Michelle Sagara

by Cast in Sorrow

  It’s easy for you to say. You want what she wants.

  Ah. No, you misunderstand the Lady. But yes, Kaylin. What Iberrienne wanted—before he lost so much of himself—I want. I did not understand what had happened to Iberrienne; I understood only that he had seen his brother. The brother he thought lost. He has spent centuries attempting to do just that—only that—in secret. I knew.

  Why did you turn him in?

  Silence. It didn’t last. Do you not understand?

  No. I don’t ask questions to make conversation.

  It was the only thing I could offer that would bring you here.

  You knew. That I would be harmoniste.

  No. It was, from the beginning, a gamble. You are Chosen. You do not understand your power; no more do the Barrani. But I have seen what you have done with it. You stumble. You fail to plan. But you free the trapped. You tell stories that I cannot hear, but cannot doubt.

  Kaylin stumbled; Severn caught her, sliding an arm around her waist. She was too tired and too dispirited to care when her stomach growled, but she did watch—a little vindictively—as a large shadow crossed the green, catching Avonelle’s attention. The dragon had followed the eagles at a discreet distance—but something the size the dragon now was would never, ever be stealthy.

  Avonelle’s eyes did not take on the gold of surprise, which was a pity. They didn’t really shift at all; the color of fear—which the Barrani never acknowledged—was pretty much the color of their more socially acceptable rage.

  She did, on the other hand, feel Nightshade’s surprise. Kaylin, what is this?

  Small dragon. Well, not so small dragon.

  He didn’t appreciate her humor. This made her feel a little bit better.

  What happened to it?

  I needed him to carry Teela. Which guttered the little bit better entirely.

  Can you control him? The question was sharp, insistent.

  She glanced up at the sky and the underside of translucent belly. At this distance, he looked almost like himself. If he squawked instead of roaring, it would almost be a comfort. He predictably roared.

  No.

  You allowed him to...grow...without being certain of your control?

  Since the answer was pretty self-evident, she didn’t bother with one. Instead, she said, Which one of the lost was yours? Because she wanted him to leave her alone, and she was pretty certain the question would shut him down.

  It did.

  * * *

  Kaylin had only seen a small portion of the Warden’s perch; her visit to Lord Barian’s ancestral home had been cut short by the presence—and demands—of the dreams of Alsanis. She was exhausted by the time she reached the Warden’s halls; she was dragging her feet in a kind of stupor that meant morning would start sometime around late afternoon. Given that it was pretty much full-on daylight, it might start later than that.

  Severn walked by her side, and to Kaylin’s surprise, the Consort joined them; her brother walked by her side and the Barrani High Court, disheveled, bruised, and otherwise less perfect than normal walked both in front and behind. Avonelle didn’t live in the Warden’s perch; it was a small mercy on a day when mercy was in short supply. Kaylin took it.

  The eagles stayed with Barian; he led the High Court into his halls. Kaylin, by this point, was tired enough that taking a seat with her back to the nearest wall seemed like a better option than tripping over her own feet. Severn glanced at her. A minute later, maybe less, he stepped in front of her and crouched. “Climb on.”

  She hesitated for less than ten seconds. Yes, being a Lord of the High Court made demands on dignity. No, at the moment, she didn’t care. She let herself be piggybacked down the tall, wide, light-filled halls, and surprised herself by drifting off.

  * * *

  Lord Kaylin. Lord Kaylin—wake.

  The voice was unfamiliar for one long moment; Kaylin snapped out of sleep, and the shattered edge of dreams, when she recognized it. It was Ynpharion’s. She recognized the background blend of bitter humiliation and rage. Both were muted. His concern—his fear—was not.

  She rolled out of bed, which was her first mistake; the beds in the perch were obviously meant for people at least six feet in height who nonetheless always landed on their feet. They were much higher off the ground than the rickety bed she’d once owned.

  She landed on her knees, shook herself, and gained her feet as smoothly as she could.

