular path as if following a funnel no one else could see. Kaylin wasn’t Barrani; she flinched when they landed. But when they did, she lifted her hands from the Consort’s, drawing them away from the Lady and toward herself. She moved slowly and deliberately, as if the creatures in her hands were alive and might spook.

But she did not want them touching the Consort when they began to fold their wings.

They gripped the edges of her palms with their claws; the claws sank, like small, sharp blades, into her skin. They were cold. They were cold enough they almost felt hot. Wings folded in perfect unison, engulfing her hands. She resisted the urge to shake them off—mostly because she knew it wouldn’t work. She wasn’t the Consort. A steady, quiet stream of Leontine left her lips, with a few choice Aerian words thrown in for good measure.

Her arms began to burn.

The small dragon, forgotten until now, rose; his claws gripped her shoulder. He hissed, squawking and spitting; he didn’t draw breath. The shadows turned toward him as his wings rose, batting her cheek and nose.

If her skin had melted, it wouldn’t have surprised her. She felt almost as if it should, the heat was so intense. Through the interior of sleeves that were more hole than material, she could see the marks on her arms: they were gold-white in color, and bright enough that she had to squint to make out their individual shapes. The light was not the subtle light that had imbued the Consort—but then again, Kaylin had none of the Consort’s restraint, none of her perfect, regal dignity.

The dragon continued to squawk, which was both a comfort and a distraction; the claws of the shadows cut deeper—but there was, to Kaylin’s eye, no resulting blood. Nor did the creatures sink into her hands and vanish, as they’d done with the Consort.

Instead, to her dismay, they seemed to grow more solid, not less, as the seconds passed. They were black, their wings developing texture, height, distinguishing characteristics. The light of her marks didn’t seem to dim—but they didn’t vanish, either. The shadows weren’t somehow eating them.

She thought they might become some echo of the small dragon, because they seemed to be listening to him, mesmerized by his squeaky, birdlike voice. He turned to look at Kaylin, hissed loudly in annoyance, and then turned back to his audience. They mirrored the motion. Kaylin’s hands were numb. Her arms were shaking. Shadows had no weight and little substance; what was now sitting in her palms was no longer entirely shadow.

Nor were they like the shadows cast by a gliding bird. The wings lengthened, brightened, and took on color; the indistinct, smooth surfaces of their shadow form cracked, giving way to—to feathers. As those wings snapped out, shards of shadow fell away, shaken off as if they were bits of shell.

Kaylin grunted. Two pairs of eyes turned to look at her; those eyes now rested above very, very prominent beaks. They inhaled and the golden feathers across their breasts rose; she could see white down beneath them. She had never seen birds this large. They didn’t really look like birds—they looked like predators. They were far too large for her hands, far too heavy; she struggled with their growing weight because she didn’t want to piss them off by dropping them.

As if aware of this—and the possible loss of dignity—they released her hands, leaping to the ground to one side of Kaylin and the Consort. When one of the Barrani Lords moved, they rose, their wings high in warning. That they didn’t knock either Kaylin or the Consort off their feet was a miracle.

A deliberate miracle. One of the birds turned to face them. “Lady,” it said.

Kaylin offered the Consort an arm—and her shoulder. The Consort was willing to let Kaylin absorb most of her weight, but her eyes—her eyes were a shade of gold, ringed in pale blue. They looked like the sun at the height of a cloudless sky. Kaylin had almost never seen that color in Barrani eyes before.

From the forest beyond them, Barrani approached. They were armed with bows, and they wore a different style of armor—if it was armor at all. But their hair was the ebony of Barrani hair, and it fell unimpeded down their backs. They moved slowly, and their eyes, as they approached, were the same gold as the Consort’s.

“The Lord of the West March requires aid. We go now,” the bird on the left said. His voice was clear, resonant; it had none of the squawk she expected of birds.

The Lady closed her eyes. Opened them rapidly, as if afraid that what she’d seen would vanish. The birds lifted wings again, and this time, the wings continued in a flurry of motion that took them into the night air.

* * *

The Barrani of the West March were silent as they watched the two birds take flight; silent as they watched them wing their way to the east, where the Lord of the West March was fighting. Only when they’d passed beyond sight—well beyond Kaylin’s—did they break away.

It was clear there were complicated rituals of approach. Kaylin shouldn’t have been surprised. Everything the Barrani did was complicated. But it was also clear that they’d dumped most of those rituals the minute they’d seen the birds emerge from the shadows. The gold of their eyes had given way to an emerald-green that Teela’s eyes rarely reached. They were happy.

“Lady,” the man in the lead said. He bowed. It was a low, complicated bow.

She felt the Consort tense—but the Consort was exhausted. There wasn’t a lot of strength left for tension. “Lord Barian. This is Lord Kaylin of the High Halls; she has made the pilgrimage to the green, as all our adult kin must.”

To Kaylin’s surprise, he turned to her. “I am the Warden of the West March,” he told her, and he offered a bow that was almost identical to the one he’d offered the Consort. The rest of the tension left the Consort’s body then. Kaylin grunted as she took the rest of the Consort’s weight. Barrani, while tall and slender, were not exactly weightless.

“We are in your debt, harmoniste.” He held out his arms.

Kaylin’s closed automatically around the Consort, and a black brow rose. So did the corners of his mouth.

“The history of the West March and the High Halls has not always been peaceful, but she is the Lady; she will come to no harm while my kin reside in the greenhome.”

“She’s already come to harm,” Kaylin replied. She spoke in less formal Barrani.

The Warden’s smile faded. “You are mortal. Rumor traveled that a mortal had been chosen by the green; it was only barely given credence. There are those who will not be pleased, Lord Kaylin. I would have been one of them. But I am grateful now that I came in person to greet the Lady, for if I had not I would not have seen...what we have witnessed this night.

“The Lady is welcome in the greenhome. She is welcome in its heart. And you, Lord Kaylin, have my welcome and my gratitude. I am in your debt.”

“The Barrani hate debt,” she replied.

He surprised her. He laughed. But he held out his arms again. “I will bear your burden with honor and dignity; you may travel as witness, Lord Kaylin.”

Kaylin knew she couldn’t carry the Consort. But she was fairly certain Teela could. “Teela?”

Every Barrani from the West March—there appeared to be eight—stiffened at the sound of the Barrani Hawk’s name, and their eyes instantly lost most of the emerald-green the sight of the giant birds had placed there.

Chapter 3

There were good career reasons why Kaylin had never been considered a diplomat. Since she had no desire to be one, it had never mattered much. There were also good career reasons why Kaylin was not the on-duty Hawk at investigations that involved the upper echelons of the Human Caste Court.

But not even Kaylin could miss the sudden chill in unfamiliar Barrani eyes. She gave the Consort a tiny shake; the Consort did not respond. More than a tiny shake was impossible, given the sharp intake of breath the tiny one had caused.

Lord Barian said, “Lord Kaylin.”

Teela proved that there were reasons why she was also seldom the on-duty Hawk in delicate investigations, besides the usual racial ones; the Human Caste Court didn’t like being questioned by arrogant immortals. She stepped forward, moving without haste and with her characteristic, arrogant grace.

The two Hawks now bracketed the Lady.

Lord Barian’s eyes narrowed. “An’Teela,” he said.

“I am Lord,” Teela replied. “The customs of the West March differ from those of the High Court, but surely not so greatly. Or perhaps you neglect the title as a subtle way of claiming kinship, cousin?”

Severn joined them.

The West March Barrani couldn’t have failed to notice that he was mortal. They’d noticed everything else. But...Severn unsheathed his weapon blades for the first time since they’d stopped running, and as Kaylin watched the Warden’s eyes darken, she lifted her chin. It was either that or cringe.

Evarrim came to stand beside Teela; Teela failed to notice him at all. Instead, she exhaled. “Kitling.” She turned to the Consort, and slid arms around the back of her neck and her knees. Kaylin supported some of her weight as Teela shifted her grip. She wouldn’t drop or desert the Lady while she lived.

When Teela carried the whole of the Consort’s weight, she turned to face Lord Barian.

“The heart of the green has never denied me,” she told him. It had the feel of a ritual phrase, but also the defiance of an insult. She glanced at Kaylin, frowned, and added, “If you have forgotten your promise to Lord Sanabalis, I have not.”

“Promise? What—” Oh. “I should have stayed home, Teela,” she said, in Aerian. “The Exchequer can’t be worth this.” But she reached up to grasp the links of the heavy gold chain she wore around her neck; the links were skin-warm. She pulled the chain out, revealing the amulet that Sanabalis had given her. She wouldn’t have taken it at all, but he’d made clear that she wasn’t going if she didn’t. And that she was to wear it prominently at all times while she was a guest in the West March.

Arrows left their quivers and bows were pulled. The Barrani of the West March clearly didn’t live in a city—or an Empire—ruled by a Dragon, but they knew what the amulet meant.

“I really hope you’re not enjoying this,” Kaylin said out of the corner of her mouth.

“How uncharitable,” Teela replied. Her eyes were the same blue as Barian’s, but her lips were now curved in a hard, tight smile. Lifting her voice, she switched to High Barrani. “I introduce Lord Severn. He has passed the Tower’s test, and the test of name; he is a Lord of the High Court, and he has come to affirm his claim in the heart of the green.”

“Impossible.”

“Yes, in theory. But the harmoniste, as you’ve noted, is mortal; she is a Lord of the High Court, and she wears the blood of the green. Unless you wish to claim her robe to be a clever and nefarious counterfeit, the choice is no longer in your hands. And, Warden, I think not even you would be so arrogant.”

“It is not Lord Kaylin’s inclusion that is under discussion. She is, of course, welcome.”

Teela smiled. “And Lord Calarnenne?”

“There is no Lord Calarnenne.”

* * *

“That, Warden,” a familiar voice said, “is harsh.”

Teela didn’t move. Neither did Severn. Kaylin had to turn to look over her shoulder. Nightshade approached the silent Barrani, at the side of the Lord of the West March. The tiara across his brow was unmistakable; the emerald at its peak was glowing. On his forearm sat one of the two eagles; the other accompanied the Lord of the West March.

The Lord of the West March didn’t comment. Instead, he approached Kaylin. Bird on arm, he offered her a perfect bow—a bow she couldn’t duplicate, no matter how many hours she spent taking lessons under Diarmat’s foot. “Kyuthe,” he said. “Kaylin. An’Teela. You carry my heart in your arms.”

“I know,” she replied. Her voice lost its hard edge. “Even were she not, she is the Lady. I will allow no harm to come to her while I still draw breath.”

He nodded as if no other answer was possible, but he did not attempt to take Teela’s burden from her; nor did he command her to deliver the Lady into Lord Barian’s arms. Instead, he spoke a single word Kaylin couldn’t catch before he touched the Consort’s brow. She didn’t wake.

Lord Barian clearly considered the Lord of the West March above suspicion. “She intercepted three,” he said gravely.

“Three.” His lids fell, the sweep of dark lashes like bruises against his skin.

“There were five, Lord. The harmoniste intercepted two before they could reach the Lady.”

“Yes,” was the soft, tired reply. He opened his eyes; they were blue. “I am aware of her intercession. She is mortal, Barian—and impulsive in ways the young are. And for the moment, I am grateful for that impulse. Remember the results of it,” he added, in a slightly stronger voice, “and forgive her lack of familiarity with our customs.”

“The other mortal—”

“He is hers,” the Lord of the West March replied. “Lord Kaylin will not allow him to be driven off; she will certainly object to his execution. Lord An’Teela did not lie; Lord Severn survived the test of name.” He glanced at the blades in Severn’s hands, and his eyes darkened; for a moment Kaylin thought he would say more.

The eagle on his arm said, “He is to be granted passage and hospitality while either remain.”

Lord Barian bowed.

“Come, Kaylin, An’Teela. We will repair to my domicile.”

* * *

Kaylin wasn’t certain what to expect. The first Hallionne she’d encountered had been a tree. A huge, ancient tree, true—but nothing about it had screamed building. Yet its interior was large enough to house the entire Barrani contingent, plus the two mortals who were caught up in the pilgrimage. Easily.

It occurred to her as she walked by the side of the Lord of the West March that the entire West March might be the same: any one of these trees could be buildings as grand, mysterious and architecturally impossible. There wasn’t a pressing need for something as mundane as a passable road if you had a building provided for all of your equally mundane needs.

But the High Halls had drives. Palatial drives. And the Lords of the High Court spent money in the city, given the way the Merchants’ guild fawned all over them. The Hallionne were, to all intents and purposes, like the Towers or Castles in the fiefs—and as far as Kaylin knew, there was only one Tower in each fief.

“We are at the outskirts of the green,” the Lord of the West March told her. “The Hallionne of the West March has not been habitable for centuries. It is not there that you—or any member of the Consort’s entourage—will stay. But no; there are few roads that lead to the West March, and we did not travel by any of them. My people do not require paths of heavy stone to smooth their way.” His answer reminded her that he had, as Nightshade had, offered her his True Name. If she wasn’t careful, he could hear her thoughts.

“The carriages?”

“There is a road,” he replied. “It is not easily traversed by your kind because they cannot easily find it.” His smile was almost gentle. Kaylin tried not to take offense when she realized he was treating her as a child; in strict years, she was. “Understand that An’Teela is an unusual member of the High Court. By birth, she belongs to two worlds.”

“Like you?”

