The Chronicles of Elantra Bundle

by Michelle Sagara

  Lord Evarrim frowned. This spoke volumes; had he been Leontine, he would have been a mass of standing fur and exposed fangs and claws. “Anteela, how pleasant to see you, cousin. No doubt your time in the Hawks has exposed you to mortals of all stripe and race.

  “In fact, given your exposure, I find it odd that you stand before your Lord and mine, beside a mortal who has garnered the interest of the outcaste, the Lord of the West March and Lord Sanabalis. Do you claim that this level of interest in one merely mortal is a common occurrence?”

  “In the history of the High Court, mortals have often been of interest,” Teela replied, a delicate shrug punctuating her words. “At this time, and in this place, it does not strike me as odd…it strikes me as somehow fitting.”

  Kaylin had followed the verbal sparring up to that point; she lost its meaning entirely as she wrestled with Teela’s words.

  “And I would say, Lord Evarrim, that she has also gained the interest of the Arcanum, if you speak so forcefully.”

  “I do not speak for her presence.”

  “No, indeed, but you speak as if her presence could possibly be a threat to our Lord. And if you speak from a position of knowledge, I am sure it would please the Court to hear what you have to say.”

  Kaylin caught the strands again. But she had missed something important, and knew it.

  The Lord of the High Court waited.

  And the gods turned again. The Lord of the West March appeared at the periphery of a circle that also contained Lord Evarrim. The look that passed between the two was not—could not remotely be construed as—friendly. It was, however, gilded with all outward show of deference and respect.

  “My apologies,” the Lord of the West March said. “I was occupied, High Lord, and was unaware that my kyuthe had arrived.”

  “Lord Evarrim has cast some doubt upon your claim,” the castelord said evenly. It was a challenge. Even Kaylin recognized that. But there was no anger in it.

  “It is to be expected,” the Lord of the West March replied gravely. “I have never been fond of mortals. Nor, however, have I made my personal business a matter for the High Court. I considered the matter of negligible consequence.” He approached. Although the Barrani did not rush to get out of his way, they cleared a path for him. Kaylin couldn’t see how, and she’d spent a lot of time on crowd patrols, especially during the Festival season.

  “Kaylin Neya,” the Lord of the West March said as he approached her, “you honor us with your presence.” He bowed. The bow was not as low as Teela’s bow to his father had been, but it was not perfunctory. “Forgive me my lack of hospitality.”

  She hesitated. To speak after him would be like croaking, but worse. He didn’t seem to notice. Then again, he hadn’t noticed the very dead body of a guard left to watch over him, either, so that didn’t offer as much comfort as it might have.

  “She is kyuthe,” the Lord of the West March said, speaking to the castelord, and only the castelord. “And I would not have it said that I have offered lie to you, Lord, in pursuit of any agenda that is not yours.”

  The castelord nodded.

  Teela stepped back.

  And the Lord of the West March approached her. He smiled. She hated her knees.

  “Come, kyuthe.” He held out a hand, and she stared at it. And then she held out hers; left hand. It bore his ring. But he shook his head. “The right hand,” he told her quietly. “It is unadorned.”

  Andellen stepped forward, and the Lord of the West March met his eyes; the stare lasted a minute. Or an hour. It was kind of hard to tell. But Andellen did not move when the Lord of the West March again raised his hand.

  Lifting her right hand, she placed it across his palm.

  Light flared between their hands, spreading up their arms. It was golden, and it moved and danced, taking a shape and form that she had seen only once: in the forest, beneath the bower of an impossible tree. Feathers. Flight feathers.

  And around these, dancing the autumnal drift of fall, other colors, red and yellow, green and brown, silver and white.

  She did not want to let go of his hand.

  But when he withdrew, she had no choice. “Is the High Court satisfied?” the Lord of the West March asked. But he spoke to the castelord, and only the castelord.

  The castelord’s smile was the equal of his son’s. “It is satisfied,” he replied. “Welcome, Kaylin Neya, to the Court of the Barrani.”

  She bowed.

  “If you will it, High Lord, I will show my kyuthe the High Halls. She is mortal, her memory will last decades, no more, but stories will arise from what she has seen that will bewitch those who will never approach it.”

  “Let it be done,” the castelord said quietly. “But return with your kyuthe for the twilight gathering. We will sup then, and perhaps we will talk.”

  The Lord of the West March bowed. He offered Kaylin his arm, and she forced herself to take it as readily as she would Severn’s. It was hard.

  “Anteela,” the High Lord said when Teela moved to follow, “remain with me. Your time with these mortals might be of interest. Entertain us.”

  Teela bowed again, and turned to face him. She did not look at Kaylin again.

  “And with your leave,” the castelord said to Severn, “I would also have your company. There is a shadow upon you that interests me.”

  Severn’s bow was almost as good as Teela’s. And he, too, failed to watch her leave.

  “The Corporal is competent,” the Lord of the West March said when they were well clear of the forest and the doors that enclosed it. Kaylin saw that they were not in the entrance hall. She had no idea where they’d come out. But she wasn’t about to question him; she was almost giddy with relief.