  Ynpharion?

  She felt his impatience at her obvious ignorance, but he answered. Yes.

  What’s happened? Are we under attack? What time is it?

  It is almost midnight, he replied, with just a hint of condescension. Both the Lord of the West March and the Warden gave orders that you were not to be disturbed. I believe they have changed their minds. We are wakeful; the Lady herself has been roused, and she is...concerned.

  Great. Kaylin made sure she had her daggers, although they didn’t provide much comfort; too many Barrani, too many swords, and too much shadow magic. She longed for Elani street with a passion usually reserved for hating it.

  Severn was at her door before she’d opened it; he was armed with the two blades of his weapon chain. She stared at them.

  Ynpharion, is Iberrienne still alive?

  The question confused him, which Kaylin took as a yes. “What’s happened?” she asked as she exited a room that did not—at first glance—appear to have a door ward.

  “Your dragon is breathing on select buildings in the West March.”

  Kaylin wanted to turn back to her room and crawl under the bed. “Any particular buildings?”

  “You’re not going to like the answer.” He began to walk down the hall; she followed at a jog, to make up for the difference in their stride. She recognized where he was leading her, although it was a lot more crowded than the last time she’d seen it—he headed straight for the giant trunk around which stairs were wound. He took them two at a time; the lack of rails on the side that faced an increasingly grim drop didn’t bother him at all.

  “Did they have their council meeting?”

  “No. The Consort called a recess, given the current situation. Lord Avonelle might have argued, but she’s now occupied with the wards in the green.”

  “The ones that don’t work?”

  “Yes.”

  Two small mercies.

  Sleep had done Kaylin good. Lack of food hadn’t. She reached the top of the viewing platform thinking about bread. And cheese. And meat. They were petty concerns, given Severn’s news, which is probably why she clung to them. Ynpharion was on the viewing platform.

  So was a very pale Evarrim.

  Severn—why is he even standing?

  The Consort asked for his presence; he acquiesced. You are not, of course, to notice any weakness or injury he doesn’t speak of himself.

  He looks like crap.

  Yes. Iberrienne is, however, not in a state to provide information at this point in time. Nightshade spent hours closeted with Iberrienne. The Consort joined Nightshade when she returned.

  What happened?

  I don’t know. Iberrienne is not considered well enough to attend, and Evarrim is considered the only other High Court expert in residence. He is therefore here.

  So was the Lord of the West March and the Warden; both men were blue-eyed and grim. The eagles sat on the railing, facing outward; they might have been carved of stone. Beyond them, in the clear, midnight sky, Kaylin saw a cloud that was moving at great speed in an otherwise still sky.

  “Chosen,” the eagles said, although neither moved.

  She glanced at her arms; the marks were glowing a pale, faint blue. She was surprised when the Lord of the West March handed her a large drape of cloth. It was a jacket, sort of. It had sleeves very similar to the sleeves that had once been part of the dress she wore, but it was heavier and warmer. She doubted it was immune to water, fire, or dirt, but was grateful to have it anyway; she was cold.

  “How long has
he been out there?”

  “He has been in our skies since you returned.” It was Lord Barian who answered. “What is he doing?”

  Since that was more or less her next question, she swallowed it. She had no idea, but felt bald acceptance of her own ignorance was a career-limiting move. She walked over to the rails and took up a position between the two eagles. They both turned their heads—only their heads—to face her.

  The not-so-small dragon was circling, in a desultory way. His flight path at this distance seemed very constricted; she squinted, cursing her vision.

  Ynpharion—what’s in the sky beside the dragon?

  The nightmares, Ynpharion replied, of Alsanis.

  Are they flying in a pattern around him?

  Yes.

  Are they...attacking him?

  “They are, Chosen,” the eagles said in unison.

  She watched as the dragon roared; his voice probably blanketed the entire West March. It wasn’t as bad as the breath that followed. It clipped one small shadow. She watched as the shadow’s gliding path faltered. The shadows looked exactly like that, to Kaylin—they implied eagle.