“Very like. She is of the West March and she is of the High Court. There are very few who have her lineage.”

“But she’s not trusted by either.”

“She is trusted—inasmuch as any Barrani Lord—in the High Court. But her history makes her position in the Court of the Vale unusual.”

“You—you have your own court here?”

His brows rose, and his smile deepened. His eyes were a shade of emerald-green; she’d amused him. “Yes,” he said, “and there is very little in my life that does, at the moment. I consider it a gift. The West March has its court, the Court of the Vale; it always did. You will find that any gathering of significance does.

“You are aware that my title is Lord of the West March. Are you aware that the High Lord is also called the Lord of the Green?”

She nodded.

“This, then, is the green. My brother is the leader of our people—but in theory, the leader of the Human Caste Court is the leader of yours.”

“That’s a pretty tenuous theory,” Kaylin replied. “I’ve never met him, and even if I had, I don’t serve him.”

“No?”

“I serve the Halls of Law. My ruler is the Eternal Emperor.” She spoke quietly, but was reminded that the Barrani had excellent hearing when they all fell silent. Part of her was irritated. What she’d said was true. It was fact. Finding fact offensive was pointless.

On the other hand, fact was hundreds of miles away, and offense was up close and personal. She made a mental note not to mention dragons—any dragons—while in the West March. Then again, she probably didn’t have to. Teela had made her take Sanabalis’s amulet out, and the Barrani generally knew what it signified: she belonged to a dragon.

As she fingered the heavy chain, the Lord of the West March frowned. “It is best not to draw attention to what you bear.” It wasn’t the first time she’d visited a Barrani court wearing a sign that said Property of Dragon Lord. In fact, it wasn’t the first time she’d worn this sign. In the High Halls, it had seemed less dangerous.

“I wasn’t allowed to leave until I’d promised to wear it.” But Sanabalis was also hundreds of miles away.

“It is never wise to break an oath given to dragons,” the Lord of the West March told her.

“It’s probably stupid to give them the oath in the first place,” she conceded, falling into her mother tongue. “But we weren’t going to get the information we needed unless I promised to make the pilgrimage to the West March. And I couldn’t make that promise without also taking the amulet.”

“Lord Sanabalis did not feel that my ring would guarantee your safety?”

“It’s probably stupid,” she said, after a long pause, “for me to open my mouth at all.”

He laughed. “It is not in our nature to trust others to protect what is valuable to us. Even were it, that trust would not cross this particular racial divide. I had heard rumor that some Imperial overtures had been made.”

“Yes. But I don’t think that’s going to happen again in this generation.”

“No. The High Court was unamused by the presence of the Emperor upon their land.”

“He was a little angry.”

“Dragons do not generally breathe fire in the middle of the city when they are merely annoyed.”

“I didn’t say he was annoyed—I said he was angry. You can’t blame him. One of the High Lords had just attempted to assassinate the only known female dragon.”

“As a Lord of the High Court, Lord Kaylin, it is best not to spread that sentiment.”

Kaylin, tired and unexpectedly angry herself, said, “She was living with me at the time. Every item of value I owned was destroyed during that attempt.”

The small dragon squawked.

“Almost every item. I understand why Iberrienne tried to kill her. But I’m not willing to pretend that was a good thing. Even if my home hadn’t been ripped to pieces by an Arcane bomb, I still wouldn’t. I’m an Imperial Hawk.”

“Yes, Lord Kaylin, you are. What I now wonder is what else you might be.” He glanced at the Warden of the West March; Lord Barian was no longer walking. He, and the men who had arrived by his side, had spread out in a line ten yards from Teela, the Lord of the West March, and Kaylin. “Ah. We’ve arrived.”

They had; there was a small stream, too slender to be called a river—and far too shallow—and the Barrani began to line up at its far edge as the Warden of the West March signaled a halt. “A word of advice, Lord Kaylin. The would-be assassin is Outcaste. Do not use his name in polite company.”

And what am I supposed to call him?

Outcaste, Nightshade replied, amused.

Outcaste what? Outcaste number twelve or ninety?

The context will make it clear. The Lord of the West March has claimed you as kin. He will guide you, as you allow. He is not his father; he is not his brother. He is like—very like—his sister. He will indulge you where it is safe to do so. Do not make the mistake of believing his indulgence to be a social norm. It is not.

She wanted, very badly, to fall over and sleep. Had she been at home, she probably wouldn’t have made it out of her clothing first. Severn joined her and slid an arm around her shoulder. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to speak. She accepted what he offered, leaning against his shoulder; letting him carry some part of her weight.

From there, she could watch.

She could watch as the bed of this modest stream began to widen, to stretch away from the Barrani on all sides. The stream itself could be crossed with a simple leap—or a running leap, in Kaylin’s case; the river it had become was far too wide.

While thinking that, she saw the Lord of the West March take a step forward, into the moving current.

His foot never hit water. It hit air instead, and that air obligingly became a bridge. It didn’t rise out of the water. That would have been too simple. No, it appeared in broad strokes, as if painted in place by an insanely fast, insanely good artist. It was brighter than the rest of the landscape; brighter than the moonlight should have made it, and it appeared, to her eye, to be made of glass.

Given that most of the Barrani were wearing armor, this was not comforting.

The Lord of the West March then turned to Teela. “An’Teela.” He did not offer her an arm; she couldn’t take it and continue to bear her burden. But she inclined her chin and preceded him. If material composition of the bridge concerned her, it didn’t show. She climbed what appeared to be slope without stairs until she stood at the midpoint of the bridge; there she paused to look out at the currents of the river.

Kaylin, following, stopped beside her. “Teela?”

The Barrani Hawk looked down her perfect nose. “Home,” she said, wearily. She turned then, and walked down the incline that led, at last, to the city at the heart of the West March.

* * *

The Barrani did not appear to favor stone—at least not underfoot. Elantra had roads. Even in the fiefs, where the roads were broken and undermined by weeds and water runoff.

But the Barrani of the West March had lawns instead of roads. Grass gave way to stairs, many of which went down, rather than up; it gave way to doors and to trees. There were flowers, as well, but the flowers didn’t seem to grow in specific, boxed beds; they seemed artless and wild—but for all that, they didn’t get in the way of the High Court, or anyone else who walked the green.

The trees that had been the only constant during the overland trek were everywhere, but they grew in more ordered rows; they were at least as tall as the trees on the other side of the bridge. But there were no fallen branches, no hollow, standing trunks; here, the trees were like lampposts, without the lights.

In fact, the trees seemed to mark what passed for road here; they formed explicit boundaries in rows, opening up or ending, as if they were the walls of a maze. Mazes were the province of the monied. Warrens—like mazes made of buildings—were the province of the wretched, but Kaylin had no sense that she’d find slums in the West March.

The Lord of the West March glanced at her, the corners of his eyes and lips crinkling. She’d amused him again.

“It is seldom indeed that I see my own home from the vantage of a visitor entirely new to it. It is...engaging. We will follow this road, as you call it, and turn to the right; the trees—the type of trees—are indicators.”

“Of what?”

“Ah, forgive me. They would, in your parlance, be street names, I believe.”

It wasn’t a short walk. Kaylin, who had always known that Teela was physically strong, was more than impressed when they at last reached the home of the Lord of the West March. If stone wasn’t favored as a general building material, it wasn’t absent here. The building reminded Kaylin very much of the High Halls in Elantra—at least from the outside. The stairs that fronted it were flat and wide, the columns that held the roof almost the height of the trees that stood to the right and left of the building.

They were carved in the likeness of warriors, and words were engraved across the rounded base of each; Kaylin couldn’t read most of them, although she was certain they must be High Barrani. Then again, she couldn’t read most examples of High Barrani carved or written centuries ago; she was assured that the language was the same—but the style of the writing made the entire thing look like a mess of loops and crosses. It was aesthetic, but not practical.

She could make out individual letters at the beginnings of words.

“Can you read these?” she asked Severn. He had sheathed his swords when Nightshade and the Lord of the West March arrived.

“Not all of it, no. That one means weapon or sword, depending on the context.”

“Thanks. I was kind of hoping to feel less stupid.”

“Then you don’t want to be left behind,” he replied, grinning. “The Lord of the West March is opening his home to the High Court. We want to be there before he’s finished.”

“He’s not likely to close the doors in our face—for one, I don’t think there are any.” But she moved as she spoke.

“I suspect the ring you’re wearing would grant you entrance, regardless. It won’t, however, speak for me.”

She hesitated. “I couldn’t help but notice that the Barrani here don’t like your weapon much.”

“It’s not the weapon,” he replied as he cleared the stairs. “It’s the wielder. I suffer from mortality.”

“It’s a curse,” she agreed. “How much trouble are they going to cause?”

“I’m uncertain. The weapon was damaged in our melee with Iberrienne. There are only two places in which it might be repaired. The West March is the least hostile.”

“I don’t want to know where the other place is.”

He chuckled. “No, you really don’t.”

She did, of course. But she’d already said too much. The hardest thing about Barrani Courts was the amount of silence they demanded.

Learn, Kaylin. Learn quickly. When you last attended Court, you were considered an oddity, a distasteful necessity in a city infested with them. In the West March, that is not the case. The Emperor’s shadow does not reach the green—but the shadows of three wars mark it. When the Consort wakes, you will be called to give your report of the events that occurred when you went missing in the Outlands. The fact that the Hallionne Orbaranne is standing—and whole—is the only point in your favor.

Dress, remember?

Ah. You mistake me. There is not a Barrani here who will attempt to dispose of you while you wear that dress. But the moment the telling is done—if you survive it—you will not be wearing the dress.

She froze. You won’t be wearing the crown, either.

No.

And you’re Outcaste.

I believe I am aware of that. I understood the risk, Kaylin. It is my opinion that I will be in far less danger than you yourself will be. The Barrani are not Dragons; Outcaste is a political statement. It is only relevant if the Outcaste in question has no power—but it is rare indeed that those without power are made Outcaste. Think of what you will tell the Court of the Vale when they bid you to speak. Think of how you will handle their accusations.

They haven’t accused me of anything.

Not yet. But if you falter, they will. It is the nature of Courts.

It’s the nature of carrion creatures, she snapped.

He chuckled. But he entered the hall without comment from anyone, and Kaylin scurried after Teela and the Consort.

* * *

The interior of the building—the parts that were visible in a straight walk from the door to a large suite of rooms—was distinctly different from the High Halls. There was far less stone here, and the wood was warm and bright; the floors were pale, but hard, the frames and lintels of doors carved out of the same wood. There were small trees, small fonts, and—as Teela stepped through a wide set of open doors—a large, circular courtyard.

In the center of the courtyard was a fountain.

Kaylin stopped walking. The Barrani at her back didn’t run into her, but they did move pointedly to either side. Teela, however, stopped. The Lord of the West March, sensitive to his sister, returned from the head of the procession. Kaylin was aware of them both, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the fountain—and she wasn’t even certain why.

Fountains weren’t exactly common in Elantra, although they weren’t unknown. Where they existed in crowded, well-traveled, public areas, they accumulated dirt, dead leaves, small sticks, and an assortment of pebbles. They also generally sported small children who were likely to get their ears boxed in the immediate future.

The water here was clean. It was clear as new glass. It reminded Kaylin of the height of summer, not because there was anything about it that suggested seasons, but because it promised blessed relief from the heat. The only noise in the courtyard was the fall of water and the slight weight of footsteps. Barrani didn’t have thunderous, heavy steps unless they were making a point.

“What do you see?” The Lord of the West March asked.

“Water.” As answers went, it defined inadequate—it was a fountain. Of course it had water. She was aware of the basin into which the water fell; the fountain was not the heavy, worn stone she was accustomed to seeing. A layer of what she assumed was gold-leaf gilded the basin, and writing, again in gold, the base into which it was set.

“I see the bridge,” she said, after a long pause. “And mist or fog.”

The Lord of the West March nodded, eyes narrowed. “An’Teela?”

“I see a fountain,” she replied. “Water is, apparently, falling from a small rift in the air above the basin.”

“You don’t see a bridge.” Kaylin’s voice was both flat and resigned.

“No, kitling.”

“And I shouldn’t, either.”

“It is not a test,” the Lord of the West March said with a tight smile. “There is no correct answer.”

Kaylin glanced at Severn.

I see what Teela sees.

Damn it. The small dragon squawked and pushed himself off her shoulder.

“Kitling,” Teela said sharply. “Remember what happened the last time your pet was near water.”

The Lord of the West March lifted a hand—in Teela’s direction. “What does he intend?”

Kaylin, however, reached for the small, winged rodent. She caught his legs and pulled him down as gently as she could; he wasn’t amused and let it be known. He sounded like an enraged chicken.

“His previous interference,” Teela said, “forced the Lady to wake Hallionne Kariastos.”

Brows rose over green-blue eyes. “Is he as he seems?”

“A familiar?” Teela shrugged. “If he is, legend proves unreliable in its particulars. But it is clear that Kariastos understood him in some small measure, and he proved himself useful on the forest paths.”

He’d done more than that, but Kaylin didn’t argue. “What,” she whispered, “is the problem?”

The small dragon nipped her hand. He was still annoyed, but not so much that he tried to take a chunk out of her. A cat would have, by this point; he was trying to lift the wings over which her palm was cupped. He chose to squawk instead. She heard his voice, and mentally adjusted her description. He sounded like a crow.

