Cast in Peril

by Michelle Sagara

  But…it had been her apartment, before both Bellusdeo and the Arcane bomb had arrived. It was home. And maybe, she thought, as she closed the door, home was like that: something you felt and desired, not something you actually owned. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  Nightshade was seated to the right of the Consort when Kaylin entered the dining hall; it was more crowded than she’d expected.

  “Lord Kaylin,” the Lady said as Kaylin attempted to make her way to the safe end of the table. “Please, sit.” It wasn’t a request. Kaylin nodded as gracefully as she could manage and joined the Consort’s conversation-in-progress, which continued as she turned, once again, to Nightshade.

  “You walked the portal road to arrive here.”

  He nodded. “I did not have the keys to awaken the Hallionne fully; I did what I could, as the Teller. He recognized the crown,” Nightshade added softly, “or it is possible we would not have survived. Some of the Shadows had breached the Hallionne.”

  The silence was so thick it was tangible and oppressive. The Consort, however, nodded and indicated that Lord Nightshade should continue.

  “He was not so injured that he could not deal with the Shadows; they are gone.”

  “Such a breach might explain the unexpected encounter on the road.”

  Nightshade hesitated. Everyone marked it. “That is my belief. The Hallionne was unclear.”

  “He didn’t know or he didn’t volunteer the information?”

  “The latter.”

  The Consort relaxed her grip on the cutlery. “The other Hallionne?”

  “Bertolle has been in communication with them. They are—or appear to be—fully operational.”

  “They are awake?”

  “That is my understanding. But, Lady, I would not trust the forest paths at this juncture.”

  “Or the Hallionne?”

  He chuckled. “We are forced to choose between the forest paths and the portal paths.”

  “It is not a choice I like.”

  “No, Lady,” was his grave reply. “But yesterday’s battle implies that we will take casualties—heavier ones—if we continue as we have been traveling. Kariastos has sent the rest of the pilgrims who have chosen to join us in haste through the portal paths; we number a full fifty. It is not a war party,” he added, “but it is not insignificant. The choice is therefore still a choice.”

  “Do I get any say in this?” Kaylin asked quietly.

  They both turned to look at her. They weren’t the only ones. “Yes, Lord Kaylin. Any member of the High Court is of course given leave to express their opinion.”

  “I think we should take the portal paths.” She almost couldn’t believe the words that had just left her mouth. Apparently, neither could anyone else. Forcing her shoulders not to fold into a defensive crouch, she accepted the Lords’ shock and cool disdain. “What we faced last night we cannot face every night without incurring losses. If the losses do not concern the Lords of the Court,” she continued, her voice chilling to match the Court’s general expression, “I will not plead for their survival. I, of course, will survive.”

  She had expected the rush of mute, distant syllables and was petty enough to enjoy them. But not petty enough to actually want the speakers to die. Not even Evarrim deserved that death, although she wouldn’t argue against a strict, clean execution, which she was certain he deserved for something. “The recitation, however, seems tied to a season or a time—and if we’re to fight, if we’re to spend every night in a running battle between the Lords of the Court and the Shadows, we won’t arrive in time. Our rate of progress will be too slow.”

  “There is a reason the portal paths are seldom taken,” the Consort finally said.

  Kaylin waited.

  “Not all those who walk them arrive at their intended destination.” Before Kaylin could gather enough words to form a single question, she continued. “The Hallionne judge and decide, and no one of us has ever understood the whole of that process. If the paths are open, some who walk them will return to Kariastos; some will be sent as far back as Sylvanne or even the High Halls. Only two gathered here are guaranteed to arrive in the West March, should we choose that option: you and the Teller.”

  Conversation around the table resumed. Although Kaylin couldn’t pick out full sentences, the general effrontery at her presumption—apparently mortal Lords of the Court weren’t entitled to opinions, the Lady’s permission notwithstanding—was nonetheless perfectly clear. Kaylin was silent herself; the thought that some of the Barrani might not make it didn’t trouble her. The thought that she could lose Severn just by walking between the Hallionne did.

