“An’Teela is no longer considered ambitious, at Court. She has joined the Hawks. She enforces Imperial Law. She has evinced no desire to increase her holdings or the holdings of her line—she does not even style herself An’Danelle, as is both her right and her duty. She has earned the respect of even her enemies, and she carries one of the three.”
“But so does Nightshade,” Kaylin pointed out.
The Consort smiled. “Indeed he does.”
“Wouldn’t everything be simpler—at least for Annarion—if Lord Calarnenne could be repatriated?”
“No. Annarion would not take the title in that case—but Solanace has all but ceased to exist. Calarnenne could not do what would be necessary in order to reconstitute his family—not while retaining control of the fief itself. And you understand, perhaps better than most seated here, the necessity of that control. Your presence excepted, Bellusdeo.”
“Such Towers, as you call them, did not exist in my world—and yes, had they, I believe things would have been different. We would not, however, have allowed the Towers to so randomly choose their stewards.”
“They are not stewards,” the Consort replied, her voice gentle and respectful, even if the words themselves were contradictory. “They are captains. They are meant to give orders when battle is joined. The Towers are very like the Hallionne, but with strikingly different mandates. Helen, if I understand correctly, chose Kaylin.”
“You are correct,” Helen said.
“Could you have been persuaded to accept a tenant chosen by an external council?”
“If the tenant was the person I would have chosen, yes. The fact that an external council suggested it would not sway my opinion in either direction. But, as you suspect, if that person was not a tenant I would choose, then no.”
“And if they were installed here, regardless?”
A beat of silence. “I do not believe they would remain.”
“Would you kill them?”
“No.”
“Then you differ from the Towers in that regard. Not all who enter escape. Not all who enter desire command. Even if they do, they must pass the test set by each Tower. It is not dissimilar, in the end, from the Test of Name—not in theory. You know what occurs when the Towers are bereft of their captains.”
Kaylin nodded.
“I have never entered one of the seven Towers. I have heard reports from those who have; I have spoken—as you must suspect—with Calarnenne.”
Ynpharion was not happy. Of course he wasn’t. Nightshade was outcaste. The Consort was arguably the most important person in the whole of the Barrani Court.
Arguably?
Fine. Most important. Is that better?
It has the advantage, was the acid reply, of being accurate. He is outcaste. The two should never meet. Nightshade should never darken her presence with his until and unless he recovers from his disgrace. His tone made clear that there was no way, in his opinion, to recover from that disgrace. Reinstatement did not wipe the slate clean.
“Calarnenne therefore understands the concerns—and, to put baldly, the fears—of the High Court.
“But he understands my hope, as well. And it is hope, not fear, that has brought me here. Fear,” she continued when no one spoke into the long pause left in the wake of that last sentence, “made me attempt to cage you all. I did not then—and do not now—intend you harm.”
“You don’t expect us to trust you,” Sedarias said.
“No. But here, it is not your trust that is the issue. Helen?”
“Kaylin was hurt, and because she was hurt, she was angry. But, as you suspect, Kaylin desires trust. She believes you.”
The Consort nodded. No trace of a smile remained on her face, and only the barest hint of green in eyes that were usually the deepest of green in the Barrani High Court. “I don’t expect trust, Sedarias. Not without some sign of vulnerability or weakness on my part. And that, I believe, I can give you.”
She turned then to the Arkon. “We have not had the opportunity to speak, I in my court, and you in yours. And in earlier years, when we were not so confined by our choices and our callings, all speech was the screed of war, of domination. But as you are guest here, and as you are learned, I invite your opinions.”
“I have little to offer; the matters of the Barrani High Court are not an area of my expertise.”
“No, of course not. No more are the matters of the Dragon Court mine, and even were Dragons my area of study, the Imperial Court is not like the Flights of old.”
“You are aware that certain members of your Court are calling for war?” the Arkon asked. He sounded far more amused than Kaylin felt—and she was certain she thought it was hilarious compared to the Emperor.
“Ah, indeed. But the members of the Court are not the High Lord, and the High Lord has not declared war; nor does he have any intention of doing so. There may, however, be extensive use of the laws of exemption in the next few months.”
Kaylin stiffened. So did the rest of the Hawks, although Tain was the only one who looked disgusted.
“We have been petitioned,” she continued, “by Barrani lords of the low Courts of the West March, to have certain members of your cohort declared outcaste.”
This was clearly no surprise to Sedarias. A rumble of expression passed through the cohort; only Teela seemed immune to it. Teela, however, was An’Teela.
“It would resolve some political issues, but not in a fashion that would promote long-term stability in the High Court. There would be immediate advantage, but only that. And,” she continued, lifting a hand, “it is not what I personally desire.”
“You are not High Lord, Lady.”
“No, indeed. High Lord is a political position. It is not mine. But you have heard rumors about the High Lord, his brother and his sister, surely?”
Sedarias said, “Which of the dozens would be relevant here?”
Ynpharion was, predictably, annoyed. But annoyance was the new calm, at least for Ynpharion.