She couldn’t make out words; she wondered if Teela was right. Hallionne Bertolle had seemed to understand him, and he’d certainly said something more complicated than “hungry” or “sleepy” or “get lost.” Maybe she wasn’t listening the right way—but she wasn’t an ancient, sentient building. She wasn’t even immortal.

The small dragon caught her hand in his jaws. He continued to squawk while doing it, but the sound was muffled. Sighing, she lifted her head and froze.

The bridge was gone, as was the mist; water fell, but it fell in a sheet, and the sheet had the shape of long, flowing robes. “Teela,” Kaylin whispered. “Has the fountain changed?”

“No. Not to me. You no longer see a bridge?”

Kaylin shook her head. “I see the Tha’alaan.” Lifting her face, she stepped toward the water elemental on her pedestal.

Kaylin.

She reached out with one hand; the small dragon seemed content to spread his wings without leaping immediately into the air.

You are far from home.

“Tell me about it.” She hesitated. Water rose in the shape of a transparent limb and an open hand. Kaylin slowly raised her palm. When the two—flesh and water—connected, she heard the voices of the Tha’alani. Touching the Tha’alaan was always a shock, but never unpleasant; it was like finding an unexpected bonfire on the winter streets of the fief. It promised safety, warmth, and a place to rest. Even if she didn’t belong by birth, she felt welcome when someone else opened the door. She was a guest, here, in a place where there were no secrets and little judgment.

“An’Teela, come. If our kyuthe wishes to marvel at the fount, I will not deny her, but we have the responsibility of the Lady, and we must see to it.”

“I have to go,” Kaylin whispered. “Will you be here?”

If I understand your question correctly, yes. I am bound to this place. It is not a harsh binding, she added, when Kaylin inhaled sharply. But I seldom hear mortal voices.

“Do you hear any voices at all?”

Only one.

She was certain then that the water spoke of the Lord of the West March. “Do you speak to him?”

He does not hear my voice. Sometimes, I hear his. It is not the voice of my people, but I do not fear it.

“Kitling?”

“Coming. Sorry.” She lowered her hand while the small dragon leaped up onto her shoulder and whiffled.

Chapter 4

Beyond the fountain was an open arch that led into a cloister. At the end of this cloister was a door. Kaylin’s arms started to itch on approach. Magic generally had that effect on her skin—but she’d seen so much magic that hadn’t in the past weeks she almost welcomed the familiar sensation. The fountain, which was clearly magical in nature, had had no effect at all.

Neither had the Hallionne, or the cold, gray mist in the outlands.

She had a few dozen questions to ask her magic teacher when she made it back to his classroom.

“Your room, Lord Kaylin, is beyond these doors. Lord Nightshade has similar rooms.” Before she could speak, he added, “They are the rooms occupied by the harmoniste and the Teller respectively, when we are fortunate enough to have them chosen.”

Severn caught her arm before she could ask the most obvious question.

“You will not find my domicile similar to the Hallionne. The Hallionne—when awake—are not comfortable residences for my kin. They are all awake now,” he added. “We have not seen such excitement since the close of the last war. You will have to touch the door ward.”

“Do I have to bleed on it?”

His brows rose, and then he chuckled. “I forget my own youth, it is so far behind me. The Hallionne exact a price for their hospitality that the Barrani do not; they also provide security that the Barrani do not. You have spent time in the High Halls; you will find my abode similar in many respects.”

“The fountain—”

He shook his head. “There are fountains within the High Halls.”

They weren’t the same. Kaylin approached the door and laid her palm against the ward engraved on its surface; her arm went instantly numb at the shock of it. The door ward did not, however, set off alarms in any other way, which made it less painful than the wards in the Imperial Library.

The Lord of the West March nodded and the door rolled open. It was not a small door; the Norannir could comfortably fit through its frame. Kaylin felt dwarfed, but expected as much; the Barrani built everything to make visitors feel small and unworthy.

She felt Nightshade’s amusement and noted that he didn’t likewise have to touch the door.

No, Lord Kaylin. This is not the first time I have visited the West March, you may recall.

“Lord Severn, your quarters are not within this wing, but if you will accompany us, I would speak with you.”

Severn inclined his head. He was watchful, but cautious. She wondered if he’d sleep at all as a guest in these halls. On the other hand, she was fairly certain that no other hall would be open to him.

* * *

The Lady’s room was at the end of a hall so wide and vaulted it looked like the nave in one of the great cathedrals. The doors at the end of that hall were closed, but they suited the hall; they were taller and grander—or at least their arches were—than the exterior doors. She turned to look over her shoulder and was surprised to see that most of the Barrani had departed; to where, she wasn’t certain.

This allowed her to relax, inasmuch as one ever did in Barrani Halls. She understood why the Barrani disliked the Hallionne, but she missed them. The Hallionne were tasked with preventing harm from coming to their guests, and they took their responsibilities seriously. Given that most of the harm that could befall their guests came from their other guests, it worked out well for Kaylin. She wasn’t stupid enough to take on the Barrani in all-out melee, and she wasn’t clever enough to slip poison into their food or drink.

She also wasn’t clever enough to avoid them.

When the doors to the Consort’s chamber were open, the Lord of the West March led Teela toward yet another set of more modest doors on the far end of a more modest hall. There was a small fountain on the left wall, and three slender trees, like artistic pillars, on the right; there were no visible guards.

The doors were warded. Kaylin, whose arm was still numb, was happy she wouldn’t have to open them. Instead, she scurried to catch up with Teela and helped her by turning down the bedcovers. Teela very gently set the Consort down as Kaylin fussed with pillows; there were far too many of them.

“Do not,” the Lord of the West March said, “attempt to heal the Lady.”

Kaylin hadn’t even considered it, given the way Barrani reacted to healing—although the Consort had given her explicit, public permission. “I wasn’t going to. I just... I don’t like her color. Can I remove the armor, or do you expect her to sleep in it?”

The Lord of the West March glanced at Teela. “If you do not consider it demeaning,” he finally said, “you may tend to the Lady; she will not wake.”

Teela’s eyes were markedly bluer, but she said nothing; she wasn’t exactly a stranger to armor and its care. “Honestly,” she said, as she began to undo buckles, “I cannot take you anywhere, kitling. You will note, for future reference, that I do not even remove my own clothing when I bathe in the High Halls.”

“That’s probably why you don’t live in them,” Kaylin shot back.

Teela’s eyes widened. She laughed, and they also changed color. “Maybe,” she said, in Elantran. “When the Lord of the West March forbids healing, he does so for a reason.”

“I healed him.”

“Indeed, which is why I mention healing at all.” She rose and tendered the Lord of the West March an enviably perfect bow. “It is unusual for the Consort to absorb three,” she told him gravely.

“How unusual?” Kaylin asked. She’d been truthful: she did not think the Lady’s color was healthy.

“It has never, to my knowledge, happened before.”

“What usually happens when the—the black bird things fly? Teela, what are they?”

“Before today? They were considered the nightmares of the Hallionne.”

“And now?”

“You saw the eagles.”

Kaylin nodded as if this made sense.

“The eagles were—long ago—considered the heralds of the Hallionne. They kept the Lord of the West March, and his Warden, apprised of any difficulties within their impressive range. There is a reason the West March has never fallen.”

“But...”

Teela sighed. “I will allow one.”

“The Hallionne is lost. Bertolle said as much, I think.”

“Indeed. He did. But the heralds are here, kitling. And they are here because you chose to interfere. No one of us understands how or why—but you’ve known the Barrani for much of your life. How many of us like to loudly proclaim our own ignorance?” Before Kaylin could reply, she added, “Exactly.” Folding her arms, she continued. “The substantiation of the nightmares began several hundred years ago.”

“The shadow birds.”

“Yes. They are not impervious to physical harm, but it was discovered that they seek a target when they appear. They are not easily detected before they do so; nor can they be entirely contained within the Hallionne. The Hallionne,” she added, “is off-limits.”

“I’m not an idiot, Teela.”

“Of course not. The Consort—and to a much lesser extent, the Lord of the West March—has an affinity for these nightmares.”

“She has an affinity for the Hallionne in general.”

“And your point is?”

Kaylin was hungry, tired, and worried. None of which mattered. “The Lady woke the Hallionne.”

“If I recall correctly, she woke the Hallionne to prevent the possible damage or destruction of your little pet.”

The small dragon hissed.

“Fine. It doesn’t matter why—she could wake the Hallionne.”

“It is the responsibility, in times of war, of the leader of the war band.”

“This isn’t a time of war. She woke the Hallionne. Nightshade helped.”

“An’Teela, is this true?” the Lord of the West March said, which showed that he was paying attention to every word.

Teela exhaled. “Yes. You will forgive Lord Kaylin; she is unfamiliar with the Hallionne.”

“I will, of course, forgive her her ignorance—where it is to be found. I am not entirely certain that she is ignorant in this case. Why do you feel the Lady has an affinity for the Hallionne?” His voice was cooler, and his gaze was all blue.

“I think it’s the other way around. I think the Hallionne have an affinity for the Lady,” Kaylin replied. “Bertolle and Kariastos appeared genuinely fond of her. Kariastos told me she was dearer than—”

“Enough.” The Lord of the West March held out one taut hand. “You will not speak of this again.”

Kaylin blinked. She understood that the Barrani considered any affection—or gods forbid—love they personally felt to be an almost unmentionable weakness, but she’d never encountered the inverse.

Teela chuckled, her eyes the safe green that touched none of the Lord of the West March’s. “Lirienne, you will frighten her. Think like a Hawk, kitling.”

She was. She had no doubt that the Lord of the West March believed her; it was because he believed her that he wanted her to shut up. Which meant the Hallionne did, as she pointed out, have an affinity for the Consort.

“If it makes any difference,” she said, “the Hallionne also seemed fond of—or concerned about—Teela.” It did make a difference—to Teela. Kaylin decided to shut up.

I fear it is late for that, Nightshade said.

“How do you explain the nightmares? If they come at random and every Barrani is more or less equal, what does it mean?”

“We do not explain,” he replied. “She is the Lady. You think of her as the mother of our race, and that is not entirely wrong—but it is not the way she is viewed by the Lords. We protect her with our lives because without her, there will be no future for our people. But we understand that she is, in subtle ways, in ways that cannot be measured by our kind, different. Exalted, Lord Kaylin. Much is expected of her because of the burden she is capable of bearing.”

“Have you ever seen the Lake?”

“No.”

“Oh. Was the Lake created by the same ancients that created the Hallionne?”

No one replied. Remembering Teela’s comment about Barrani and their possible ignorance, she didn’t push the point. Instead, she turned back to the Consort. “I don’t like her color,” she said again. “And if she doesn’t wake by morning, you’re going to have to post guards at the doors to keep me out.” She flashed a grim smile.

“If she does not wake by morning,” the Lord of the West March replied, “I will reconsider the matter.”

* * *

Kaylin had one question to ask, and she asked it of Teela as they traveled the hallway, although she knew it was probably unwise. “When the Consort talks of Nightshade, she uses the name Calarnenne.”

“That was his Court name,” Teela replied.

“Yes, but...”

“Did I not tell you I would only allow one but today? If you’re too lazy to even reframe your concern, don’t speak.”

“...I hear his name as if it were his True Name.”

Teela said, “Yes, and...?” as if Kaylin had just said “water is wet.”

“But True Names are dangerous and people don’t like it when they’re spoken, and I don’t want to ask why everyone is using it because I don’t want anyone to know that I know it.”

Teela’s dark brows rose as she stared at Kaylin in bemusement. The laughter that followed filled a hall that was otherwise notable for its utter silence, and made Kaylin feel a good six inches shorter.

“I’m glad you’re finding mortality so funny.”

“Oh, not all mortals, kitling. Just you.”

“That makes it so much better. Could you answer the question so I don’t feel humiliated for no reason?”

“You don’t speak a name. Even when you invoke it, it’s not a simple matter of speech. You call it speech. Others don’t. It’s very like detection of magic. You’re highly sensitive to magic; you can see when a spell’s been cast. You can read the mage’s signature in the shadows of the enchantment.

“Anyone who is capable of detecting magic can. But no two mages see that signature and its effects in the same way.”

“It’s why multiple mages are called in for difficult cases.”

Teela nodded. “And why an appropriate Records trail is so difficult to maintain. When you hear Nightshade’s Court name, you are hearing spoken language. Like any other part of High Barrani, there are guidelines that control form and utterance. But you are hearing only that. When you say ‘Lord Calarnenne’ you are speaking simple words.

“When you speak his name—if you are ever unwise enough to do so—you might scream it and none will hear the whole of the truth; it is not just the mouth that utters the name.”

“I could see the Dragon Outcaste’s name, once.”

“And you’ve never been suicidal enough to attempt to use it.”

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t hold it all in one place for long enough—it’s too big.”

Teela said nothing for a long moment. “I will need to bathe and change before I join the High Court in the dining hall. I would suggest you bathe, as well; the dress is, of course, without blemish—but your hair looks like it’s a nest of weeds.”

“Thanks.”

“This is your room,” Teela said.

“Where’s yours?”

“Closer to Corporal Handred’s. Don’t make that face. The Lord of the West March escorted your Corporal to his rooms; he is guaranteed to have arrived there in safety.”

“He’s not guaranteed to remain that way.”

“No—but then again, neither are the rest of us.” Teela smiled lazily. “Things are unlikely to be boring.”