  But if Severn were somehow sent back to the beginning, he wouldn’t be hunting here. He wouldn’t be killing. Or if Iberrienne failed to arrive, there’d be no target. Not here, not now.

  Kaylin.

  She froze, her gaze cutting past all the High Court toward the end of the table, where Severn now watched her.

  I am committed to this.

  But you’re not a Wolf—

  I am. In this, I am. Understand why the Wolves exist. If they—if we—didn’t, the Emperor would kill. The Emperor would fly. It’s happened before. It’s to prevent the deaths of those who don’t deserve it that the Wolves were created. The Emperor was enraged by the assassination attempt on Bellusdeo. He almost destroyed part of the High Hall, and if that had happened, we wouldn’t have a City. We’d have a war zone, and anyone caught between Barrani and Dragons would be dead.

  Why does it have to be you? She stopped. Closed her eyes. Can you forget I asked that?

  A ghost of chuckle came to her in the silence. She opened her eyes, because she realized it was silent. Lord Evarrim was standing, and beside him, she saw Lord Iberrienne rise, as well. One Lord whose name she didn’t know joined them.

  “Lady,” Lord Evarrim said, bowed, “I believe the portal paths are less risky. If Lord Kaylin is new to the Court and its customs, she is nonetheless correct: we cannot afford the time we will lose in fighting a running battle from the Hallionne Bertolle to the Hallionne Orbaranne. We will therefore support Lord Kaylin’s request.”

  The resultant inspection of Kaylin—furtive glances all around—implied that some of the Lords were now wondering what Evarrim’s angle was. Kaylin certainly had thoughts on that herself, but none of them were fit for the dinner table.

  The Consort finally lifted a hand, calling for silence with an expression that indicated displeasure at being forced to do so overtly. “Hallionne Bertolle,” she said.

  * * *

  Bertolle appeared at the head of the table. He did not appear alone; his brothers, all of whom were kitted out as Barrani Lords, appeared, as well. They stood in a half circle at his back, surveying the table.

  Bertolle tendered the Consort a bow that was considered a gesture of respect among equals. Her eyes were a shade of blue that looked almost green. She didn’t recognize his companions but made no reference to them at all. “You have made your decision?” the Hallionne asked.

  “I have. If you will allow it, and at need, we will risk the portal paths.”

  “I will allow it on one condition,” he replied. That caused a sudden lack of motion to travel down the length of the table, although Teela and Severn both immediately looked to Kaylin, not Bertolle or the Consort. “These,” he told the Consort, “are my warriors.” He did not use the term brothers. “And I would have you take them with you.”

  “Do you expect difficulty along those paths?”

  “Not if they are with you.” He’d said he was capable of lying; Kaylin wondered if he was lying now. He glanced at her but didn’t otherwise respond.

  “Under whose command will they travel?” The Consort’s voice was cool, and her eyes were now the blue Kaylin had expected on first sighting.

  “They will obey your commands in all matters that involve your Court,” he replied. “But in matters that concern the Hallionne, they will obey mine.”

&nb
sp; Kaylin, having seen them at play, wasn’t as certain, but again kept her peace. She knew a losing battle when she saw it.

  So did the Consort. “Very well. We will accept their company if you will grant us access to the path.”

  “Done, Lady.” He turned to Kaylin. “Why are you not eating?”

  She reddened and immediately retreated to the end of the table that contained Severn and Teela. Teela looked…tired. Tired, but less tense. “Kitling, try not to change the rules of every game you play, hmm? Some people consider it cheating.”

  “If anyone’s cheating here, it’s not me.”

  “No. If it were you, it wouldn’t be dangerous.”

  Kaylin’s brows rose.

  “You’re very easy to read,” the Barrani Hawk said. “Who are the six?”

  “I don’t know their names,” she hedged as she pulled out a chair in front of an empty plate. She hadn’t had much for dinner, and from the sounds of it, this was going to be the big meal of the day.

  “How dangerous are they?”

