Kaylin was reminded, then, of Teela. She wanted the reminder, even as she found it painful. “We will find her,” the Consort whispered. As if she could read minds.
As if it were necessary.
What if she doesn’t want to leave? What if she wants to stay with them? They were the wrong questions, and Kaylin managed not to ask them. It wasn’t what Kaylin wanted—but what Kaylin wanted never made a difference, in the end. What was, was. She couldn’t change it; she could only endure.
The dragon roared. He didn’t land, but at the moment, the path didn’t have a roof; it had a lot of ugly sky. A bit of what might have been lightning, and distant rain. A bit of green sunlight.
No eagles, she thought. No nightmares. None but the ones she carried within her.
* * *
She was surprised when the tree came into view, because it looked exactly like a tree. So much of the interior of the Hallionne had no solid features; you couldn’t call it a building because building implied deliberate construction, architecture, things like walls, floors, and ceilings. The tree however had brown bark. It had a trunk. It had roots, or at least the top part of roots, and branches that filled the sky above.
Only as they walked toward it did Kaylin realize it was not a small tree, and when they failed to reach it after twenty minutes, she revised that to huge, and then bloody gigantic. And she knew, then, which tree this was; she knew where the roots rested. She knew that it was the heart of the green.
Then again, Hallionne Sylvanne had been a tree, too.
The path came to an end. Which is to say, it passed beneath the rounded surface of exposed root. It might have continued beyond it, but the Lord of the West March called a halt. There was no ward here that Kaylin could see.
But she recalled that she had only seen the ward when she’d looked through the wings of a small dragon. She heard his magnified voice; felt it in the interlocking stones beneath her feet. He couldn’t fly easily above the tree; he could circumnavigate it, but instead, chose—for the first time—to land.
Every breath she could hear momentarily banked as he did.
“You cannot see him,” Alsanis’s brother said, unexpectedly. “But, Chosen, he sees you. He sees what you cannot see.”
Which was about as helpful as most of the words that fell out of ancient, immortal mouths. “This is where we’re supposed to be?” she asked.
He failed to answer. It was the Consort who said, “No, Lord Kaylin. It is the outer edge of the heart of Alsanis, and it is closed to us.”
“Clever,” Nightshade said.
“What’s clever?”
“They expect us to destroy the tree.”
“We can’t.”
“It would not be wise, no. But it serves as barrier here. If we breach that barrier, we will find them.”
“I don’t think they care.”
“No. They expect to be found; if we destroy the tree—”
“They’ll be able to do what they’ve been waiting to do.”
“That is my guess, yes. You understand what this tree is?”
“Yes. It’s the heart of the green. The living heart of the green.”
* * *
The dragon roared.
Kaylin said, “I know how to enter it.”
The Warden said, “This tree is not like the Hallionne Sylvanne, Lord Kaylin. It is like a body; you do not enter it by asking permission.”
She nodded, and then said, “But there’s a way in, now.”
The Lord of the West March frowned. She felt his surprise, his consternation, and his slow sense of something that felt like approval. We cannot ask for the judgment of the green here.
No. But I’m certain that if we can approach the base of the roots of the tree, we can find what I found. A wound. An entry.
He looked at her, waiting. And she looked up at the dragon. “Move back along the path,” she told her companions without looking back. The dragon’s eyes were wide, round, dark; the flashes of color across their surface seemed to have slowed. She could almost see an image in them, but only out of the corner of her eyes; it was like the faintest of stars. She couldn’t see it if she examined it directly.
“I need your help.”
He roared. She was almost certain all of her hair was now standing on end.
“We need a way down. You know where we have to go. You probably know it better than I do.”
The familiar sibilants of his laughter made her smile. Somehow, causing amusement in a creature this size just felt less humiliating.
“Can you do it?”
He folded his wings, lifted his great, long neck, and looked down at her from an almost-regal height. He spoiled the effect by scratching his nose. She thought about the egg hatching, and about the permanent shoulder ornament that had crawled out of it. She’d mostly complained about him.
To be fair, she mostly complained about Teela, too. But Teela hated sentiment. It put her off her lunch, as she so often said. The small dragon couldn’t give her the same warning, and maybe he didn’t care. But she thought she would miss him if he were gone.
She missed so many things once they were gone.
“Help us,” she whispered.
The dragon inhaled. Kaylin inhaled, as well. She dropped her arms, let her shoulders slide down her back. She felt wind; it was cold. But the dress itself was warm. It was, she thought, as she glanced at the folds of its skirt, glowing faintly with a familiar green light. In Iberrienne’s eyes, she had thought it repulsive. On its own, it wasn’t. It was the color of Barrani eyes at their happiest, lit from within.
The dragon exhaled. Kaylin was the terminating point for the stream of silver cloud that left his open jaws. She flinched, but didn’t move.
Kaylin!
But she shook her head at the Barrani voices inside her mind. Ynpharion was silent.
I asked, she told Nightshade and Lirienne. I asked for this.