“I don’t mind a little boredom, Teela.”

“That’s because you have less than a century worth of life in which to contain it. If you were actually immortal, you’d have a different attitude.”

Kaylin snorted. The door to her room was closed and warded. She lifted her left palm and placed it across the ward. What the door ward at the start of the wing had failed to do, this one did: it started to peal, like a series of badly formed, dissonant bells.

“I hate magic,” Kaylin said under her breath. She added a few choice Leontine words in the bargain as sword-wielding Barrani appeared around the corner. The small dragon leaped off her shoulders and headed toward them, which was infinitely worse. Kaylin ran after him in a panic. “Don’t!” she shouted. “I’m used to this kind of nonsense, and I can survive it. I probably can’t survive you turning them into puddles!”

“Puddles?” Teela drawled. She had moved—quickly and silently—to stand by Kaylin’s side, but hadn’t drawn her own sword.

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t, kitling.”

The men who clearly served the Lord of the West March slowed when confronted with a faceful of tiny dragon. Kaylin almost laughed. The small dragon was little and curmudgeonly—but he wasn’t harmless. It was too easy to forget that fact.

“Come back here right now.”

Fluttering, he spun to face her. He squawked.

She held out a hand, and added, “Please?”

Teela glared at them both as the small dragon landed. She said nothing, which told Kaylin that she disapproved of her handling of her companion, and she didn’t trust the guards enough to speak publicly.

The Lord of the West March appeared some fifteen minutes later. The door ward had fallen silent at the arrival of the guards, but the door hadn’t magically opened in the meantime, which left Kaylin cooling her heels in the hall, an annoyed Teela to her left.

“I am beginning to understand,” he said—in Elantran, which was almost shocking, “why you display such antipathy toward magical convenience.” To his men, he said—in the language of the Court, “Lord Kaylin is harmoniste; she does not pose a threat.” He glanced at the small dragon. “You vouch for your passenger?”

As the small dragon was once again lounging across her shoulders, Kaylin nodded.

Teela was not amused.

“Please activate the ward again.”

She did. Her arm was numb; her hand unfortunately wasn’t. The door made a lot of noise, and once again failed to open.

The Lord of the West March frowned. He caught Kaylin’s hand before she could drop it, glancing at her fingers. “Try the other hand,” he said. “Or transfer my ring to this one.”

He noticed her hesitance, but she managed not to let loose with a litany of complaints against door wards and magic in general. Barrani guards tended to take that kind of thing personally. She usually touched door wards with her left hand because she was right-handed, but didn’t feel the need to share; all the Barrani who worked in the Halls of Law appeared to be ambidextrous. She chose to move the ring; her hand was now numb.

But when she touched the door ward again, the door opened.

“Yes,” the Lord of the West March said to his assembled guard, “she wears my symbol. She is as kin in these halls.”

Given the way Barrani generally felt about their kin, this wasn’t saying much.

* * *

Kaylin was, until Bellusdeo’s arrival, used to having some privacy when she walked through her doors. The fact that these doors weren’t hers was driven home by the presence of two Barrani attendants. Teela, who insisted on a sweep of the rooms, didn’t blink; she did give curt instructions—to Kaylin.

“They are here to see to your needs,” she told Kaylin when they departed to prepare the bath. “If harm befalls you while you are in their care, they—and their families—will suffer for it. If you send them away, they will also suffer, although the penalties will be less extreme.”

“Why will they suffer if I send them away?” Kaylin asked. She felt as if she’d stepped onto a bridge and discovered it was actually a tightrope.

“If you send them away, their service will be considered inadequate. It will reflect poorly upon the hospitality of the Lord of the West March.”

“I don’t have attendants in the High Halls,” Kaylin pointed out.

“You do. But they are responsible to me, and I am familiar enough with your idiosyncrasies that I do not choose to censure them. You are not in my domain now. What you do here will affect those who have been chosen—no doubt personally—by Lord Lirienne. You will therefore allow them to assist you. You will treat them as servants who are worthy of consideration and respect—but you will not find them intimidating. If you must feel self-conscious about their presence, do not share. Understood?”

Kaylin nodded.

“We will dine. After dinner, it is likely that the Lord of the West March will call a council meeting. You are a Lord of the High Court; you are not a Lord of the West March. There is some overlap, but it is not one hundred percent. I expect you to be called to that meeting, although I consider it unwise.”

“Can I refuse to go?”

“I have considered the matter with some care. The Lady is not yet awake—and, kitling, I am at least as concerned as you are. Believe that Lord Lirienne is likewise worried. If she were present, I would feel less conflicted—but she won’t be. It is my hope that the council will be delayed until she is awake. The Warden of the West March is unlikely to fulfill that hope.”

Kaylin waited until she was certain Teela had finished. “That wasn’t a yes or a no.”

Teela smiled grimly. “Exactly. The ring you wear grants you a measure of freedom; it also constrains you. Any insult you offer, you offer in the name of the Lord of the West March. Lirienne is, in case you have not carefully followed our history, the direct descendent of the High Lord who caused so much damage to the green. As such, his position is precarious. He is, however, also his mother’s son. He is held in cautious regard.

“He cannot therefore afford political difficulty.”

“Teela, I’m already a political difficulty. I’m mortal, and I’m wearing this dress.” She reached for the heavy gold chain around her neck, adding, “And a Dragon’s symbol.”

“You understand. You have impressed the Warden.”

“Then why are your eyes blue?”

“Kitling, honestly, I am thinking of demanding that you live in the High Halls for a few of your mortal months. This is not a question you should be capable of asking, at this point.”

“I’m beginning to think I’ve done Diarmat an injustice,” Kaylin said.

“Oh?”

“I can safely loath him when he condescends me. Which is pretty much every time he draws breath.”

Teela laughed, her eyes shading to green. “Bathe.”

* * *

Barrani baths were pretty much small, warm pools. Kaylin’s idea of a bath—in her old apartment—generally involved a lot of cold water in a rush. But she had some experience with baths like this one; she’d spent time with Teela in the High Halls. It wasn’t that she hated the Barrani. She wasn’t usually smart enough to fear them, except when their eyes went midnight-blue—and any sane person did that.

They just made her feel self-conscious. They were probably centuries old, but they looked like women—and men—in the prime of a perfect youth. They had no obvious blemishes. They didn’t get fat—or thin. They weren’t short or gangly. They never had pimples.

During a normal day at the office, none of this mattered. Most of the crimes the Halls of Law dealt with involved other people. Other mortals. They were crimes the Barrani considered so trivial it was a wonder any Barrani served the Halls of Law at all.

They’d been part of the department before Kaylin’s arrival; she wasn’t certain how they’d come to serve Marcus. But Marcus was Leontine; the Leontines could go one-on-one with Barrani and expect to come out even. In a frenzy, they could expect to come out on top, in Kaylin’s opinion.

Humans? Not so much.

So she was being served by people who were taller, smarter, stronger, and infinitely more graceful. She was being served by people who probably knew more languages than Kaylin had fingers. She was being waited on—perfectly—by people who, in their youth, probably considered humans to be annoying or endearing pets.

And yes, she felt guilty about it.

So she found their perfect silence oppressive. She found it uncomfortable. Teela’s instructions made it clear that this was Kaylin’s problem—not theirs. The small dragon seemed to agree—but he didn’t apparently care for the silence, either, given the squawking that started up when Kaylin slid quickly into the bath.

The Barrani might have waited on humans day in, day out. They did not, however, wait on small, translucent dragons. When he first set up squawking—at them, apparently—they stiffened, turning immediately to face him as he hovered in front of their faces.

“If you are going to keep that up,” Kaylin said, glaring up the five feet that separated them, “I’m packing you in a small crate and sending you back home.”

Squawk.

“I mean it. They are here to help me bathe and dress. They are not here to drown me. They aren’t here to drown you, either. Cut it out.”

The attendants exchanged a glance.

The small dragon landed on Kaylin’s shoulder and bit her ear. She pulled him off and held him out in front of her face. “I’ve had a pretty crappy day, and I do not need this right now!” Her hands stiffened as she finally noticed the marks on her arms. They were glowing faintly, more bronze than gold. A very Leontine curse followed; Kaylin lifted herself out of the bath, sloshing water on a floor that, when slippery, probably killed people, or at least people who weren’t Barrani.

The small dragon squawked in a quieter way. He looked smug.

Kaylin looked very wet. “The water in this bath,” she said, modulating her voice and forcing it into High Barrani, which was so not the language she wanted at the moment, “where does it come from?”

The two attendants exchanged another glance. Kaylin did her best not to take it personally, and mostly succeeded. “There is a spring; this hall is built around it. The water for the baths within the personal rooms of the Lord of the West March comes from that spring.”

Kaylin frowned. “The fountain in the courtyard—is it connected to the springs in some way, as well?”

“It is.”

She turned immediately to the small dragon and dropped into Elantran; while the Barrani in the city could be expected to know Kaylin’s mother tongue, the Barrani of the West March might not. She considered Aerian, but her Aerian wasn’t as fluent. “It doesn’t matter if the water’s elemental, idiot. It’s safe.”

The small dragon wasn’t having any of it. She had no idea why he reacted so poorly to the water; he hadn’t reacted that way to fire, and fire was, in Kaylin’s opinion, vastly more dangerous.

Or, given he was a miniature dragon, maybe not. The small amount of dignity she did possess was unlikely to hold up in the face of an argument with a pet—and given the reaction of the servants, they seemed to see it as a pet and not a mythical, sorcerous creature. Wilting because she was hungry, she turned to her attendants. “Could we do this bath the old-fashioned way?”

* * *

The Barrani were not, apparently, accustomed to the human version of bathing, since it mostly involved nothing but buckets. It also involved hot water, which was a blessing. They didn’t complain; they asked a few brief questions, their tone neutral enough it couldn’t be called curt. Kaylin toweled her own hair dry, but allowed the Barrani to set it. They combed it to within an inch of Kaylin’s life; she was surprised there was any hair left when they’d finished. She’d picked up an annoying assortment of plant bits on the walk between Orbaranne and the West March; the Barrani obligingly dislodged all of it.

They even brought jewelry. Kaylin politely refused. Her ears weren’t pierced; holes were what other people put into you against your will. She already had one necklace. They didn’t approve, obviously—but also, silently. If Kaylin hadn’t been so certain Teela would rat her out to Sanabalis, she would have left the damn medallion in her room.

And if it is lost?

Losing something significant that belonged to a Dragon was not high on Kaylin’s list of acceptably painless suicides. I’m wearing it, aren’t I?

Yes, you are. You are perhaps unaware that you are the only person in this Hall who could wear it and expect to survive the week?

She hadn’t really considered that at all. It doesn’t mean it won’t upset people.

Nightshade was highly amused. If it upset no one, there would be little point in it. You do not belong in any Barrani Court, but you are here; you wear the blood of the green; your companion is of note to even the most powerful among our kin. Word has almost certainly traveled, Kaylin; the Lord of the West March may find his hall rather more crowded than even he anticipated.

Damn Barrani and their boredom.

You understand.

Chapter 5

In the Halls of Law, the mess hall could get crowded. Unless it was deserted, it was never quiet. There were scores in the wood of old tables and benches, some of which commemorated old war stories, and some of which were part of them. Kaylin didn’t know everyone who worked in the Halls on a first name basis, but she came close.

She was reminded that Barrani weren’t human when she entered the dining hall. Instead of one long table, it boasted three, but each of the three was immaculate. If the tables were wooden, she couldn’t tell; they were covered in pale cloth. The cloth itself was of no fixed color; hues changed as she walked. There were chairs, not benches; instead of candles, there were globes of what looked like hanging water.

Kaylin knew people did this with glass—but glass didn’t ripple and surge like a liquid. She found it disturbing.

It was far less disturbing than the silence that enveloped a relatively quiet hall as she entered. Nightshade hadn’t been wrong; the hall was crowded. The tables were longer than any single table she’d seen, and wider than most of the ones in the mess hall. The chairs were filled. A sharp, rising panic made her dare a sweep of the room to find Teela or Severn; she found Severn first.

“Lord Kaylin.”

At the head of the middle table—a table that was slightly taller than the two that bracketed it—stood the Lord of the West March. He didn’t rise; he hadn’t apparently taken his seat. Which meant, in Dragon etiquette terms, that no one could start to eat. Because she was late.

Being late had never filled her with so much horror.

A glimmer of a smile touched the eyes of the Lord of the West March; he’d clearly chosen to be amused. This set the tone for the rest of the meal—or it should have. For elegant, graceful, stately people, the ones gathered here watched like eagles. Or vultures.

Not vultures, surely, a voice that was not Nightshade’s said.

Her eyes rounded and she had the grace to flush.

Walk, Kaylin. Do not scurry, but do not dally. As you suspect, all eyes—or ears—are upon you. You have a place of honor in this hall while you wear the blood of the green; your place after you have served your purpose will be decided by your behavior before the recitation.

She knew his True Name.

Yes.

Nightshade could—and did—intrude on her thoughts as he pleased; the Lord of the West March had never done so. It hadn’t even occurred to her that he could until he spoke.

This deepened his amusement.

You are unaccustomed to power, kyuthe. It is an advantage—to me. But you are not in the friendly and tolerant environs of the High Halls now.

