Michelle Sagara

by Cast in Sorrow

  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 nu
mb, 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.