* * *
Her eyes teared. She let them. She felt tears warm her cheeks as they fell. She didn’t take her eyes off the dragon until the cloud had cleared. She’d seen his breath melt steel, changing it into a liquid that she could cup in her hands. She’d seen it kill Ferals. She’d certainly seen its effects on the High Court; they feared it.
There were so many things she feared more at the moment, she had no room for more fear.
Have room for caution, Lirienne said, with some anger.
She almost laughed. She understood when the time for caution had passed—and it had passed the moment she had left Teela in the heart of the green. She wondered, idly, what the dragon’s breath would do to her; it did nothing, at least at first.
But the marks on her arms began to glow silver. And the dress she wore began to shift color, as well, taking on a sheen that implied iridescence when the cloth rippled. It didn’t seem to change shape, though. She blinked away the last of the tears; to her surprise, the dragon appeared less translucent in her vision.
She turned to her companions. If the dragon looked different, they didn’t, although the Barrani, with the single exception of Nightshade, looked almost shocked, their eyes midnight-blue. It was the dress. Of course it was the dress.
I am not entirely certain, Lord Lirienne said, how you survived An’Teela’s temper all these years.
She couldn’t strangle me; she’s a Hawk. Kaylin was surprised to find herself smiling at the thought. If it helps, I’m most of the reason she learned to curse in Leontine. Look, she added, although it wasn’t necessary. The stones of the path began to sink. They didn’t dissolve, and they didn’t sink in concert; they sank in recessed steps.
“We have to go down,” Kaylin told everyone. The dragon roared; the stairs—the oddly shaped, uneven stairs—shook. “I think we also have to hurry.”
* * *
The Lord of the West March took the lead, almost shoving Kaylin off the path in order to do so. Kaylin was willing—barely—to give it to him. Taking risks—as she had—was one thing; exposi
ng other people to them first, quite another.
“He is Lord of the West March,” the Consort said with a soft smile. “He has his duties and his responsibilities. Even if he did not, it is not his way to throw a stray mortal into the path of the unknown within his own domain.”
Kaylin nodded, but scurried immediately after him. The Consort was forced to let Nightshade follow, which at least two people disliked, Ynpharion being one. This surprised her.
If he kills me, she told him, doesn’t that work to your advantage?
The Barrani Lord failed to answer. He couldn’t cut the Consort off, as Nightshade had; he didn’t wear the Teller’s crown. But he followed the Lady stiffly. He could feel Kaylin’s confusion and her amusement, and the last was definitely not to his liking.
“What will you do with the dragon?” the Consort asked as they descended.
“I’m not certain. I don’t think his part in this is done yet.”
“No. Do you understand what his part in this is?”
Kaylin shook her head. “I would have said it was impossible that he have one—this story started long before either of us were born.”
“You don’t believe that.” She spoke in Elantran.
“I did. But...no. He doesn’t really have an age. I, on the other hand, do.”
Nightshade said a word, and the stairs were flooded with light. Kaylin blinked different tears out of her eyes. Was that necessary?
Yes, Kaylin. It was dark.
But it hadn’t been, to Kaylin, which was a first. If the Barrani found it too dark for vision, Kaylin was usually bumping into walls, or anything else that stuck out.
What did you see?
Stairs, mostly.
Ah.
She still saw stairs. She realized, with a start, that there were no walls; the stairs descended in a winding, tight trail, toward the distant earth. They were narrow stairs, without rails, and without an obvious central pillar. But they felt familiar. She could have been running up—or down—the stairs that lead to the Hawklord’s tower.
She couldn’t run down these ones without knocking Lirienne out of the way, which seemed the very definition of career-limiting. He reached ground as she did, and he approached roots that looked very familiar.
“You must lead,” he began. But he looked up, over the rounded surface of root.
Kaylin, however, looked down. “Can you see the river here?”
Lirienne frowned. “No, Lord Kaylin.”
The Consort caught her arm. She could tell, from the expression on the Consort’s face, that she could. It was not a comforting expression.
Kaylin turned to the Lord of the West March; he was climbing. He was climbing with confidence and grace, and he stopped only when he had reached the height of a root that was very close to trunk. Kaylin could see shards of wood and something darker in the air. “Don’t touch those,” she told him.
He maneuvered carefully around them, heading to the gap in the trunk that Kaylin had caused by touching a lone ward. Nightshade passed Kaylin.
“Lord Kaylin,” the Consort said quietly.
Kaylin nodded and followed. She followed with vastly less grace, and had to accept help from both Severn and the Consort to find enough purchase to climb. Climbing was one of her strengths, but she didn’t do it with grace—which, come to think, was an apt description of the way she lived the rest of her life, as well.
Lord Barian came up after Kaylin, and he stopped at the gap in the trunk, staring. In the light cast by Nightshade, she could see his expression; she could also see his pallor.
“It was like this when I found it,” Kaylin said. She felt compelled to add, “but the damage was concealed by a ward.”
“You invoked the ward.”
She nodded. “I walked into the gap, and I heard the green.”
“You are certain that it was the voice of the green speaking?”
“Yes.”
Lord Barian turned to the Consort. “I spent so little time in your city,” he told her. “Are all mortals this...surprising?”