She didn’t stumble by dint of will. His smile deepened; his eyes were a shade of green that was tinged with blue, but not saturated by it. She didn’t need to tell him that the High Halls did not define either friendly or tolerant in her books, but she had a feeling that if she survived this, it would. At least where Barrani were concerned.

The small dragon raised his head and brought it to the level of her cheek. His wings remained folded, although today they couldn’t do much damage to her hair; she was fairly certain she would never again be able to take it down. Men and women turned in their seats as his head swiveled from side to side.

The servants had almost entirely ignored his existence.

They did not. They were aware of him.

Will they make reports to whoever they work for?

Most assuredly. They are mine. They report to me.

You probably know everything I know already, she said, not bothering to hide the defensive note creeping into her thoughts.

No. I understand what a name means to you. You believe that the interest shown you is unwarranted; you assign it to the blood of the green. Were all else equal, you would be correct. Keep walking.

She did. But she kept her gaze firmly on the Lord of the West March; she glanced once, briefly, at Severn, but looked away.

All else is not equal. You are Chosen; you bear the marks. It is the only reason the blood of the green has not started a minor—and brief—interracial war. You carry a creature on your shoulder that is capable of killing the transformed. My kin do not know what role you played in the liberation of Orbaranne, but they suspect the truth.

The...truth.

That it was not by my hand alone that she was saved.

She had reached the head of the table; the Lord of the West March held out a hand. She slid her right hand into his and he led her to the seat she was meant to occupy; it was to the right of his, across from Nightshade.

All of these things make you a threat. But you spoke to the nightmares of the Hallionne, and woke his dreams. The Barrani of the High Halls, saving only the Consort, lend this little weight in comparison to the rest of the things I have pointed out—but to the West March, it is your single, saving grace. Do not hide it; do nothing—at all—to lessen its impact.

She sat. Her mouth was dry. She was certain that dying animals felt this way when the shadows of vultures passed over them. Before—and after—the bath, she’d been hungry; she was not hungry now. Now, anxiety shoved hunger to one side. The marks on her arms, legs and back were normally hidden; the marks that had, over the course of the year, crept up the back of her neck, were not. Nor was the rune that squatted high in the middle of her forehead.

She’d gotten used to the dress over the past couple of weeks. It was both comfortable and practical; even the long, draping sleeves had more in common with Barrani hair than mortal cloth: they caught on nothing. She could, with a perfectly straight face, make an argument for the dress as a uniform in the Halls—that’s how practical it was.

But the attention the dress now received made it alien and uncomfortable again.

The small dragon nudged her cheek, rubbing his snout against newly clean skin. He warbled.

If she were being honest, it wasn’t the dress. It wasn’t the marks of the Chosen; not even the new one, which, unless she spent time in front of a mirror, she couldn’t see. It was the weight of expectation. It was the certain sense that she’d just punched in above her pay grade, and now had to act as if she worked here.

She’d spent a lot of time in her fourteenth year seething with outrage because no one took her seriously; she could remember it, and it embarrassed her to think about it now. But she’d never understood—even when under Diarmat’s blistering condescension—how much safety there was in that. When no one took you seriously, there wasn’t a lot you could do to screw things up. Nothing you said or did really counted; people expected you to fall flat on your butt.

She’d wanted to be taken seriously. She’d yearned to be treated as an equal. Evanton had once said, Be careful what you wish for, the wizened little bastard. She had a heaping plateful of what she’d wished for, and swallowing even a mouthful was proving difficult.

And why was that?

She remembered eating in the mess hall for the first time. She’d been so proud. That had lasted right up until someone told her that she was the official mascot. She hadn’t reacted well. But—and she realized this now—she’d had the luxury of her very poor reaction. She expected people to look down on her. She looked for signs of it in everything. She bristled with anger at her certainty that everyone was.

She needed some of that anger now, but it was gone.

She was certain everyone at this table looked down on her; Severn was seated at the table to the left, near the foot of the table; Teela had chosen the seat to his right. She couldn’t see them unless she swiveled in her chair, and she knew better.

Where had her anger gone? What had it even been? Oh. Right. She’d been enraged that the Hawks thought they could judge her when they’d had such easy lives. They hadn’t grown up in the shadow of Castle Nightshade. They’d had food, and a place to live, and families that were mostly still alive. They thought she was stupid and naive; they thought she was hapless and ignorant.

She’d wanted to see them survive Nightshade, and then they could sneer at her.

Looking around the table—which she could politely do—she realized that she’d lost that anger. Somehow, when she wasn’t looking, it had frayed, and she’d done nothing to stitch it back together to keep it going. She was no longer certain that the people around her had had easy lives. Yes, they lived forever if left to their own devices, and yes, they were, to a man, stunningly gorgeous and graceful.

But given the chance, Kaylin would live none of their lives. True, she daydreamed about being born Aerian. But Barrani or Dragon? Never. War and death defined the Immortals; they lost eternity to it. If they had friends, they didn’t claim them in public; friendship, affection, even love appeared to be the ugly stepchildren of their races.

“Lord Kaylin,” someone said, and she blinked. It was Lord Barian, the Warden of the West March. His eyes were blue. The eyes of everyone at this table, with the exception of Nightshade, were now blue. She had a sinking suspicion she’d missed something.

No, Kaylin. But you must pay attention now, the Lord of the West March said.

What’s his title?

You may address him as either Warden or Lord Barian. Neither will give offense.

“Lord Barian.” She inclined her head. Her hair felt like a helmet.

“You have joined the High Court only recently.”

“Yes.”

“I am curious. To become Lord of that Court, one must take the test of name; when one does not possess such a name, how is one tested?”

She found the embers of her anger then. “You have no doubt journeyed to the High Halls to take that test yourself, Lord Barian.”

Careful, kyuthe.

Lord Barian met, and held, her gaze. He did not answer.

“The Barrani seldom speak of the particulars of their test. They don’t announce its results. Either they survive, or they do not. I am not, as I’m certain you’re aware, Barrani. My test did not involve any customary ritual; I was given no preparation. Nor was I told not to speak of the experience.” Or at least, not all of it. “But I assume the Lords of the Court hold their silence with cause.

“If you have seen the Tower, you know what waits there. To become a Lord of the Court, in the case of the two mortals who bear the title, all that matters is survival.”

“Will you speak of what you saw?” Another Barrani, farther down the table, said. The woman spoke softly, but clearly, and as silence seemed to have descended on both of the other tables, the room’s acoustics easily carried her words.

Kaylin glanced at the Lord of the West March; he watched her, his eyes slightly narrowed. She looked to Nightshade, whose eyes were emerald; they were probably the only green eyes in the building at the moment.

“Yes.”

If she’d thought the room quiet before, she discovered how wrong she was.

“Mortal memory is not, as you’re all well aware, reliable. It’s not perfect. Elements of what I witnessed have faded. If any who have seen what I saw wish to correct me, I will take no offense.” She thought she heard Teela snort. “I wasn’t raised in the High Halls. I was a visitor there, but the building is immense. I was searching for the courtyard, and I found the Tower instead.

“There was a word on the Tower wall. I could see it. The Barrani who had passed the Tower’s test could see it; the others couldn’t.”

“You...could see the word.”

She nodded. “And I understood that it was both an invitation and a command.”

Nightshade said, “It was an invitation. None can be commanded—not even by the Tower—to take that test. But those who choose to abide untested will never gain a place in the High Lord’s Court.”

Is this your story, or mine?

It depends. If you ask your Corporal, he will assuredly claim that I had some greater hand in its writing.

“I chose to enter the Tower. Lord Severn chose to accompany me.”

“The Tower allowed this?” The woman’s eyes rounded slightly.

“Yes.”

“At the base of the Tower—and arriving at that base was not a simple matter of descending stairs—was a hall that was much rougher hewn than any of the halls I’d seen in the High Halls. At the end of that hall was a cavern.” She fell silent for a long moment, considering her possible words with care.

“The Hallionne were built for a reason,” she finally said. “The Towers in the fiefs of Elantra were built for a reason. The High Halls exist—in the heart of an Empire ruled by a Dragon—” she paused to allow ice to seep into the silence, but did so without apologies; it was true “—for a reason. I met that reason. The test of name is purely a test of resolve, and if you fail your name is lost to the Lake of Life; it is lost until the moment that the creature in the cavernous basement is destroyed.

“What he takes, he holds. I—” She stopped.

The woman who had spoken seemed paler now. “How?”

“Pardon?”

“How does he take what he holds?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Do they suffer?”

Kaylin wasn’t certain how to answer the question, it was asked with such intensity. Honesty, with the Barrani, wasn’t always the best policy; it was less risky than slitting your own throat, but not always in a good way. No one came to her rescue; no one gave her advice on what—or more germane, what not—to say.

“Yes,” she said. “They know where they are. They know they’re trapped.”

Humans—mortals, really—had pretty clear concepts about souls, not that they always agreed with each other. Kaylin had never been clear on the Barrani life and afterlife. Had the trapped people been mortal, it would have been clearer, for a value of clear that left nothing but bitter, helpless rage in its wake.

The woman fell silent for a long moment. “Thank you, Lord Kaylin.”

Kaylin shook her head. She almost reverted to Elantran, but she didn’t recognize this woman as one of the party that had traveled with the Consort, and she wasn’t certain she’d be understood. “I hated it,” she said, voice low. “I couldn’t understand, at first, why the test existed at all.

“But I understood it during the Leofswuld. No one who intends to rule the High Halls—and the Barrani, even if at a distance—can be vulnerable to the forces trapped beneath it.” This was not entirely truthful, but the theory was absolutely sound. “The High Halls houses something ancient and monstrous at its core; it’s meant to stand as a wall against that darkness. Those who have faced it and walk away can hold fast. If someone untested took the seat, what’s leashed there would be free.”

“And you consider that a significant danger.”

Kaylin was nonplussed. “I do.”

“To our people or your own?”

“Both.” The hands that rested in her lap began to ball into fists. “I understand bitterness at the loss. Believe that I understand it. But no one is forced to take that test.”

“Are they not?” was the cool reply. The woman glanced across the table, and her gaze fell squarely upon the Warden of the West March.

“No.”

Teela cleared her throat; it was audible because no one else spoke. Kaylin dared one look at Lord Barian, and regretted it.

“Perhaps,” the Barrani woman continued, “mortal customs are different. Or perhaps your knowledge of the Barrani is inexact. You were not required to take that test—indeed, I imagine that there are those present who would have argued strenuously against such an attempt. But for my kin, there are positions and privileges which accrue only to those who have taken that test and emerged.”

“My knowledge of the Barrani people is, as you suggest, inexact. My knowledge of my own people isn’t. There are positions within society which I’m unqualified to hold. I’ll never be part of the Human Caste Court, and I’ll never be wealthy. I was born in the fiefs, and spent all of my childhood there.” She did not look at Nightshade, because she was angry. Had she wondered where her anger had gone?

“But I choose the work I do now. If I had been told that my job depended on taking this test—and had I been informed that pass or fail was a simple matter of survival—I would have two choices.” She emphasized that last word. “I could have taken the test, in the hopes of keeping my job, or I could have found a different job.”

“And if someone was more than qualified for greater duties, but did not, for the same reasons, choose to undertake such a risk?”

“Then he’d have to find a different job. I understand that you feel there’s not much choice in that. But—it’s a choice, even if it’s a bad one.” She hesitated, and then said, “The Lady has what we would consider an extremely important job. Mortals don’t have True Names; we don’t require a Lady of our own. But not everyone can see the Lake of Life. Not everyone who does see it can hold their own name in abeyance; the desire to join what is there proves too strong.”

Kaylin, how do you know this?

She didn’t answer the Lord of the West March; she concentrated on the Barrani woman.

“Someone who can’t pass the test of name won’t survive the duties of Consort. If the Consort fails, a search will begin for someone new. But every single one of those women will be tested. I imagine the search won’t even extend to those who haven’t passed the test, because—” Her brain caught up with her mouth, and she shut up.

“And if someone was found who could touch the words, but had not taken the test?”

“The words would kill her if she weren’t strong enough to face what is caged in the High Halls. I’m sorry.”

Can I assume that most of the people in the West March don’t take the test of name?

Yes. That would be a safe assumption.

And that you’re ruling as Lord of the West March precisely because you have?

A glimmer of amusement touched Lord Lirienne’s inner voice. Indeed.

And last, that the Warden is qualified in all other ways to be Lord, except this one?

Very good.

Is she his wife?

He laughed, although his expression was all graven sobriety. No. She is his mother.

Kaylin felt a moment of discomfort as she readjusted her frame of reference. But...none of the Barrani ever looked like a mother, to Kaylin. She couldn’t, when it came right down to it, imagine that they could be. She’d never been asked to attend a Barrani birth and wondered idly if they carved their babies out of stone and hauled them to the High Halls only when they felt they could protect their artistry. Birth—of either the Dragons or the Barrani—was not one of the things covered in racial integration classes.

Is there a reason that he’s never taken the test of name?

You will have to ask him, although I do not advise it.

What exactly does the Warden of the West March do?

Centuries past, he replied softly, he spoke with, and tended to, the Hallionne. Lord Barian’s father, and his grandfather before him, absorbed the nightmares of the Hallionne. It is Lord Barian’s duty now.

Your sister is not Lord Barian.

No.

Then why did she—

Do you not understand? She knows the burden borne by the West March, and she knows why they must bear it. She is fully capable of doing what the sons of the West March have done.

And anyone else?

No, Kaylin. It is why they die.