  “If they want you dead? You’re probably dead.” Kaylin spoke in quiet Aerian, because she was relatively certain that was a safe language; Leontine would have worked as well, but it was by necessity louder and less subtle.

  “You,” Teela added, “or me?”

  “You. I’d put myself in the ‘definitely,’ not ‘probably’ category.”

  Teela nodded, watching Kaylin eat. “You slept well.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I did. I didn’t expect to, but I did. How can you tell?”

  “You have an appetite and your color is better. Where did the six come from?” Teela was not about to let this go.

  “They came from the heart of the Hallionne,” Kaylin replied around a mouthful of very soft bread. “Where they’ve been more or less sleeping for—actually, I didn’t ask. Possibly as long as the Hallionne has existed.”

  Teela’s Court smile froze in place. “Corporal?”

  “Oh, she means it,” Severn replied with an easy smile that was a complete contrast to Teela’s. “She’s concerned, but not more than she would be if six Lords of the High Court insisted on joining us without explanation.”

  “That is not comforting.”

  He laughed. “No.”

  * * *

  After breakfast, the remainder of which was enormously subdued for the Barrani, the Consort left the head of the table and walked toward the empty space behind it. She lifted her arms, as she had done in the first two stations, and the exit—or what had been an exit in those places—appeared. “Lord Kaylin,” she said.

  Kaylin nodded and approached. She didn’t like the arches, but they didn’t make her ache the way magic almost always did. The small dragon looked bored. “Don’t pick up bad habits from Teela,” she whispered in his ear.

  Teela coughed loudly.

  Kaylin looked through the arch. To her surprise—and discomfort—she saw nothing through the arch. A gray, vast nothing, like the empty space that existed between worlds. It wasn’t like mist—mist moved, implying it had substance even if it was otherwise untouchable.

  This implied nothing, loudly.

  Hallionne Bertolle joined the Consort and the harmoniste. To Kaylin, in a soft voice, he said, “I am in your debt.”

  The Consort stiffened. Clearly, debt was trouble even if you weren’t the one who incurred the obligation.

  “It is possible that it is a debt that cannot be discharged,” he continued, “but in all the small ways, we will do what we can. Give me your hands.”

  Can they still be attached to the arms? she considered asking, but decided, given the Court, it would be a bad idea. She placed both her hands, palms down, into the Hallionne’s. His hands were warm, but not the way flesh usually was; they felt like fire in winter at the perfect distance. His eyes were opals; they reminded her of the small dragon’s.

  “And perhaps there is a reason for that,” Bertolle said as his hands began to glow. Light, like translucent gloves, covered the length of his long, unblemished hands, and as her hands rested in his—looking absurdly like the hands of a child—it spread to cover hers. She had absorbed the light that had, literally, smacked her head by falling on it; this was different. It felt different.

  The Consort did not seem overly concerned, an indication that Kaylin shouldn’t be worried.

  “No,” Bertolle corrected her, “she understands what she can and cannot change; concern is a waste of her time and her energy. But she is less concerned because I am in your debt; she considers it unlikely that the debt will prove so onerous I will kill you rather than service it.”

  “The Barrani would probably be a whole lot more comfortable with the wakened Hallionne,” she told him, “if you stopped exposing their thoughts when they choose not to speak them out loud.”

  “It is not in their best interests to be made more comfortable,” he replied. “When they are uncomfortable, they are cautious; when they are cautious, we are not forced to end their lives.”

  She tightened her grip. “Keep us together,” she asked him. “If you have the choice—if the choice is yours—send us all to where we have to go.” Kaylin lifted her hands. She could still see the light that surrounded them, although she couldn’t feel it.

  “You are afraid to lose your Corporal.”

  She didn’t answer. Nor did the Hallionne. The six new additions to the Court now joined the Consort, as if at her unspoken command. While they crowded her, the rest of the High Court chose to stand back. All except Kaylin.

  “Are you ready?” the Consort asked her.

