Michelle Sagara

by Cast in Sorrow

  Lirienne did not demand that they accompany him; he made clear that the Consort intended to enter Alsanis, but he also made clear that the gathered might of High Court and Vale had done nothing to retrieve her on either of the two occasions she had almost been lost. Lord Kaylin, he reminded them, had been solely responsible for her survival on both occasions.

  “Lord Kaylin,” Ynpharion said, “did not preserve her life on the forest paths.”

  “No,” was the grave reply. “And Lord Kaylin did not protect her when the Lord’s hall was attacked. But Lord Ynpharion, neither did we. I will not command. I will not demand. Lord Iberrienne will accompany us, at the Lady’s request.”

  Kaylin didn’t understand Ynpharion. He had, over the course of a day—or two, depending—accepted what he had spent weeks raging against: she held his name. She had a power over him that even the High Lord didn’t have. His anger, his sense of self-loathing, was still present, but so vastly diminished Kaylin thought there was an actual chance she might be able to ignore it one day.

  You saved the Lady, not once, but twice. She was angry, Lord Kaylin. She was angry with you; she is not angered now. I do not understand mortals, and I have lived far longer than you have within the confines of Elantra. But I understand my people.

  You hold my name. But mine is not the only name you hold.

  She said nothing, aware that her own ability to hide her thoughts was going to cause so much trouble in the future.

  You do not command the dragon because you do not understand the truth of command. You only barely commanded me, and in so doing, returned me to myself. So I will tell you what I know of the transformed: they are not Barrani. They remember; in that, they are Immortal. But how they respond to what they remember, what they desire because of it—it is not what we desire.

  And my desires changed, Lord Kaylin. I would call it subtle—but it was not. When you spoke my name, when you burned away the taint that it fed, I was instantly awake, and instantly what I had been before I acceded to Iberrienne’s offer. Yes, he added, before she could ask. I wanted power. You already understand why.

  She did.

  But the power he gave was not the power I wanted. I understood only yesterday that Iberrienne himself faced the same change, and I have seen what it has done to him. You hold his name, and you are afraid to even speak to him because you are afraid he will shatter. There was contempt in this last thought—for her—but also a very strong confusion.

  I serve you because I have no choice.

  Kaylin said nothing.

  But I now understand that in serving you, I serve the Lady. I serve the Lord of the West March. I serve a sorcerer. I see legends walking—and flying. I see the twisted ruins of a Hallionne long lost to my distant kin. If disaster follows in your wake, it is not unmitigated. He hesitated, and then added, I remember what the transformed remember. Iberrienne would have drained the name that was released upon the death of my companion.

  You preserved it.

  You preserved it, and you wear it, but you do not destroy it in the wearing. The Consort believes that you will return that life to the Lake. And if you can, it means you have seen what she has seen, and you have survived. I know what she hopes to achieve. We all know. But if she fails, she believes that you might succeed. It is her highest duty. I will serve with what small grace I can muster. You live such a short time.

  Chapter 23

  What do you remember? Kaylin asked Ynpharion. What did you think you were fighting for?

  Freedom.

  From the tyranny of name?

  You understand.

  No, I don’t. You still have a name or you wouldn’t be here. Was the name supposed to be transformed, somehow?

  If we understood the form of our hidden selves, we could, with will and careful intent, revise it. If it became known, we could change it enough that knowledge was not a weapon that could be wielded against us. And we discovered that we could change more. The tyranny of form no longer bound us. We could walk the fixed lands—the world, as you call it. But we could walk the outlands, and we could walk the space between spaces. We could speak with the hidden and ancient things that live where the living cannot—creatures of which we had had no awareness before we were given the keys to unlock our cages.

  He spit.

  They were not cages. Had he been speaking out loud, his voice would have trembled with the intensity of his anger. They were the essence of what we are. The shadows bled the strength from the words, but they could not completely change them; they could change their meaning in the gray spaces where names do not exist.