  What had she done? She’d caught the shadows, intercepted their flight, and pulled the eagles out of their insubstantial darkness. The dragon’s breath didn’t have the same effect—and why would it? The shadows gained weight, plummeting from the sky. They did not—at this distance—change shape; no birds emerged, and nothing less threatening took to the sky in their place.

  Kaylin drew the jacket more tightly around her shoulders.

  “Can you command your familiar?” Evarrim said. Kaylin had come, grudgingly, to understand that among the Barrani, Evarrim was considered blunt and to the point. And he was. His machinations, his desires, and his power, were always on display; it was hard to assume that he was in any way friendly.

  Kaylin was silent for a long moment. “I’ve never tried,” she finally said.

  Evarrim’s brow furrowed. Kaylin decided, at this point, that ignorance was less useful than dignity.

  “What do you think he is trying to do?”

  She was watching the nightmares as they fell from the sky. The dragon’s breath seemed almost silver at this distance, seen in moonlight and night sky. “I’m not certain. The building he’s flying around—it is a building, isn’t it?” It was, to Kaylin’s eye, a shadowy apparition.

  Silence. Barian finally said, “Yes.”

  “I don’t remember seeing it before.”

  “No, Chosen. It is the Hallionne Alsanis. It has lain under protective wards for centuries. No visitors to the West March have seen it as you see it now.”

  “Have you?”

  “No. I remember Alsanis. I remember the form Alsanis chose to take.”

  “Let me guess. It wasn’t an edifice of crystal shadow.”

  “You are correct.”

  “Did the dragon—”

  “The wards are down. Lord Avonelle has ordered an evacuation of the buildings closest to the Hallionne.”

  Kaylin watched for a few more minutes because the building was taking shape with the passage of time. It was not—yet—the height of the Warden’s perch; it was, however, taller than the towers of the Lord’s hall. Nor did it seem to be shrinking.

  “Lord Barian, with your permission, I would like to approach the Hallionne.”

  She felt Lirienne’s surprise; it was colored with strong disapproval. He did not, however, say no. He observed correct form.

  “The recitation will take place in two days,” Lord Barian replied. As replies went, it seemed to have missed the question. Kaylin waited.

  “It will take place,” the eagles said, “sooner.”

  There was a lot of silence then. Kaylin, who was aware that the Warden was in theory responsible for the recitation, looked at the eagles. “How much sooner?”

  “Can you not hear it begin, Chosen? Can you not hear the words?”

  “Most of the words I can hear come from me, and I’m having a hard time keeping them on the inside of my mouth.” She said this in sharp Elantran.

  “The Teller is leaving the domicile,” the eagle to the right said.

  “He has the Consort and Lord Iberrienne with him,” the eagle to the left said.

  “I’d like about two days more sleep before I do the job the dress chose me for.”

  The eagles craned forward so they could look at each other. They then turned their heads toward the Lord of the West March, who was now standing rigidly near the exit. “Lord of the West March. Warden. You cannot reach the greenheart now.”

  “It is not the appointed time,” Barian said.

  “There is now only one path to the greenheart,” they replied. “And time does not pass predictably. If you can walk the path at all, you will need Teller and harmoniste.”

  Silence.

  “And Lord of the West March, you must choose. The Lady will travel with you.”

  “I will not take that risk.”

  “She is the Consort, Lord of the West March. Her duties are not to you; they are not even to the High Lord.”

  Nightshade, what in the hells are you doing?

  We approach the Hallionne, Kaylin. Can you not hear it?

  No.

  You asked me which of the lost was mine.

  She wasn’t particularly proud of the question.

  You will have your answer. Come. I understand the shape of the story I am meant to tell, but it does not begin here, and if it ends here, it will end in one of two ways. I cannot do what you must do, although I would have taken the blood of the green over the Teller’s crown.

  It didn’t do Teela any good, was Kaylin’s surprisingly bitter reply.