“In my limited experience, no.”
“That is some small relief. The mortals outnumber us; they always have.”
“Kaylin?” the Consort said.
Kaylin nodded and once again entered the breach.
* * *
She stepped into sunshine, and lifted her hands to shade her eyes. The Consort followed; Kaylin could see debris in the folds of the Barrani woman’s dress. Ynpharion entered behind them, Iberrienne in tow. The enmity he felt for Iberrienne was gone; it had been replaced by a wordless, nameless pity. Kaylin couldn’t blame him; she felt it herself.
Severn pulled up the rear, but she found herself waiting for him, as if afraid he would be sent back, somehow. His eyes widened slightly as they adjusted to sunlight. There was sun here. And there were trees, grass, even the sound of running water. In the distance, trees formed horizon, or as much of it as could be seen.
“It wasn’t like this,” Kaylin said quietly. “Not the last time. This is what the heart of the green looked like, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
But the Consort said softly, “There are shadows, Warden. Can you not hear them? Stay on the path.”
The Warden’s smile was soft. “It is a gift, Lady. I will gladly walk this path again.”
“Even if you understand what occurs at its end?”
“Even then. I can hear the green. Lord Kaylin?”
“I can’t hear them,” she confessed. “And I’m happy with that.”
* * *
The Lord of the West March continued—once he had ascertained that no one had been lost in the passage—to lead. The Consort released Kaylin’s arm, and to Kaylin’s surprise, scurried ahead to catch up with her brother. He bent his head to listen to whatever she had to say, and to Kaylin’s greater surprise, laughed. His laughter was deep and almost musical, and it reminded her that he was capable of mirth.
He has long been a Barrani Lord of whom you might otherwise approve, Nightshade said.
Unlike you?
Very, very unlike me. He is Barrani, of course; he is a significant Lord of the High Court. He is impressive enough that he can display sentiment and its weakness without falling prey to the weakness itself. She felt Nightshade’s quiet excitement. He, too, was caught by the familiarity of a green that hadn’t been seen for centuries. Maybe it reminded him of youth.
Not of mine, he replied. But yes, Kaylin. You asked me a question I did not choose to answer.
Did you understand what had happened to Iberrienne?
No.
Would you have taken the risks you took if you had?
I fail to understand, he said, after a long pause, why you waste time and effort asking questions to which you know the answer.
I don’t know, or I wouldn’t ask.
You don’t wish to know, Kaylin. You assume the Barrani are all alike—why, given the variance in human behavior, I do not know. We are not mortal. It is immortality that defines us when we leave our youth. Mortality defines you. You never leave your youth.
We do.
No, Kaylin, you do not. You have decades in which to live with the decisions you have made; decades in which to work to keep love and loyalty alive. You change because you age; you choose different lives. You are not bound, in all ways, by the past; you come from it, it informs you, but it does not imprison you.
You do not understand the ways in which we are always caged. It is not just the matter of a name—although you have seen the extents to which some of my people will attempt to escape even that weakness.
She had.
This was not an example of that, not directly. The twelve had barely discovered the joy of the bonds one can make with true names.
Those aren’t generally considered joyful, Kaylin replied.
Not by the wise, no. But the wise do not consider love or sentiment a joy, either. They are weary, Kaylin. They have seen the failure of too much.
S
he frowned. If you’re unchanging—if we’re defined by change, and you’re not...
Yes?
...isn’t your love unchanging? Doesn’t it last longer?
He offered her an arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, she accepted it. It is a weakness, he said. You have heard that; it is true. What we love, we love forever; what we love we fear to lose. We are held hostage by affection. No; affection is too slight a word, although it is the one most commonly offered, where love exists. The joy, we remember, but the pain of loss lasts as long, and, as with mortals, as with all who feel emotion, we come to doubt that the joy was worth the pain.
We do not always love our kin. It is not wise. We are often placed in situations in which we must disavow—or kill—them. You despise this.
She often did.
But it is irrelevant. You define us by the politics. If we had that strength, we would define ourselves the same way.
You do.
No, Kaylin, we do not. It is the politics we are willing to share. Come; we are almost there.
Where?
The heart of the green. The true heart. I do not know what you will see. I do not know what is waiting. I have hope, he added softly.
And is that hope worth it?
I do not know. Ask me in a century. Or two.
She glared at the side of his face, and he surprised her. He laughed out loud, the sound just as rich, just as deep, as Lirienne’s.
Judging from the expression on Ynpharion’s face, it had surprised him, too—but Iberrienne’s smile was just as wide as Nightshade’s, and just as excited. He wasn’t skipping—that would have been enough to assure Kaylin she was dreaming—but he was practically beaming. She’d worked alongside the Barrani for almost eight years, and she’d never seen anything like it.
It broke her heart.
Don’t see them as children, Severn warned her.
I don’t.
But...she almost did. She could see the youth in them; it seemed so fragile, it made her want to hold her breath. Hope was pain. She knew that. But for moments at a time, before it broke, it was joy.
And it was with joy that they walked this path, in something that seemed almost like a city garden, and came, at last, to the heart of the green.
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