  Kaylin frowned. She turned to Barian, who walked by her side as they left his home. “When the Lords come to the West March to listen to the regalia, it is rumored that some are empowered by the experience.” She spoke in careful High Barrani.

  His nod was cautious; it didn’t encourage discussion.

  The advantage of belonging to a lesser race was the expectations it engendered; he had far fewer of her. “It is why the most promising of the young were chosen, was it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “How were the Lords changed?”

  His eyes widened. They were blue; she didn’t expect their color to shift in any way. “I am not certain I understand the question.”

  “How was change measured?”

  He frowned.

  “Lord Lirienne? Does it still happen?”

  “Yes. It is not predictable, Lord Kaylin. It is not a dependable change, and there are no indicators prior to the recitation; men and women with great power are changed; men and women with almost no discernible power are changed.”

  “Yes, but—how? The Barrani I know imply a lot of power but don’t demonstrate much of it. I’m certain I haven’t seen a tenth of what Evarrim can do.”

  “That is a question that Lord Evarrim would be able to answer.”

  “And not the Warden?”

  “Very few of the Lords remain in the West March; it is rustic, and the Court of the Vale is less...active. Such changes would not necessarily be marked in a venue in which displays of power are less necessary.”

  She thought of Lord Avonelle, and Lord Lirienne graced her with the slightest of smiles.

  “Does the change involve elemental powers?”

  “Elemental powers?”

  “Does it strengthen the ability to summon?”

  The Lord of the West March was silent.

  “Does it give more insight into the between, the gray spaces, the outlands? Does it change the ability to draw wards and runes, to imbue them with power?”

  The silence grew. At length, he said, “Yes. There are other abilities which are also strengthened. What do you now suspect, Chosen?”

  What did she think? That something, somehow, was altering the base structure of a name? Nudging it, tweaking it, somehow pushing it into a very slightly different shape? The changes that occurred—where they occurred at all—didn’t destroy the person who received them. It didn’t do what had been done to the lost children, and what had been done, in turn, to the Barrani who had become Ferals.

  Why?

  A name was a name. It was given at birth. Did the Barrani somehow grow into it? Was it more rooted, stronger somehow, with age and experience? Were the children susceptible because they had not yet grown into the word that would define them? Were they altered because they had no way of protecting what they didn’t fully understand?

  Or was Ynpharion altered not because of the shadows but because of the length and constancy of the exposure to the things that weren’t meant to live here? Did the recitation give a glimpse of that world to those who could retain it? Did it sensitize them without altering the nature of what life meant?

  Ynpharion—

  Yes, I understand the question. I do not remember being told a story.

  Did you understand what Iberrienne was attempting to do when we—when we first met?

  No. He hadn’t finished, but was silent for a long moment
. Yes. I think I believed that he was trying to change the world. To make it freer. To rid it of the constraints and the limits placed upon us by our creators.

  Was this his idea?

  It was our idea; we believed it. We could see the world that he could see. We did not have the power to change it, but the power exists in the words left us. We could use those words. We could use them to alter reality.

  The names.

  She felt his revulsion. He didn’t bother to mention the Lake of Life; even the thought of it in this context revolted him. Yet it was what he had believed.

  Do you have any idea of how that was supposed to work?

  No.

  And Iberrienne seems to have only half a brain left. Did you ever see his brother?

  Brother?

  She took this as a no, but said, Iberrienne lost his brother to the recitation. He was one of the twelve; I think his name was Eddorian.

  She felt Ynpharion almost freeze in place. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to answer.

  Kaylin exhaled, turned, and caught Ynpharion’s arm, dragging him out of his momentary paralysis.

  * * *

  They spoke very little as they walked toward the Hallionne Alsanis. The green of grass and trees gave way to something that might have been stone or ash; it was roughly circular in shape, and the Hallionne stood at its heart. Nightshade, Iberrienne, and the Consort stood at its edge, waiting; the shadow cast by the enormous dragon in the sky above darkened the ground as he flew.

