Cast in Sorrow coe-9

by Michelle Sagara

  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 blu
e, 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.