And it’s why they can’t afford to lose him.

Perhaps. But the dreams of the West March fly above this citadel. While they last, they will speak with the Warden.

And not with you.

He did not reply.

* * *

If dinner had ended there, Kaylin would have considered it a win.

The blue-eyed mother of the Warden fell silent. Not to be undone, another Barrani spoke. He was, again, unfamiliar. “I cannot imagine how novel it would be to have a mortal living in the West March. Tell me, Lord Kaylin, how does your experience in the High Halls differ?”

“I’m not a Lord of the Court of the Vale,” she replied evenly. She had pretty much lost her appetite. That wouldn’t stop her from eating.

“No, of course not.”

Now this? This was exactly what she expected from the Barrani. It was, if she was being truthful, what she expected from the Human Caste Court and the moneyed class of her own species.

“There’s no convenient—and impartial—test of fitness,” Kaylin replied evenly. “Although I’m certain just being a citizen of the West March is qualification enough.”

His smile, which was lovely and grating at the same time, froze on his perfect face.

Lord Barian surprised her. He rose. He instantly had the attention of the room, which confirmed Kaylin’s sour suspicion that the pathetic mortal was the evening’s entertainment. “Enough, Avanel. Lord Kaylin is an honored guest. She has touched the dreams of the Hallionne, which is test enough for the Warden’s seat. It is an act of singular grace—and in gratitude, we bid her welcome.”

It was a welcome already extended by the reigning Lord of the West March; he did not, in any way, demur. But he watched the Warden; the Warden’s glance stopped, briefly, at his, as he surveyed the gathered dignitaries of both Courts.

Avanel didn’t apologize. Nor did Kaylin expect an apology; she imagined that the humiliation of being forced to do so would make her an enemy for life. Dinner was served; wine was offered. A silence broken by the muted syllables of distant conversation ensued, like an armistice.

The next jab at the mere mortal wasn’t aimed at Kaylin; the Warden’s word appeared to be law. No, the next question came one table over, where Severn was seated.

“Lord Severn.”

She turned to see who was speaking and caught the back of a head. The voice was male; the clothing marked the wearer as West March. More than that, she couldn’t tell, and she turned back to her food.

“Lord Tanniase.”

“It has been some time since a mortal has chosen to visit the West March.”

Severn appeared to be eating; he wasn’t doing a lot of speaking.

“In fact, I believe the last time one visited, he was not a member of the High Court. His circumstances were, however, highly unusual. Perhaps you recall them?”

“Mortal memory is imperfect, Lord Tanniase.”

“Yet you remember me.”

Severn failed to reply.

“Perhaps you interact with many of our distant kin in your fabled city. The journey to the West March is not one to be undertaken lightly, yet you chose to make it.”

“I did. I believe my sponsor of the time obtained all requisite permissions, and the Hallionne did not refuse me their hospitality.”

“The Hallionne do not decide.”

“No. I believe the Lord of the West March did.”

“In exchange for the warmth of our welcome, you killed a man and took an heirloom with you when you departed.”

Kaylin concentrated on her food, which was hard. She wanted to push her chair back from the table, get up, and move to stand by Severn’s chair. But he wouldn’t appreciate it, and neither would anyone else in the room. She’d never appreciated the visceral nature of Leontine culture quite so much.

“Your memory is harsher than mine,” Severn replied. “I was given the heirloom in question because I defeated a Barrani Lord in single combat. I appreciate the concern you feel on behalf of your kin, but believe it misplaced in this case; the weapon was not, and would never have become, yours.”

Eat, Kaylin. If you are concerned for Lord Severn, your concern is misplaced.

Is it true? Did he come here to kill a Barrani Lord?

He came, and a man died. Had he, as implied, attempted to steal the weapon he now carries, it would have destroyed him. While he lives, he wields it. It was damaged in the outlands, and there are craftsmen here who might see to its repair. They may well refuse, he added. But I think it unlikely. He is mortal. The weapon will return to our kin in a brief handful of years.

Why did you give him permission to travel here? When?

I am not at liberty to tell you if you do not already know. He is, in many ways, yours—but he is a man, not a child. He does not require your permission; nor does he require your knowledge.

“Perhaps we will test your knowledge of our artifacts,” Lord Tanniase replied. His voice implied eyes of midnight-blue.

“You propose a challenge?” Severn’s voice was softer. Colder.

Who brought him here?

The Lord of the West March failed to answer.

To Kaylin’s lasting surprise, Lord Evarrim spoke. “Lord Tanniase.”

“Lord Evarrim.”

“I would, of course, enjoy the spectacle of a Lord of any Barrani Court issuing a challenge to one merely mortal; I am certain it would afford us all some amusement. But the outlands appear to be held against us, and the legion of the transformed occupy the forests. The recitation will occur, regardless; if you wish to lower yourself to such a challenge, it might be advantageous to do so when the recitation is complete.”

“Are you implying that I might lose such a challenge?”

Lord Evarrim did not reply.

Kaylin couldn’t tell whether or not Evarrim’s comment was a not-so-subtle goad, but she knew Severn was in no shape to accept such a challenge. He could be in perfect health, and it would still be dicey—enough that Kaylin would bet real money against him.

She ate. The food might have been sawdust. She didn’t touch the wine, but remembered enough to use the right utensils. The entire meal reminded her of the entrance exam she had undergone in order to join the Hawks as more than their official mascot. It was worse because she’d wanted to be a Hawk so badly. Passing this exam, on the other hand? The only possible work advantage was that it might prove she was fit for the delicate investigations that involved Barrani—and that meant more time with Barrani.

She was enormously grateful when the ordeal ended. Lord Tanniase had not challenged Severn to a duel. She had been asked no more questions about the High Court, the High Halls, or her unenviable lifespan. She had not, that she was aware of, embarrassed her race or her profession.

But when the Lord of the West March rose, signaling an end to dinner, the Warden rose, as well.

“Lord Kaylin,” he said, bowing.

She froze. She was accustomed to being the butt of several jokes; she was even accustomed to condescension. Respect, when it was offered, made her ill at ease; she was certain some game was being played, and she didn’t want to become a game piece on whatever board the Barrani had chosen.

But she returned the bow with a nod, stiffening her knees as she remembered the protocols of theoretical equals. “Lord Barian.”

“I would converse with you about matters concerning the West March,” he said. “If your time is not already spoken for, and you are willing to do so, I extend the hospitality of my humble halls for the evening.”

She glanced automatically at the Lord of the West March; his eyes were a cautious blue, but not an angry one. He offered her no guidance. She wanted to say no; she’d had enough testing for one evening. But she wanted to offer no offense, either—not by accident. His intervention had prevented the dinner from descending into mortal-baiting; she owed him.

He noted her hesitation; it wasn’t brief.

“I extend my offer of hospitality to Lord Severn; he is, if I am a judge of mortal character, your man.”

“I would be honored,” she said.

He nodded. It became instantly clear to whom; four men rose and joined him. As did his mother.

Will you at least tell me her name?

Amusement. She is Avonelle.

Kaylin wondered why all Barrani names sounded so similar. Is she Lord Avonelle?

She is not a Lord of the High Court, as her questions tonight made clear.

Will I seem too obsequious if I call her Lord Avonelle?

No. You have chosen to grace her son with a title that you are not, by etiquette, required to use; extending the same courtesy to his mother would not seem obsequious.

She caught the hidden currents behind that thought and grimaced. Even for the Lord of the West March, fawning respect from mortals was not considered pandering; it was considered inevitable. The Barrani Hawks didn’t expect it. But with the single exception of Teela, none of them had a place in the High Court.

Tanniase?

He is a Lord. I understand that you absent yourself from both the Court and its unfortunate politics, but you must learn who comprises that Court. It is relevant, even in the West March. It cannot be irrelevant when the High Halls stand at the heart of your city.

She made a mental note to ask Teela for this information when she had the leisure time to memorize it. She was unlikely to forget Tanniase, however.

Chapter 6

Before she departed for the Warden’s so-called humble halls, she excused herself. She didn’t offer to change, since she was afraid to insult the dress; she did want to let her hair down—literally—because it was so tightly bound it made her scalp hurt.

Severn also excused himself to change; he wasn’t wearing clothing that was demonstrably more valuable to everyone present than he himself was. This left Teela serving as her unofficial escort.

“I guess they didn’t call a council meeting,” Kaylin said as Teela led her to the rooms she’d have had a hard time finding.

“As you surmise. I consider the Warden’s offer of hospitality to be at least as dangerous, but there was no politic way to refuse his offer. I’m surprised you realized that.”

“I wasn’t worried about being politic,” Kaylin replied. “He stuck up for me; I owed him one.”

“I have warned you in the past about naïveté and optimism, haven’t I?”

“Every other day. And no, that’s not an exaggeration. Do you think the Warden is playing some kind of game?”

“Yes. It may not be a game of which you will disapprove. Do not needlessly antagonize him.”

“Or his mother?”

“I fear it is late for that. Avonelle is the Guardian of the green; she has held that title for centuries. The Warden, in theory, has more power, but theory is always tenuous. Understand that Lord Barian was not her only son; he is merely the only one to survive.”

“Did the rest fail the test of name?”

“No. She lost one son in the last war; the other made the journey to the High Halls and failed to return. Barrani mothers are not mortal mothers; mortals feel that immortality, such as it is, is the continuance of their line. The Barrani do not age; we assume that we will exist for all of eternity. We might therefore bear a child every few centuries, if we so choose.”

“I saw her at the table, Teela. I know what I saw.”

“Yes. It is rumored—and it is only rumor—that she had ambitions for her youngest son; it was he who chose to take the test of name. His brother has not made the same choice; he is the last of her sons. His line is the line of Wardens, through his mother; if he is lost in the same way, it spells an end to the Wardens of her blood unless she bears another son.”

“Is it like the position of Consort?”

“No. But there are some similarities.”

“Can anyone become Lord of the West March?”

“It is a hereditary title—but yes; the green does not privilege the politics of either Court. The Lord rules, but the Warden serves. It is therefore the position of Warden that the green husbands.”

“Teela—what is the green?”

Teela smiled. “I do not know. Perhaps if I knew, I would understand why I alone, of the twelve gathered here, was spared.” She hesitated, and then added, “Avonelle was my mother’s sister.”

* * *

The Consort had not wakened; nor had she moved in her sleep. She was a color that Kaylin associated with death. “Is she—is she breathing?” she asked.

Lord Lirienne inclined his head, his expression grave.

“Should I try to wake her?”

“I am not my sister.” It was stated as if it were a reply.

Kaylin understood that this man was the Lord of the West March; that he had power and rank; that he was immortal. But she couldn’t find the fear that would have forced her to be cautious. “Can I pretend I asked that question again?” She spoke Elantran.

He raised a brow. “To wake her, you will attempt to heal her.”

“Not necessarily. I can’t heal her if there’s nothing physically wrong with her.”

“And how would you determine that?” When Kaylin failed to answer, he said, “I will keep watch tonight. If there is any deterioration, I will summon you.” He placed his palm over his sister’s hand.

* * *

Avonelle was not waiting when Kaylin returned to the Warden and his men. Severn was. He glanced at her and she shook her head once. She didn’t feel a great desire to discuss the Consort’s health in front of total strangers.

The Warden’s home was not, by any stretch of the imagination, humble—at least not as mortals understood it. It was as tall and imposing as the building that housed the Lord of the West March; it was not, however, built the same way.

The home of Lord Lirienne boasted a large amount of stone; it contained the central courtyard with its fountains, and also played home to a theoretically natural source of hot water. The home of the Warden reminded Kaylin of the Hallionne Sylvanne, at least from the outside.

The door was a large tree.

Many of the homes in Elantra were made of wood—but that wood had pretty much stopped growing, on account of being cut down. The doors that led to those homes also boasted things like hinges. And handles. Here, she stared with some dismay at the bark of a very wide tree, glancing nervously at the small dragon.

“I don’t have to bleed on this door, do I?”

Severn winced, and she realized she’d fallen straight into her mother tongue in the presence of the Warden of the West March. He didn’t wince.

“No, blood isn’t necessary,” he replied, in Elantran. “You visited the Hallionne Sylvanne on your journey here.”

“I did.”

“My hall is not sentient. What peace exists within it, I preserve. The door is warded.”

Why had she thought this was a good idea? “I have a little problem with door wards.”

“How so?”

“Sometimes they object to my presence. It’s not all door wards,” she added, as he looked down his nose. “But—the ones in the Imperial Palace, and at least one in Lord Lirienne’s home—” She grimaced. “It’s harder to explain than to demonstrate.”

“It will not harm you?”

“No. Not directly.”

“Does it harm the ward?”

She should be so lucky. “It hasn’t harmed any of the wards so far.” She lifted her left hand, and placed the palm firmly against the midsection of the trunk. It was a guess; there didn’t seem to be much in the way of obvious markings.

But the small dragon considered it all boring; he didn’t hiss, leap up, or bite her hand.

The door opened, in a manner of speaking; the tree dilated, the bark folding back in wrinkles, as if it were cloth. Usually Kaylin would be grateful for the lack of fuss; today, it was slightly humiliating.

“It appears that my wards do not consider you a danger to my home,” Lord Barian said. If he was amused, he kept it to himself. He entered and turned to offer her an arm; he nodded at Severn, and the four men Kaylin assumed were his guard stepped back to allow Severn entry.