  No. And in the end, it is unlikely that I would have succeeded where she failed.

  Kaylin closed her eyes. She opened them, squaring her shoulders, and turned to face the Lord of the West March. “Will you order your people to remain behind?”

  “It is not our way to strip ourselves of strength when we walk into the unknown.”

  “Lord Barian?”

  “The Court of the Vale has far less to prove than the Lords of the High Court—but no, Lord Kaylin. I will order none to remain behind who wish to accompany us.”

  “And you’ll go?”

  His smile was very odd. “It has been centuries since I have entered Alsanis. My childhood and all of the duties of my line lie there. I am not Teller, I am Warden, but if the doors open, I will enter them. We had intended to let you sleep; you are mortal. But the green has its own seasons, and the Hallionne, their own rules.

  “If I understand the eagles, you are summoned, Lord Kaylin.”

  * * *

  The Lord of the West March took his leave almost before they’d finished speaking; Evarrim lingered. It was to Evarrim that Kaylin went. She offered him a stiff, formal bow. He lifted a black brow in response.

  “I will not venture into Alsanis,” Evarrim said.

  She thought it a small wonder that he had remained on his feet, but kept this to herself. “What do familiars want?” she asked, voice soft. Since she was among Barrani, soft words would carry almost as far as louder ones.

  “There are very few extant records of such creatures. They are legend. It is hard to abstract history from legend, and it is my suspicion that it would be irrelevant.”

  “Why?”

  “Because no two of our legendary sorcerers were alike, Lord Kaylin. They amassed power in different ways, and used it to different purposes. We make assumptions based on our own observations of those who have power, but they are not sound assumptions. Power affects the powerful in different ways.”

  “But the familiars—”

  “They are not creatures of this world. Even you must understand that. In legend, they were able to shape the world. The creature as he appeared for most of the journey was not significant, but he was not insignificant; his abilities belied his size. You think of him as a mortal pet.”

  She didn’t deny it.


  “He is not. But even you must realize this now.”

  Kaylin nodded. “He’s like an elemental. A summoned elemental. Except I didn’t summon him.”

  “No. That may tell in your favor; I cannot say. In the three stories of which I am personally aware, the familiars were sought. They were not stumbled over as a byproduct of a world-threatening event; the world-threatening event was created to draw them into the world. In that way, they are unlike elementals. We know the name of the fire,” he said, his gaze intent, his eyes narrowed. “And perhaps, if we knew the name of the wilderness from which the familiars are drawn and of which they are part, we would be able to summon them in the way we call fire, water, earth, and air. Such studies have been made; none have been successful.

  “The fire spoke to you in the outlands. I summoned it; it was my power that kept it leashed and present. But it spoke to you, Lord Kaylin, and without considerable expenditure of power on my part, it was you to whom it answered. I do not know what power summoned the familiar; nor do I know what its intent is. But, Lord Kaylin, absent your presence or my control, I know what fire wants.”

  So did Kaylin. “The will of the fire,” she said quietly, “isn’t all one thing or the other. It’s complicated.”

  “So, too, the familiar. But there are currents in the fire’s will. Were I at the peak of my power, I might contest your claim; I admit that it has been much in my mind. But I would not do it at this recitation, and I believe if you cannot control what you have been all but guardian to, there will be no recitation. The Teller, the Lord of the West March, and you yourself, will be lost. If we are very lucky, we will not face a similar fate.”

  “How lucky do you think you’ll be?”

  “The Barrani seldom believe in luck that we do not make with our own hands.” He turned to the Warden. “She must join the Teller.”

  “Understood.”

  * * *

  The Lord of the West March spoke with the gathered members of the High Court; the conversation—if there was one—was short. They had come to hear the recitation, setting out—in some cases—after news of the presence of a harmoniste reached the High Halls. But they understood what had occurred when Teela was a child, and they saw, as they filed out of the Warden’s Perch, what remained in the wake of that disaster.