  The Consort looked back as her brother approached; they exchanged brief, almost silent words—or at least almost silent to Kaylin. She then turned to Kaylin. “Lord Kaylin.”

  Kaylin offered the Consort a perfect bow. She’d had enough sleep that she wasn’t tripping over her own feet. When she rose, the Lord of the West March had stepped aside to make room for her; it was a less than subtle hint. Kaylin took the vacated position by the Consort’s side.

  “Can you hear him?”

  “Yes.” The Consort glanced at Ynpharion as she spoke. She did not otherwise acknowledge him.

  “Can he hear you?”

  “I do not know, Lord Kaylin. I have never spoken to Alsanis as Consort.” She glanced at Iberrienne, and then said, her voice gentling, “Are you ready?” It occurred to Kaylin that Iberrienne was theoretically Outcaste, and unlike Nightshade, he didn’t have the protection of the Teller’s crown. Nor did it matter.

  Iberrienne nodded. “Eddorian is calling.”

  The dragon roared. Kaylin wanted to roar back. Instead, she began to walk.

  * * *

  Ten yards from the edge of the gray circle, she found the first of the fallen nightmares. It retained its shape, but the darkness of shadow had left it; it now seemed like an artist’s impression of a bird—a shape that implied flight, without any of its form. She glanced at the Consort for permission; the Consort nodded.

  “None of us now understand what we will face. You are Chosen.” Kaylin opened her mouth; the Consort held out one graceful—and imperious—hand. “What you choose to risk, risk. We will accept it.”

  Kaylin glanced at the Warden. Lord Barian’s gaze was fixed on the fallen nightmare. Kaylin had no cause to love those nightmares—but the eagles had emerged from them. Then again, she had no reason to love the eagles, either; they spoke more clearly, but they had taken the Consort from the Lord’s Hall into the heart of the green.

  She felt the marks on her arm begin to warm. She touched the fallen nightmare; it felt like stone beneath her palm, rough and porous. At her back, Severn unwound his chain.

  “Don’t,” she told him.

  “It’s still a weapon,” he replied. “It doesn’t break spells, but it’s effective in every other way.”

  “You can’t use it here—”

  “But he can, Lord Kaylin,” Barian said. “If it is to become what it was, he must.”

  Kaylin bit her lip as she attempted to lift what felt like stone. To her surprise, it was much lighter than it appeared. She turned to say something to Barian and stopped at the expression on the Warden’s face.

  The nightmare rose. Its solid wings labored in the air a yard above Kaylin’s hands. The eagles that rested on Barian watched in silence. Kaylin held out both hands as the not-quite-stone, not-quite-bird failed to fly. It landed in her palms.

  And then it spoke. Kaylin didn’t understand a word.

  The eagles, however, did; they replied, in the same tongue. The creature in her hands shook at the sound of their voices. It had no mouth; it had a crevice that implied beak and emitted syllables. After a sentence or two—judging only by intonation and pauses, it shivered again, and this time, it pulled a head out of the porous mass of its body. It was an eagle’s head. Nothing about its body changed, but Kaylin’s eyes rounded.

  “Lord Kaylin?”

  “This is—I think this is—”

  The eagles leaped from Barian’s arms to Kaylin’s shoulders. Their claws didn’t pierce skin, but it was close.

  “What are you?” the creature transforming itself in her hands asked. He asked in Elantran, or what passed for Elantran; Kaylin’s suspicions hardened.

  “I’m mortal,” she replied. “Human, even.”

  “What is that?”

  “I’m not Barrani.”

  “You are not one of the children, then.”

  “No.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Apparently,” she replied softly, “I’m here to wake you. You are Alasanis’s brother, aren’t you?”

  “Alsanis is here? Where?”

  The eagles answered, screeching. Kaylin couldn’t understand a word they were saying. She glanced at the Consort, who was frowning.

  “You could understand it?”

  “It sounds like it’s speaking Elantran to me,” Kaylin replied. “And I guess that means it’s not.”