The interior of the Warden’s home matched the exterior in many ways; the halls were as tall as the High Halls, but they weren’t made of stone—or at least the supporting beams weren’t; they were trees. They grew, evenly spaced; their branches formed the bower of a ceiling. Through the gaps in wood, Kaylin thought she could see stars, but she had a feeling that rain, when it fell, didn’t penetrate the branches the way light did.

He caught the direction of her gaze, because she had to tilt her head and expose her throat to see it. “Does it worry you?”

She shook her head. “This is what I imagined the dwellings in the West March would look like.”

“Why? The High Halls are marvels of architecture, and they are all of stone.”

“The High Halls are in the heart of a city. There are roads and neatly tended lawns and spaces in the inner city where very little that isn’t weeds grow. The West March is in the heart of a forest. I could walk for days—maybe weeks—and not meet or hear another living person.” She hesitated, and then added, “I thought forests would feel like this: grand and ancient and hushed.”

“They did not meet your expectations?”

“There were a lot of bugs and a lot of the transformed. I didn’t really get a sense of peace.”

He smiled. “There is peace here, at the moment. Come. If you wish sight of stars, we might speak in the bowers above.”

* * *

This was not a place for the old or the exhausted. The bowers above involved a walk around the central pillar in the hall—a tree which was fitted with a narrow, spiraling staircase. It was as tall as the Hawklord’s tower, but the stairs were all filigree from the looks of them; Kaylin could see the ground beneath her feet. The Barrani didn’t feel a great need for something as practical as rails, either.

But the stairs did exit onto a platform that seemed to be part of the tree. A bench girded the trunk; it, like the branches, was not shaved of bark. There was something about it that felt natural, rather than unfinished.

The branches here rose; they offered an unimpeded view of the West March—at this height, it appeared to be mostly trees—and the night sky.

“This dwelling is considered rustic,” he said softly. “But it is the seat of the Warden; it has been my home for all but a few decades.”

“Were the rest spent in the High Halls?”

“Yes. In the shadow of a Dragon, surrounded by a sea of mortals and the specter of failure.”

She glanced from the sky to the Warden; no trace of humor touched his expression.

“I hated your city. I hated the noise, the smell, the lack of peace; it is never silent unless one is encased in the stone of the High Halls.”

“You found them suffocating,” Kaylin guessed.

He nodded. “I do not hear the voice of the green when I am in your city.”

“Can you hear it now?”

He did smile then. Kaylin had been cautioned not to trust the Barrani; at times, it was hard.

“Ah. Can you see them?”

She squinted obligingly into the night sky. She could see treetops, the occasional glimpse of a building’s roof, and a lot of stars. She was about to remind the Warden of the marked inferiority of mortal vision when she caught a glimpse of wings.

She glanced at his face; the entirety of the deck was bathed in a gentle luminescence. His eyes, as he watched the eagles, were green. They were the color of the dress she wore. His eyes rounded as the eagles approached; he stood and walked to the edge of the platform. It had rails—but they were decorative, and they were short.

Severn was a shadow on this deck. He had not spoken, and hadn’t moved, since they’d arrived. When she cast a worried glance in his direction, she was surprised; she’d expected him to be wary and watchful. He was the latter, but his eyes were on the approaching eagles, his lips turned up in a half smile that seemed almost unconscious.

When they were close, the Warden held out one arm. “Lord Kaylin, if you would do the same, they will both land.”

She held out one arm looking so dubious that Severn chuckled. “I don’t have arm guards. I have a dress I’m sure it’s an act of treason to damage, and given the Barrani, it won’t matter if the eagles cause that damage. I’m wearing it. It’ll be my fault.”

The first of the eagles landed on the raised arm of the Warden.

The second landed on Kaylin’s left forearm. As it alighted, the marks on her arms began to glow. If she’d had suspicions that these weren’t real birds, it was confirmed; this one weighed no more than the small dragon.

The small dragon, however, sat up. He warbled.

“Well met,” the eagle said—to the small dragon. The Warden turned at the sound of his voice. The eagle on his arm said, “And well met, Barian. It has been long indeed since we have spoken.”

“Too long,” the Warden replied. He lifted his free hand and gently stroked the bird’s head, as if it were the head of a newborn babe. “What does the recitation hold for us?”

The eagle surprised them both. He answered. But he answered in a language that, while tantalizingly familiar in its parts, failed in all ways to cohere. Kaylin turned to Lord Barian. “Did you understand a word of that?”

He laughed. It was a shock of sound, coming as it did from a Barrani. “Perhaps one. I am fond of the sound of it; they spoke it often in my childhood.”

“Your language is confining,” the eagle on Kaylin’s arm said. “But you are a confined people, huddling in your singular shapes; you are easily broken.”

She frowned. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard this. “The Warden calls you the dreams of the Hallionne.”

“He does.”

“But you came from the shadows he called the nightmares of the Hallionne.”

“Did we?”

“Yes. What landed in my hands a few hours ago were shadows. But you emerged from them when—”

“Yes?”

“When the marks on my arms started to glow.” It sounded lame even to Kaylin, and she’d said it.

“Are we, brother?” her bird said to the bird on the Warden’s arm. “Are we dreams or nightmares?”

“They are the same,” the other bird replied. “Dream. Nightmare. They are things done beneath the surface of the world.”

“So...you don’t feel any different than you did when you landed?”

They regarded each other for a long moment, and then turned their beady eyes—and she’d seldom seen eyes that fit that description so perfectly—on Kaylin. “Did we land?”

“More or less the same way you landed just now, but with less feathers.”

They regarded each other again, and Kaylin snorted. What had been a suspicion was hardening into certainty as they spoke. “When I visited Hallionne Bertolle, his brothers woke. I don’t know if Bertolle has dreams; I don’t know what the Hallionne of the West March is called. No one speaks his—or her—name.”

“No one who dwells in this small enclave has ever spoken his name,” the bird replied. “Bertolle’s brothers have woken from the long sleep?”

“They had a little help,” Kaylin said, with sudden misgivings. She was certain she’d have bruised shins if Teela had come with them. “Were they not supposed to wake?”

But the birds now had words for each other, and as they conversed in their odd, melodious language, she turned to Lord Barian, who was staring at her. “What it is that you truly do in the city of Elantra?” His eyes were blue—but they weren’t the shade that meant anger or suspicion.

“I’m a Private. I serve the Halls of Law in that capacity. I hope one day to be Corporal.”

“Truly? You bear those marks, you can speak to the sleeping lost brethren of the Hallionne Bertolle, and you can wake the dreams of Hallionne Alsanis, yet you work as a Private? I recall very little about the Halls of Law; it is an institution that is irrelevant to the Barrani.”

“It’s not. For crimes Barrani commit against each other, the laws of exception can be invoked by the party deemed to be the injured party. But for crimes committed against other races, the Barrani are under the purview of the Imperial Hawks.”

“And if not the Hawks, the Wolves?”

Kaylin shrugged. “The Emperor.”

“It has long been a marvel to me that he shelters behind the ranks of his mortals.”

She shook her head, determined not to be offended, although it was hard. “We’re not there for his protection, of course. We’re there for the protection of the rest of the city. If the Emperor so chooses he can burn down half the city—but most of the people who die in the resultant fire won’t be criminals. We do what his fire can’t. Is Alsanis the name of the Hallionne that was lost?”

“Yes. Does An’Teela still serve the Imperial Hawks?”

“She does. Neither of us are here as Hawks; we’re outside of our jurisdiction.”

“Do you consider her a friend?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know her history?”

“I can’t possibly claim to know all of it, but I know what happened in the West March when she was young enough to be considered a child—and I know that she eventually came back, and she wore a variant of the same dress I’m wearing now. I know how her mother died. I know where. And I know that it’s considered an act of high treason to attempt to do now what was attempted then.” She tried to dampen the heat in her voice, and slid back into High Barrani. You could insult someone in High Barrani, but you had to work harder to do it.

“I did not come here to discuss Teela.”

“No.”

“Why did you ask me here?”

“We asked,” the eagles said in unison.

“The Consort touched the nightmares of the Hallionne, and she has not yet awakened. Lord Lirienne,” she continued, choosing to forego the title that seemed to vex Lord Barian’s mother, “said that the Warden absorbs those nightmares, except when the Lady is present.”

“I would accept them, regardless, but it is proof that she is present. Lord Lirienne took two war bands and left the West March in haste, at the urging of the Hallionne Orbaranne. We did not know if either he, or the party that set out from the city, survived.”

“How did he know to leave?”

“You will have to ask him. I do not speak with any of the Hallionne except Alsanis—and even that speech is limited. I touch the edges of his dreaming, and his nightmare, no more. My grandfather spoke to the Hallionne frequently. After the disaster in the green, he could still communicate with Alsanis; it became more difficult with the passage of time.

“They’re not trapped in the Hallionne,” Kaylin said. She meant the transformed. The lost children. He knew.

“They were,” he replied. “The Hallionne’s defenses are strong; what occurs within its walls occurs at the heart of his power. The Hallionne were not, and have never been, what we are; they have a breadth of experience that we could not survive. The children are called lost for a reason; they are no longer Barrani in any meaningful way.”

“Are they the nightmares of the Hallionne?”

“No.”

“Nightmares first, lost children later.” She hesitated and then said, “They remember who—and what—they were.”

“Demonstrably; they would not be so great a danger to us otherwise.”

“Dreams of Alsanis,” Kaylin said quietly to the two eagles, “how do I wake you? When you landed in my hands, did you sense me at all?”

They glanced at each other. “Yes. You wear the blood of the green, and beneath its folds, you bear the marks of the Chosen.”

“Can you read them?”

They turned to stare at each other, and then once again, at Kaylin. “Can you not?” one finally asked.

It was embarrassing to admit her failure to the large birds, but ignorance wasn’t a crime. “No.”

“But—”

Severn joined her, sliding an arm around her upper back. “Have you spoken with others who bear similar marks?” he asked.

“Yes. Not often. We are not Chosen. The Hallionne are not Chosen. They could not be and do what must be done; they do not travel.”

Neither did Kaylin, if she had any choice in the matter. She kept this to herself.

“Were the others able to read the marks?”

“How could they not? The marks were of them.”

“I didn’t choose the marks,” Kaylin said quietly.

“Then how do you bear their weight?”

“They chose me.”

“How can you do what must be done if you cannot read what is written?”

“The marks didn’t come with instructions,” Kaylin said, voice flat.

Severn, however, said, “Can you tell her what they say? Can you tell her what task they’re meant to accomplish?”

They glanced at each other again. “We are not Chosen,” they finally said—in unison. They said more, but it was unintelligible; it was clearly language, and just as clearly beyond her grasp.

She lifted a hand. “Can you teach me the language you speak?”

They considered each other again. “It is vexing,” the one on Barian’s arm said, “but we do not believe it can be taught to such a small mind. You cannot speak it.”

“But the marks would not be given to one who is mute,” the other eagle said.

“Demonstrably they were,” Kaylin said. She was annoyed; no one liked to be talked about in the third person when they were in the literal middle of a discussion. “Wait.”

Severn knew that tone of voice.

“Can the lost children speak the language?”

There was a long pause. “Yes,” the eagle on Barian’s arm said, the single word spoken in sorrow. “Yes, now they can.”

“Did the Hallionne teach them?”

The eagles fell silent. Kaylin reached out and grabbed the leg of the bird on her arm before it could fly; Barian’s eagle was already gone.

“I won’t ask more,” she said softly. “But I need to understand what you are.”

“We are the dreams Alsanis,” the eagle replied gravely. “What we see and know, he sees and knows—but he can no longer discern what is fixed in place.”

She rushed onward. “The Wardens take the nightmares of Alsanis.”

“They do. It is to the Wardens that we come, when we are conscious.”

“Do the nightmares end?”

“End?”

“When we—when mortals—have dreams or nightmares, they end when we wake. Sometimes they drive us in terror from sleep, they feel so real. Will the Consort wake from the nightmares of Alsanis?”

“Barian,” the eagle said, “does she speak truth?”

“She speaks truth as mortals perceive it, although mortals are capable of lying.”

“What would be the point in lying now?” Kaylin said, in frustrated Elantran. “Nightmares aren’t reality. Lying about them won’t change either the nightmares or real life.”

“The nightmares of Alsanis are not the nightmares of mortals,” was Barian’s reply.

“I’m beginning to understand that. Most mortal nightmares don’t fly through the air, land on a person, and get absorbed. Will the Consort wake?”

The eagle said, “Take me with you, Chosen. Take me to her.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“The Barrani do not sleep.”

“Yes, but she’s sleeping now.”

“Take me with you,” the eagle said again. To the small dragon, he spoke unintelligibly; the small dragon squawked. “Barian, it would be best if you accompany the Chosen.”

“I have offered her the hospitality of the Warden’s perch,” he replied.

“Can I just say one thing? I’m not Barrani, and mortals do need sleep.”

“The marks you bear should protect you,” the eagle replied.

Kaylin looked down the long spiraling stairs. Sleep wasn’t in the cards. She released the eagle’s leg.

* * *

“My apologies, Lord Kaylin,” Lord Barian said. His eyes were the more familiar shade of blue, at least where Barrani were concerned. “I did not intend this.”

She said nothing for about twenty steps. “Lord Lirienne said that the Wardens of the West March die prematurely because of the burden of the nightmares. Is he wrong?”

