“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.
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.
“Warden,” the Lord of the West March said, in a tone that implied the difference in their respective ranks.
“Lord Lirien
ne,” the Warden replied, in a tone that negated that difference. Kaylin desperately wished that Severn—injured and recovering—had not chosen to remain behind. If he wasn’t at home among the Barrani, it didn’t show, but Severn had never been self-conscious.
“Lord Kaylin.”
“I’m—I’m sorry to bother you. I know it’s late.”
One of his brows rose; the corner of his lip twitched. In Barrani, this was indicative—in this situation—of riotous laughter. At her expense, of course. She glanced at the Warden, and saw a similar, if more pained, expression on his face. She didn’t enjoy the humiliation of being the object of hilarity, but was old enough now to appreciate the way it cut the tension between the two men.
“This was Lord Kaylin’s request?” the Lord of the West March said, his tone softening.
She willed him to say yes; it wasn’t as if the Barrani considered lying a crime. Given the length of time it took to respond, she thought he’d considered it. “It was not entirely her request, no.”
The eagles, silent until this moment, turned the intensity of their focus upon the Lord of the West March; they might have been puppies, given his reaction. “We asked. If we have transgressed, forgive us. We had hoped to have more time.”
“You will not remain among us.”
“No. We do not know how long we have, but the pull to oblivion is strong. The Chosen said that the Lady absorbed three of the nightmares, and has since remained asleep. Has she awoken in the Chosen’s absence?”
“No.”
“We would like to see her.”
All of the Barrani in the hall except the Lord of the West March tensed.
For no reason she could think of, Kaylin said, “I’ll be with them the entire time.” This would not have brought much comfort to most of the people she shared an office with.
“With your permission, I will also remain,” the Warden said. It sounded like a genuine offer, not a demand.
“It will be a very crowded room,” Lord Lirienne replied.
“Lord Kaylin is your kyuthe, Lord Lirienne. I have not asked the circumstances that drew her to your attention; I am sure there is a story behind it, when we have the leisure to indulge in them. I know, however, what drew her to mine: she touched the nightmares of Alsanis, and the eagles woke. We have argued long about the fate of Alsanis—but the dreams speak with his voice; they see.”
Michelle Sagara Page 10