  She bit her tongue. Pain had a habit of driving giddiness someplace less inconvenient.

  “Oh, he’s competent,” Kaylin said. “I don’t think he’s ever failed at anything he’s tried.”

  “And how much has he tried?”

  She frowned.

  “Ambition is the measure of many a man.”

  “Oh.”

  “And woman. What is yours, Kaylin Neya?”

  “I’d like to survive this,” she replied in Elantran, without thinking. Andellen’s frown was like a mirror. But it was brief.

  To her surprise, the Lord of the West March laughed. “So, too, would I—and there are many who would say that my ambitions outstrip my ability.” If he did not speak in Elantran, it did not seem to offend him. “It is why,” he added more gravely, “I summoned you.”

  “You couldn’t be certain I’d accept.”

  “No. Not certain. You bear the mark of Nightshade.” He met her eyes and held them. “But you are not his Erenne. In that, Lord Evarrim spoke truth.”

  She hesitated. “I’m not his consort,” she said.

  “There are very few consorts who would consent to be so marked,” was the grave reply. “Not even the castelord’s consort. I am curious. Why do you bear his mark and not his touch?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His eyes were green. Just green.

  “I didn’t know that he would mark me,” she added quietly. “And I didn’t know what it would mean.” She straightened her shoulders. “But I understand that ignorance isn’t an excuse.”

  At that, he did smile. She loved his smile. She loved it the way she had instantly loved Clint’s Aerian laughter, its low tones resonant with a deep affection, no matter how it was offered. But Clint was mortal, and a Hawk. The Lord of the West March was neither.

  “He did not explain?”

  “He said it was for my protection.”

  “It is poor protection indeed in this Court.”

  “I’d noticed that.”

  “Lord Nightshade was not a man known for his patience. Nor was he known for his tolerance.”

  “You remember him?”

  “I remember him. And Kaylin, I speak his name. Lord Andellen will understand the significance, even if you do not.�
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  She turned to Andellen. “Lord?” She whispered.

  “One of three who left the Court in the service of Nightshade,” the Lord of the West March replied. “It is why he is here as your guardian.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “If I valued you enough to risk the wrath of the Emperor by placing my mark upon you, it is what I would have done.” He turned. “I waste your time,” he said softly, “and you have little of it. It has long made communication between our kind difficult.

  “I had not expected you to bear the medallion of Sanabalis. He is almost legend to us. You have friends,” he added quietly. “But they are beyond you here.

  “Come, Kaylin. There is a man I wish you to meet.”

  “Another High Lord?”

  He nodded. “He is called the Lord of the Green.”

  “Your brother.”

  “My brother.” His eyes had shaded into blue, but it was a pale blue. A color that she couldn’t yet read.

  And yet, unable to read it, she felt it. Regret.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “You are strong. Strong enough to wear the medallion of the Dragon Sanabalis without being consigned to the fire.” He paused, and then added, “I do not know if that is the strength that is required. But I know that the strength required is beyond me.”

  He led, and she followed, and for just that moment, caught in melancholy and regret that was not her own, she would have followed him anywhere.

  CHAPTER 11

  There was a subtle change in Andellen. Kaylin noticed it but couldn’t say how; nothing about him was different. Not his stance, not his silence, not his expression or the color of his eyes. He walked just behind her, and by his side, Samaran. Their steps fell in perfect unison.

  He did not defer to the Lord of the West March; the Lord of the West March did not seem to require or even expect it of him. But something had changed.

  She would have asked, had he been mortal. Hell, she probably would have asked had he been a Dragon. But his demeanor, as always, discouraged questions. So instead, she turned her attention to the Lord of the West March. It was a mouthful, that title. Teela was called Anteela at Court; Lord Evarrim had something that could pass for a Barrani name—where name meant something that other people could use without sounding officious or pretentious. So far, no one had used anything but the long title.

  And Kaylin, who could have, didn’t dare. She couldn’t even think of the syllables.

  “The High Halls,” the Lord of the West March said, “are the oldest standing structure known to the Barrani. There are ruins across the blasted plain to the south that are older still, but no one will cross the plains to reclaim them. Shadows grow there, and little else.” He looked at her.

  She looked at her feet. Finally, she said, “I don’t know what the blasted plains are.” She put a different emphasis on the geographical name.

  “They are a reminder,” he said quietly. “And more, they are our history. The history of the Dragons and the Barrani.” He slowed his step to match hers. “You are not a student of history?”

  “I’m not much of a student of anything,” she confessed.

  “Ah. Let us turn, then, to personal history.”

  Let’s not. But she didn’t say it. There was nothing intrusive in his tone.

  “There are always incidents in our past which we would rather avoid speaking of. Those, much like the history of the plains to the immortals, are common in the broader scope of time. But there are junctures in a life. A single life. Events which can shatter it completely.” His eyes were still an odd shade of blue. She thought he must know about the fiefs, about the deaths of Steffi and Jade.

  He did not speak their names. How could he?

  “In some individuals,” he continued after the pause of her thoughts, “those events serve as catalysts. They define the direction and shape of the future, but the future is not bound to them, not beholden to them.”