“He is not.” Barian’s words were stiff.

“Five nightmares came out of the trees on the edge of the West March. Is that normal? Is that what usually happens?”

“No, Lord Kaylin.”

“Call me Kaylin, or just skip the name. I don’t particularly care for the title ‘Lord.’”

Silence. It was broken by Lord Barian, and only after another twenty steps had gone by. “It is a title you earned.”

“Yes, but it’s only important to Barrani, and none of the Barrani Hawks use it. It doesn’t change my job description. It doesn’t change my duties. And it sounds pretentious.”

He laughed. She actually liked the sound of his laughter. At any other time, she might have joined him.

“If five such nightmares are unusual, and they arrived at the exact same time as the Consort, did it not occur to you to intervene or give her warning?”

“You must have known,” he replied. “You intervened.”

“Yes—but you might have done the same. You’re the Warden. I’m a Private in service to the Imperial Hawks.”

“And yet you did intervene. Why?”

“Because she’s the Consort and whatever the black birds were they were clearly causing a lot of pain!” She struggled to hold on to her temper, but every step of descent increased her anxiety. Anxiety was a product of fear, and Kaylin had never handled fear well.

“And it was your responsibility as Lord of the Court to come to her aid.”

“No!” She exhaled. “Yes.” She slowed and tried to walk in a more measured, less stomping, way. “Tell me how the nightmares affect you.”

“Do you generally speak about your mortal nightmares?”

“Only if I’m feeling spiteful and want to bore the guys in the office.”

“Lord Severn?”

“She means it literally. She does speak from time to time of her nightmares; it is not uncommon in mortal cultures.” Severn spoke in High Barrani. “If the Consort fails to wake—and Kaylin is beginning to realize that this is now likely—it is Lord Kaylin who will attempt to wake her.”

“How?”

“How did Lord Kaylin touch the dreams of the Hallionne?” he replied, his voice the essence of the calm Kaylin lacked. “She does not ask for the information to imply any weakness upon the part of the Wardens; no more does the Consort accept the burden of those nightmares as criticism. But Lord Kaylin is awake; the Consort is not.

“The Lady was forced by circumstance to fully wake Bertolle; she was forced, only a few days later, to wake Kariastos. Were it not for the Consort, it is my belief—my mortal belief—that the Hallionne Orbaranne would now be lost. The Consort’s ability to speak to the green has been tested without pause since she left the High Halls. It is possible that the absorption of these nightmares, without the prior wakenings, would not have unduly taxed her; we will never know.

“What we now know is that she sleeps. What Lord Kaylin asks, she asks because any information might provide prior warning.”

“Prior warning?”

“Lord Kaylin is a healer,” Severn said.

Chapter 7

In general, Barrani were more likely to be impressed if Kaylin was introduced as a rabid, three-headed dog. Kaylin stumbled, and righted herself on the side of the tree. She glanced at Barian, whose eyes were predictably darker in shade.

“Barrani do not require sleep,” he said. “In that, you are correct. Frequently, when in the sleeping Hallionne, my kin will do so; it passes time. Sleep is therefore not a foreign concept. We are not often visited by either dream or nightmare in the mortal sense; I believe, in cases where sanity is not in question, sleep is required for mortals to experience either state.”

“You have nightmares when you’re awake?”

“In a fashion. We do not seek the nightmares of the Hallionne for the simple experience—although there are those among my kin who might for the novelty of it. The Wardens absorb the nightmares of the Hallionne in part because they are, and have been for centuries, our only contact with Alsanis.”

Kaylin concentrated on the descent, her hand hugging bark, her forehead growing permanent furrows. “Why are the Wardens the keepers of the Hallionne?”

“If you mean to ask why the other Hallionne have no visible keepers, I commend you on your observation. The answer is twofold. I will give you the common and accepted variant. The Warden tends the green. The heart of the West March is the heart of the green; it is where the ancient stories are remade and renewed. Ancients once lived in the West March; the forests and the environs were their creation.

“It is said that the Ancients who created our race chose to dwell here.” He fell silent until the descent ended, once again, with solid floor. Kaylin, by dint of lessons with Diarmat, had learned to wait; she didn’t press him for the second explanation.

“The Lord of the West March has said little about the battle surrounding the Hallionne Orbaranne. What I know is this: many of the men and women who set out into the forest at Orbaranne’s urgent request were lost. Those who returned spoke of the transformed, and a forest infested with the particular danger they posed.

“They thought the unthinkable, when they arrived within range of Orbaranne: that the Hallionne had fallen.”

Kaylin said nothing. She knew, better than anyone, how close that had come to being the truth.

“I have also been told that the danger passed, and only when it had—and miles of forested land had been utterly leveled—did you exit the Hallionne at the side of the Lord of the West March. You did not enter it by his side.”

“No.”

He paused again, falling silent as the Barrani often did when they were sifting through their perfect memories. “You spoke of the brothers of the Hallionne Bertolle.”

She nodded.

“They were, at one point, kin to the being that ascended. They were, in a loose sense, his family. They remained with the Hallionne, asleep in the heart of his domain. Did you likewise see Orbaranne’s kin?”

She shook her head. “Orbaranne didn’t have brothers—not the way Bertolle once did.”

“Did you speak with the Hallionne Orbaranne?”

She hesitated. He marked it. But she finally said, “Yes. We waited together for the Lord of the West March. I think she knew he was coming; I certainly didn’t.”

“Did anything about Orbaranne strike you as unusual?”

“I’m not Barrani. I don’t generally enter the Hallionne, and as far as I can tell, the Barrani don’t really like them. But now that you ask, yes. Orbaranne seemed almost human, to me. I’ve been inside other buildings that have personalities and voices. Most of them can appear human, but they’re really not.” He led and she followed, thinking. “The transformed tried to destroy Orbaranne.”

“Yes.”

“Iberrienne kidnapped hundreds of humans in order to do so.” She hesitated again. “When they failed, she kept the humans within the Hallionne. She said they wouldn’t be able to remain for long—but they were her guests.”

“And guests are the reason for the Hallionne’s existence.”

Kaylin nodded, her frown deepening. “Is it possible that she was mortal, when she chose to become Hallionne?”

“That is a question only the Ancients—or the Hallionne herself—could answer. Did you note anything else about Orbaranne?”

Had she? Kaylin remembered the last glimpse she’d had of the Hallionne.

Hallionne were buildings, like Tara was a building. They could hear what anyone within their walls was thinking—and their walls could be immense; the outer dimensions didn’t confine the interior at all. Within their realms they were like small, distinct gods; they could change the furniture under your butt if you thought it was uncomfortable. They could re-create—down to the smallest of details—an apartment you’d lived in for most of your adult life, even if you couldn’t remember them as clearly yourself.

So it wasn’t a surprise that Orbaranne could re-create the festival gates of Elantra. It wasn’t a surprise that she could map out the streets and the buildings—in varying states of repair—that girded them. But she couldn’t create the people.

And for a brief time, she didn’t have to. She had guests—she’d called them guests—in the form of over a hundred humans who had been taken, marked, and dramatically altered by Barrani. They couldn’t leave; Orbaranne knew that. But she couldn’t keep them, either. While they were willing to stay, she provided them the comforts of the best parts of home.

Which was the duty of a Hallionne.

But it wasn’t why. Kaylin knew. She’d seen the expression on Orbaranne’s Avatar. Orbaranne was happy. She had company.

“I think—I think the Hallionne get lonely,” she finally said. She expected Barian to say something dismissive; if Teela were here, she certainly would have.

But he said, with a pained half smile, “Yes. Even Alsanis. We would visit, as very small children. My earliest clear memories are of Alsanis. He was always bemused by infants, and there were so few. He expected us to be able to assume adult form instantly, and at will.”

“Alsanis was like Bertolle?”

“I do not know Bertolle. I have never spoken with him. But I believe you would find them similar. The hospitality of the Hallionne was not, of course, required by the denizens of the West March; we did not go to his halls for protection or escape. We paid our respects. We listened to his stories. Ah, no, not the regalia—but stories of a bygone age, in which nothing in the universe was solid or fixed.

“Imagine a world in shape and form like the Hallionne: ever-changing, always responsive, always both ancient and new. The second duty of the Wardens, and the duty that is only rarely referenced, is that: we were his distant, lost kin. We kept him company. It is a small thing; to most of my kin, who see the Hallionne as fortresses in times of war, it is insignificant.

“Children are lonely. Children crave affection and company. Yes, Lord Kaylin, even Barrani children. But it does not, and cannot, define them. They do not speak of it; it is a weakness. But if it is a weakness, it is one I believe the Hallionne share, and in just the same fashion. It does not define them, nor does it define their duties; it is a yearning.”

He had led her to the entrance of the hall, and offered her an arm. “Lord Severn, will you wait or will you return to the halls of the Lord of the West March?”

“I will accept your counsel in this,” Severn replied, which almost shocked Kaylin. The small dragon was seated, rather than supine, and he turned his tiny head and clucked at Severn. He didn’t appear to be angry.

“I have offered you the hospitality, and therefore the protection, of my home. It is a protection that does not extend beyond my halls, but none of those who serve me will act against you, except at need.”

“Lord Kaylin—”

“Will go, with the dreams of Alsanis, to the Lady’s side. She may well go beyond, to a place where neither you, nor I, may follow. I leave the decision in your hands. But I offer this: I will protect her with my life. I play no games. I little care for the politics of the High Court in this single instance. While Lord Kaylin is within the West March, I will offer her the full protection of my line.”

“No one will harm me while I’m in this dress,” Kaylin said.

“You are almost entirely correct,” Lord Barian replied gravely.

“It’s considered almost treason to hurt this dress.”

“Ah, no. That is your interpretation, and it is not entirely correct. It is considered treason in the West March to act against either the harmoniste or the Teller. It is considered treason,” he continued, “to subject children to the regalia. I invite you to consider why.”

“Because it was tried, and it was an unmitigated disaster.”

“Indeed. We are a practical people, Lord Kaylin. I understand that you consider our manners complicated to an extreme, but there are reasons for the laws we hand down.”

* * *

Kaylin was exhausted, but she was good at working through exhaustion; if she hadn’t been, her work at the Guild of Midwives would have killed her. The thought of the midwives and their infrequent emergencies made her throat tighten. She’d had time to inform them that she’d be traveling outside of the city for at least six weeks. She’d also seen the look on Marya’s face as she received the news.

Marya wasn’t above using guilt as a lever when things were desperate—and things could get desperate, as the midwives guild itself was not a high-powered guild with golden pockets. But if Kaylin didn’t pay dues to practice under the auspices of the guild—and she didn’t, as she couldn’t afford them—she didn’t charge for her services. Being called at all hours of the day or night seemed a small price to pay for the opportunity to save the lives of women and their newborns.

She was aware that the midwives guild did charge for some of the services she provided, but she’d made absolutely clear that there was to be a sliding scale—with zero on the poor end of the scale. Deadly emergencies weren’t particularly snobbish; they came to people in all walks in life. The people who couldn’t afford her services were Kaylin’s chief concern.

On the other hand, her presence in the guild had done much to increase the money coming in. She considered charging a fee, but she was beyond lousy at negotiating on her own behalf: she would have to put a price on her services, and to do that she would have to evaluate them objectively. There were doctors in Elantra, some of whom Kaylin privately considered to be quacks, but none of them had Kaylin’s talent.

None of them had Kaylin’s marks.

The marks had been the indirect cause of deaths across the city. Deaths of children who had the misfortune to be about the same age as Kaylin had been at the time, and who had also had the misfortune to be poor and unprotected. She hadn’t killed them. But if these marks hadn’t existed on her skin, they wouldn’t have died.

Doing volunteer work at the midwives guild was an act of atonement. She couldn’t go back in time to prevent deaths from happening—no matter how desperately those deaths scarred her. Death was death. But she could be there at the start of a life; she could be there to stop death from arriving. The marks themselves implied a power that she had never fully understood, but she’d come to understand one thing well: she could heal. She couldn’t bring the dead back to life, for which she was grateful; if she could, she would have had to move out of the city—in secret—change her name, and go into hiding. The requests from the bereaved would never, ever stop.

If her ability was an open secret in the upper echelons of the Halls of Law, it wasn’t taken completely seriously by those on the ground floor; most of the old guard saw her as the angry thirteen-year-old she’d been when she’d first walked through the doors. They’d never seen her power at work, and couldn’t believe that it wasn’t somehow an exaggeration. And she’d learned—over time—to appreciate that.

The Barrani had never doubted her ability.

But only the Barrani had seen her use it to kill. Even Marcus had only seen the end result, not the death itself. The Barrani considered murder to be an extreme form of politics, rather than a gross miscarriage of justice. Flamboyant murders—such as those that involved the Arcane arts—were considered variations on a theme. If you could kill, the implements didn’t matter. The information about methods used was useful as a counter, no more.

It was really hard to outrage the Barrani when it came to big things; they’d seen it all. Healing, which would be considered a blessing by most, was an act of aggression and intrusion; squashing a bloodsucking insect was clearly so outrageous that an entire war band could fall completely silent while staring daggers at any part of her body that wasn’t covered in dress.

She was reminded of the fact that the Barrani could be outraged—coldly—by the most unpredictable things when the Lord of the West March appeared at the head of eight armed and armored men shortly after she arrived at his hall with the Warden in tow. The eagles chose to land before the doors were slammed in their faces.

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