  Kaylin nodded. She didn’t enter the portal at the Consort’s side, though; she let the Consort lead, and hung back, waiting for Severn. As she waited, the High Court joined the Consort, stepping with their usual confidence through the arch. They vanished.

  Nightshade followed, pausing a moment before Bertolle. He didn’t speak. Neither did the Hallionne. But the fieflord didn’t bow, and Bertolle didn’t extend his gratitude for Nightshade’s part in the song of awakening, either.

  The room emptied until Teela, Severn, and Kaylin remained in the Hallionne, alone.

  Teela then said, “You expect difficulty on the portal paths.”

  “Yes. But my brothers walk the roads. They will keep attackers at bay. If they vanish, they will reappear at the Hallionne Orbaranne when it is safe to do so. Go with grace, An’Teela,” he added, voice softening. “You are known to the heart of the green; it speaks your name.”

  She stiffened, as if the spoken words were a threat. Kaylin was unsettled. Teela was…annoyed. Her eyes were blue. She turned to glare over her shoulder. “Hang on to your Corporal,” she said in Elantran as she stepped through the arch into the gray.

  * * *

  When she was gone, Bertolle stepped forward. “Listen well, harmoniste, when the story begins. Nothing will be repeated.”

  “Will I understand what’s said when the recitation starts?” she asked. It was the whole of her worry.

  “That is not a promising question.”

  “No, but it’s not a promising situation, either. Why did the heart of the green choose me?” When he failed to answer, she tried a different question. “What do you think the rationale for their choice was?” She spoke in High Barrani.

  “You are Chosen,” he replied. His eyes were the color of slate, with no pupil, no iris, no whites. “There is danger. Do you understand the nature of story?” the Hallionne asked after a pause to indicate the gravity of the question.

  Stories, she thought, were things told to children to scare them into better behavior—or, if she were generous, to give them hope and dreams. Even broken dreams were often better than none.

  “Our stories are not like those.”

  “I know. Your stories are true. But…”

  “You feel that there is truth in the tales you tell your…orphans?”

  “Yes. And no. No two people will tell a story in the exact same way, but the children still recogn
ize what they hear as the same story. They only get outraged if you change their favorite bits.”

  “…Favorite bits.” His tone of voice was familiar and oddly comforting, she’d heard it from Tara so often. “There is no truth in the words you speak. Why, then, would small variances matter?”

  She exhaled. “There’s no truth, according to the Ancients, in any of our words, but people still need to talk to each other. We hear stories when we’re young. We don’t have immortal memories. If a hundred people hear the same person speak, they’ll remember different parts of the speech. When we tell our own children, or our own audience, we’ve changed parts of the story. Sometimes it’s because of our faulty memory. Sometimes,” she continued, thinking of the Imperial Playwright, “it’s deliberate. We change stories that are familiar to our audience. They listen expecting familiar things, and they’re surprised. It changes the meaning. It makes them think.”

  His eyes darkened. They did not shade to indigo, nor to the obsidian that Tara favored when she was on high alert and couldn’t divert enough attention to appearance; they looked, instead, like the depths of a very deep gorge would if a person was terrified of heights.

  She reached out to place her palm against the Hallionne’s upper arm, aware as she did that the gesture of comfort would mean very little to a building. “It doesn’t harm the listeners. It isn’t meant to change them; it’s meant to make them think about things they haven’t thought about before.”

  “And your thoughts are not inimical to you.”

  “It depends on your age.” She grimaced, thinking about Dock in the Foundling Halls during his want-to-fly stage.

  “Your thoughts cannot destroy you.”

  “No.”

  “And yet you hide them. You are afraid of their clarity.”

  She wasn’t talking to a child. He didn’t understand the things most mortal children understood, but he was a scion of the Ancients. “We’re afraid of what they reveal about us,” she replied with care.

  “Even you, Chosen?”

  “Even me, but I’m working on it. We’re afraid that if we appear weak, we’ll be attacked, ridiculed, or killed.”

  His frown was Tara’s frown; it made her smile as she winced.