  She nodded.

  “We speak, at times, of the Dragons and their ancient war,” he told her. The hall was long, and mirrors caught and reflected those who passed by, bouncing images back and forth until there was no end to what they captured.

  “But we seldom speak of what followed. Dragons are primal, Kaylin. They know the names of elements. Like fire,” he added softly, staring a moment at the medallion across her chest. “They know much. Their wars destroyed whole forests, killing everything that gained sustenance there. They were without mercy, and without kin.

  “But a Dragon Emperor rules Ala’an. He sits upon a throne of gold, and from it he issues the laws upon which the mortals depend. He has, among his councilors, Dragons older by far than he, and he does not waver in the course he set for them when he killed half their number.

  “It was the last war,” he added softly, “that the Dragons fought. Perhaps it will not be the last war they fight. History speaks of the past, but it does not prevent the future.”

  She wondered where this was going; she was a Hawk, and saw for a moment as Hawks see. It was going somewhere.

  “There are those among the Barrani who have witnessed the winds of that slow change. Some are not pleased by it. There has been a long rivalry between our kind that is unequaled among mortals.

  “But there those who, seeing what has been built, understand that change is possible.” He came to a door. “The understanding is imperfect,” he added, lifting a hand to touch the door-ward in its center. “And it is costly. Where the Dragons have warred, the Barrani have warred, and if the war is different, the end is not—there are fewer Barrani. Were it not for the power the Dragon Emperor wields, the Barrani would not have acceded to his rule. Understand,” he added, his palm hovering above the ward, “that his rule is tenuous at best, among our kind.”

  “You aren’t killing each other in our streets,” she said, mustering some defiance.

  “But we are,” he replied. “And in the marches, there has been war. In the mountains, there is rumbling.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No. You don’t. Change for the changeless is costly, Kaylin. Change—in your life—was no less costly. But what were your choices?”

  He did know. She was certain of it. “I didn’t have a choice,” she said bitterly.

  “Did you not? Do you not now bear the Hawk in the service of the Emperor?”

  “No. I bear it in the service of the people.” She said it baldly, because it was the truth, and because she knew she couldn’t lie to him. Nor, to her surprise, did she want to.

  “You could have chosen death,” he told her. His hand still hovered.

  “I almost did,” she said flatly.

  “Almost is not the same,” was his soft reply. “It starts now.” And he placed his palm on the ward.

  The door swung open.

  Kaylin wasn’t certain what she had expected. Certainly not forest, and forest was nowhere in evidence. What had the brother been called? The Lord of the Green? But the room, the huge room, was not green. It was stone, and the smooth, carved walls, rose up in a rounded peak, like an artistic interpretation of great caverns.

  One still pond lay in the center of the room; no statues stood in its center; the water was motionless, and seemed almost dull. Pocked stones surrounded and circled it, and tall standing torches rested around the circumference in eight, evenly spaced places.

  Her breath echoed. Only hers. No one else seemed to need to breathe.

  “Where is he?” she said, and again, the words echoed.

  “He is here,” the Lord of the West March said.

  He walked toward the still water.

  Kaylin followed, and as she did, her feet—in shoes with soles so thin she could feel the rough texture of stone push against leather—passed above engraved words. She paused.

  “Be a Hawk, Kaylin,” the Lord of the West March told her softly. “Be what you are, kyuthe.”

  She knelt, freed by his command. Unfortunately, his command didn’t chang
e the shape of her dress or the folds of the skirts or the tightness of the sleeves that must have been designed to hide the whole of her arms no matter how she moved. The trailing bits were a pain, and she thought about cutting them off.

  Reached for her daggers, and remembered that she didn’t have them. Gods, she hated politics.

  But she let the hate go; the words were waiting. “These are…High Barrani?”

  He said nothing. They were, she thought, recognizing some of the old forms. But not all of them. Some of the writing was wrong, its shape too full, and too round. Her eyes widened, sliding to the green sleeves of concealment she wore. “How old did you say the High Halls were?”

  “Old,” he replied.

  “And this…room?”

  “It is, as you guess, the oldest room in the Halls.”

  “This…this word—” she trailed the shape with her fingers “—this is High Barrani. It’s…it means blood.”

  “Very good.”

  “And this, this one—it means life.”

  His face was utterly still. He offered her nothing.

  She crept across the floor on her knees. Tracing. Touching. “This is death,” she said. “And this is growth.”

  “The latter, I know. And you are correct.”

  She looked up. Met his eyes. “This is containment,” she told him. Her fingers read the word; her eyes were his.

  “It is.”

  She stood, and made her way to the torches. What had seemed like water upon first sight seemed thicker and darker on second. “This is why you summoned me,” she said, her voice flat.

  “I am sorry,” he replied. “I could not speak of it without the castelord’s leave.”

  “But you brought me here.”

  “With his leave.”

  “Am I going to be able to walk out?”

  He said nothing. It was too much nothing.

  She walked along the stones that formed the edge of the pool. There were words there. She began to speak them, almost unconsciously. Halfway around, she realized her lips hadn’t moved. She looked up, almost in a panic, and met Andellen’s eyes.