“My brothers had no intention of contesting the rule of the High Court. My oldest brother, the heir, intended to take the throne if he was capable of ruling; my younger brother pledged to support him—and meant it. Had things devolved into the more traditional method of determining a ruler, I would have been the Lady, but I would have refused, outright, to become the Consort. I—What is the word? Ah. Love. I love both of my brothers.
“And they, of course, return that. We are not like your cohort; we do not have your experience to mold and shape us. Our experiences nonetheless have. For better or worse, my desire in this particular case carries a great deal of weight. As outcastes, you would, of course, be forbidden the High Halls. You would be forbidden a great deal. I imagine that Lord Kaylin would ignore any such decision; she is mortal. She would, herself, be warned or cautioned, and she would, perhaps with effort, ignore all such warnings. She would, herself, become outcaste.
“This would not, of course, have much obvious effect on Lord Kaylin’s life. But An’Teela would almost certainly join her.”
All eyes became a martial blue in an instant, except for Teela’s. Sedarias, however, did not look surprised. None of them did.
“The decision is not mine to make; it is merely mine to argue, one way or the other. If outcaste, you would, in theory, be forbidden the Hallionne, as well—and I do not believe that Alsanis would be of a mind to obey our laws in this particular case. But Calarnenne was accepted—even welcomed—into the Hallionne, and the polite fiction for his presence was his role as Teller in the regalia. The green chose.”
And the green couldn’t be made outcaste.
“Alsanis has only very recently been allowed to converse with outsiders through anything other than his dreams. Yet if you reached him, I am certain you would be welcome. He would, once again, be isolated—and that isolation would afford him
no protection against the type of attack to which he almost succumbed.”
Terrano cleared his throat. Loudly. Allaron swiveled toward him; Kaylin couldn’t see Allaron’s expression, but could guess.
The Consort, however, turned to Terrano. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if we could dispense with the subtle threats.”
“Do you consider my words threats of any kind? If so, I apologize for my clumsiness. Or perhaps Sedarias will explain that they are not threats; they are observations.”
Terrano snorted. “Then perhaps you’d care to dispense with the observations. We may have been locked inside a Hallionne for almost the entirety of our existence, but we understand the consequences that arise from being made outcaste.”
“And perhaps, dear,” Helen said before the Consort could reply, if she intended to reply at all, “you might make an effort to be polite. And please do not say she started it. She has made every effort to accommodate our rather unusual household.”
Terrano bristled, but shut his mouth. Kaylin imagined there would be words after the Consort had left. She hoped they wouldn’t reach the level of Nightshade-Annarion “discussions.”
“We apologize for Terrano,” Sedarias said, which didn’t improve Terrano’s mood. “We none of us have spent time at Court in recent centuries, and our communications with each other have been, as you must imagine, less formal. While we are, of course, accustomed to long discussions which involve threat assessments, we have never imagined that one of the participants in those discussions would be the Consort.”
“I would be pleased—indeed, gratified—if perhaps we could pursue the type of discussion to which you are accustomed,” the Consort replied.
Ynpharion was now so tense he would have snapped in half if forced to bend.
What Kaylin found odd was the presence of the Arkon. Bellusdeo was so much part of her daily life by this point, even the cohort had adapted to her draconic presence with astonishing speed. The Arkon, however, was not Bellusdeo; he didn’t live in this house and would probably burn it down if any attempt were made to force him to do so. He was one of the few people Kaylin thought had a chance—no matter how tiny—of succeeding.
As if he could hear Kaylin’s thoughts—and Teela generally told Kaylin never to play cards because her expressions were not terribly opaque—the Arkon rose.
“I do not wish to trouble you if the nature of your discussions is purely caste-court-based. I am certain that anything sensitive would best be divulged in the company of your peers—and I am Arkon, of the last of the Dragon Flights; in no wise, except perhaps on the field of ancient battles, would I be considered a peer.”
“I have already said,” the Consort replied without leaving her chair, “that I would consider your advice and your thoughts on the matter I am about to discuss invaluable. It may be that those thoughts and that knowledge will alter possible future plans. Please—I did not expect to find you here, but I consider it an act of fate. A kind fate.”
“What possible expertise do you expect that I possess?” His eyes were almost gold; he truly considered this to be a Barrani problem, which might have some academic—or prurient—amusement value, but did not constitute an emergency.
“Ancient magics that once either contained or created the Shadows.”
His eyes remained gold, but there were stronger hints of orange in them. Bellusdeo, however, slid straight into full-on orange.
“I am unaware of how much is understood by the Eternal Emperor. I believe the basics must have been made clear in the negotiations that followed the end of the final war; I believe it is the reason the capital of the Barrani is considered Elantra—a city overrun otherwise by every conceivable race. In any other circumstance, both the Dragons and the Barrani would expect to relocate. Even when the High Halls came under attack, it was the Dragon Court that came to our aid, and we do not consider ourselves part of the Emperor’s hoard.”
The Arkon said nothing, but he did smile. It was the type of smile, to Kaylin’s surprise, that he offered Bellusdeo; he’d certainly never smiled at Kaylin like that. But Kaylin was a private, a Hawk. Bellusdeo and the Consort were, as the Consort had pointed out, the respective mothers of their race; they were their races’ futures.