  The gray eagle face was joined by wings, and legs. The legs were a little off, possibly because they were of uneven lengths. She watched as he adjusted them. “I don’t like this shape. It is too small.”

  “If you’re going to get bigger, don’t do it in my hands.”

  “Oh?” He looked at her hands, and she noted, as he did, that his eyes were like black opals. “Will it harm them?”

  She set him on the ground. “He’s like Wilson,” she told the Consort. To the bird that was slowly changing and expanding his shape, she added, “How many of you are there?”

  He blinked. It was disturbing because he had grown a third eye. “How many?” He turned to the eagles and asked them a question she couldn’t understand; the eagles replied, and whatever they said caused the creature to laugh. “How many are you?”

  Kaylin started to count, and one of the eagles tightened his claws. “There is only one of you.”

  “Don’t tell me that—tell him.”

  “We have. He does not understand the concept. We will fly,” the eagle added. “We will search.”

  The dragon roared, and the stone eagle, which was doing a good job of becoming a standing puddle, froze. It looked up—well, the head did; the wings had kind of dispersed into something disturbingly liquid—and its face changed shape. It roared back.

  Kaylin was once again reminded of Bellusdeo and Diarmat, minus the outrage on either side. She covered her ears with her hands and rose. But she looked up at the dragon, and felt momentarily happy. Yes, he was larger, and yes, he had changed. But the gift he had given Bertolle, he had attempted to give to Alsanis.

  “It is not safe,” the stone said, its shape at last settling into an almost-familiar one. No, not almost. She heard Nightshade’s breath stop—funny, that that was a sound. She recognized the Barrani who now stood before her with his opal eyes, although she had only seen him once. He was Allaron.

  * * *

  But the statue that now began to take on the texture—and color—of flesh shook his head; black hair gleamed in a drape down his back. “We are not. We are the brothers of Alsanis.”


  “Why do you look like Allaron?”

  “Do I?” He frowned. “Is it upsetting?”

  “No,” Kaylin said quickly. “We’re fine with it. You don’t have to change your shape again.”

  “It is small and confining, but—small and confined as you are, it is appropriate.” He frowned. “Alsanis is waking. The children are crying. Come.” He paused, and then bowed to the Consort. He appeared content to ignore everyone else. “Lady.”

  The Consort inclined her head; her eyes were an odd shade of blue. “Will he hear me?”

  “Yes, Lady—but they will hear you, as well. They are troublesome. They occupy us, they exhort us, they demand. Alsanis is...” He frowned. It was not a Barrani expression; it was too quick and too open. Turning, he lifted his arms; light bled from his fingertips like slow lightning. He chased it with the thunder of his voice.

  The dragon roared.

  The awakened brother roared back, and then turned, his eyes round with outrage. “You have not named him.”

  “No.”

  “Why? How can he be here without a name?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  The brother—Kaylin considered calling him Roger—frowned. “Of course not. You could not contain his name; it would devour you. Did you not impress a name upon him when you summoned him?”

  “No.” She wasn’t going to explain that she hadn’t summoned him. On the other hand, it appeared that the dragon was, and loudly.

  One of the Hallionne’s distant walls cracked in response, the fault line spreading like fractures in glass.

  The brother fell silent. “It is almost too late. Come, Lady. Come, Chosen. Alsanis waits.” He turned to Nightshade and the Lord of the West March. “Be prepared. There are too many stories and too little time.” He began to walk toward the shadowed, crystal building.

  * * *

  The eagles didn’t return. There were no other fallen shadows on the straightest path between their current location and the cracked wall, and Kaylin hesitated. She remembered the brothers of Bertolle.

  “We are awake now, and we are here. We are not Bertolle’s kin, but Alsanis’s. More forms are not necessary.” He glanced at the Consort and shook his head. “Now is not the time. No song of awakening is necessary, Lady. He is awake. He does not sleep. He has not slept since the green was washed in the blood of the dying; he will not sleep until the tale is done. And until now, he could not speak with us unless he slept.