“Very well, Lady,” the Arkon said, executing a bow that would have made even Diarmat proud. “I am honored by your trust, if somewhat surprised by it.”
Not, judging from Mandoran’s expression—before he shuttered it—as much as the cohort themselves were.
The Consort turned to Kaylin. “Lord Kaylin, you are mortal and, by the strict rule of our ancient laws, a Lord of the Court. Nonetheless, I wish you to now discuss what you observed when you undertook—and passed—the Test of Name.”
* * *
There was a beat of silence.
It was filled by Teela. “No.”
Kaylin turned to Teela—it was easier to meet her gaze, even blue as it was. “It makes sense,” she said. “I’m mortal. I’m human. No one expects me to follow the etiquette of a Court I don’t even understand. It wouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone, given how much Barrani look down on the rest of us, if I talked. I was never told not to speak about what I witnessed.”
“And yet you haven’t spoken of it. Why?”
“Because it involves—” She snapped her jaw shut. It involved the High Lord. It involved the former Consort—the High Lord’s mother. It involved the failure of the most highly placed person at Court. Kaylin wasn’t a complete fool; had she been, she would never have survived Barren. No one at her level talked about the weaknesses or foibles of people who could crush her like an ant.
Yes, in theory, laws existed to prevent that. But laws existed to prevent murders, too, and they still happened.
“Exactly,” Teela snapped, sounding more like a sergeant than the corporal she was.
“You understand,” Kaylin said to the Consort, “that the laws don’t work that way? If you tell me to break the law, and you have a reasonable chance of expecting obedience, you’re complicit in the breaking.”
“If the laws you imply I would be breaking were meant for Elantrans, that would be true,” was the serene reply. “It is also true that the request—and it is a request, An’Teela, a preference, not a command—can be considered insulting.”
“At best,” Teela snapped. “And if you have a preference, Lady, so do I. I ask Lord Kaylin to consider her own interests and her own safety before acceding to what is, no matter how prettily worded, an insult.”
To Kaylin’s surprise, Ynpharion agreed. With Teela.
“You are the only person present at the table who might understand what I hope to achieve,” the Consort said. “Leaving aside Lord Kaylin, of course, who will understand both what I hope to achieve, and the very visceral desire that it be achieved at all. And you will not have a hand in it, in the end; it is with your friends, none of whom have faced the Test of Name—and all that that implies—that all hope lies.”
“And you will not speak of it?”
“No. And, An’Teela, neither will you.”
Kaylin cringed. Because that? That was a command. The silence that followed was an angry one. Kaylin rushed in to fill it, which caused Tain—and only Tain—to wince. Severn’s expression was neutral and impassive.
“They’re going to need you. You’re the head of your line. You’re a Lord of the High Court and you have an almost impeccable history. As far as I can tell, your enemies are mostly dead. No one is going to challenge you for whatever it is you hold. You’re powerful enough that you can be an Imperial Hawk. While the cohort is struggling politically, you are the only member who can anchor them.”
“You think she hasn’t spoken of the Test of Name?” Terrano asked. Terrano, the only person who couldn’t actually hear Teela when she chose to speak privately through the bond of True Names.
“I’m sure she hasn’t,” Kaylin answered, because she was. Kaylin knew that she herself would have talked, but she wasn’t Teela.
Sedarias nodded, grim now. “She has argued consistently against any of us making the attempt to pass that test at this time. She has, however, given us no concrete reasons.” And clearly, this lack of reason was not to Sedarias’s liking. “In the absence of concrete reasons, we have attempted to theorize.”
“Of course,” the Consort replied, as if this were only to be expected. Then again, it was Sedarias speaking, so it probably was. She turned, once again, to Kaylin.
And Kaylin turned, internally, to Ynpharion.
Why, he demanded, do you seek my counsel in this?
Because you don’t like it, either.
I dislike almost everything you do.
No, you dislike almost everything I am. But where the Consort is concerned, you’ve mostly given grudging approval. You didn’t want her here. I didn’t want her here. Neither of us had any choice.
I am not the master here. Neither, he added, in case it wasn’t obvious to someone as ignorant as Kaylin, are you.
Yes, but I think I know why she’s willing to take the risk on the cohort. I think I know what she wants to achieve from all of this. It’s not about politics—it’s about the names.
It is too much of a risk.
Me talking? Or what she hopes the cohort might achieve?
Both. An’Teela will be angry, and An’Teela is—and has been for centuries—a force to be reckoned with. Only desultory attempts have been made against her life in the past hundred of your years. If you do as the Lady has requested, An’Teela will not be angry with you—she will be furious with the Lady. And that, too, is a risk.
What would you do if you were me?
A brief flit of suicide came and went. To Kaylin’s surprise, Ynpharion was trying to be polite. I would do as the Lady requested, he finally said. But I would do it because the Lady requested it of me. I would do it, even were I not name-bound—and, Lord Kaylin, although I do not wish to add pressure to any decision you make, there is probably a reason that her two attendants are Lords of the Court.
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