Cast in Sorrow coe-9 Read online

  Chapter 3

  There were good career reasons why Kaylin had never been considered a diplomat. Since she had no desire to be one, it had never mattered much. There were also good career reasons why Kaylin was not the on-duty Hawk at investigations that involved the upper echelons of the Human Caste Court.

  But not even Kaylin could miss the sudden chill in unfamiliar Barrani eyes. She gave the Consort a tiny shake; the Consort did not respond. More than a tiny shake was impossible, given the sharp intake of breath the tiny one had caused.

  Lord Barian said, “Lord Kaylin.”

  Teela proved that there were reasons why she was also seldom the on-duty Hawk in delicate investigations, besides the usual racial ones; the Human Caste Court didn’t like being questioned by arrogant immortals. She stepped forward, moving without haste and with her characteristic, arrogant grace.

  The two Hawks now bracketed the Lady.

  Lord Barian’s eyes narrowed. “An’Teela,” he said.

  “I am Lord,” Teela replied. “The customs of the West March differ from those of the High Court, but surely not so greatly. Or perhaps you neglect the title as a subtle way of claiming kinship, cousin?”

  Severn joined them.

  The West March Barrani couldn’t have failed to notice that he was mortal. They’d noticed everything else. But...Severn unsheathed his weapon blades for the first time since they’d stopped running, and as Kaylin watched the Warden’s eyes darken, she lifted her chin. It was either that or cringe.

  Evarrim came to stand beside Teela; Teela failed to notice him at all. Instead, she exhaled. “Kitling.” She turned to the Consort, and slid arms around the back of her neck and her knees. Kaylin supported some of her weight as Teela shifted her grip. She wouldn’t drop or desert the Lady while she lived.

  When Teela carried the whole of the Consort’s weight, she turned to face Lord Barian.

  “The heart of the green has never denied me,” she told him. It had the feel of a ritual phrase, but also the defiance of an insult. She glanced at Kaylin, frowned, and added, “If you have forgotten your promise to Lord Sanabalis, I have not.”

  “Promise? What—” Oh. “I should have stayed home, Teela,” she said, in Aerian. “The Exchequer can’t be worth this.” But she reached up to grasp the links of the heavy gold chain she wore around her neck; the links were skin-warm. She pulled the chain out, revealing the amulet that Sanabalis had given her. She wouldn’t have taken it at all, but he’d made clear that she wasn’t going if she didn’t. And that she was to wear it prominently at all times while she was a guest in the West March.

  Arrows left their quivers and bows were pulled. The Barrani of the West March clearly didn’t live in a city—or an Empire—ruled by a Dragon, but they knew what the amulet meant.

  “I really hope you’re not enjoying this,” Kaylin said out of the corner of her mouth.

  “How uncharitable,” Teela replied. Her eyes were the same blue as Barian’s, but her lips were now curved in a hard, tight smile. Lifting her voice, she switched to High Barrani. “I introduce Lord Severn. He has passed the Tower’s test, and the test of name; he is a Lord of the High Court, and he has come to affirm his claim in the heart of the green.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Yes, in theory. But the harmoniste, as you’ve noted, is mortal; she is a Lord of the High Court, and she wears the blood of the green. Unless you wish to claim her robe to be a clever and nefarious counterfeit, the choice is no longer in your hands. And, Warden, I think not even you would be so arrogant.”

  “It is not Lord Kaylin’s inclusion that is under discussion. She is, of course, welcome.”

  Teela smiled. “And Lord Calarnenne?”

  “There is no Lord Calarnenne.”

  * * *

  “That, Warden,” a familiar voice said, “is harsh.”

  Teela didn’t move. Neither did Severn. Kaylin had to turn to look over her shoulder. Nightshade approached the silent Barrani, at the side of the Lord of the West March. The tiara across his brow was unmistakable; the emerald at its peak was glowing. On his forearm sat one of the two eagles; the other accompanied the Lord of the West March.

  The Lord of the West March didn’t comment. Instead, he approached Kaylin. Bird on arm, he offered her a perfect bow—a bow she couldn’t duplicate, no matter how many hours she spent taking lessons under Diarmat’s foot. “Kyuthe,” he said. “Kaylin. An’Teela. You carry my heart in your arms.”

  “I know,” she replied. Her voice lost its hard edge. “Even were she not, she is the Lady. I will allow no harm to come to her while I still draw breath.”

  He nodded as if no other answer was possible, but he did not attempt to take Teela’s burden from her; nor did he command her to deliver the Lady into Lord Barian’s arms. Instead, he spoke a single word Kaylin couldn’t catch before he touched the Consort’s brow. She didn’t wake.

  Lord Barian clearly considered the Lord of the West March above suspicion. “She intercepted three,” he said gravely.

  “Three.” His lids fell, the sweep of dark lashes like bruises against his skin.

  “There were five, Lord. The harmoniste intercepted two before they could reach the Lady.”

  “Yes,” was the soft, tired reply. He opened his eyes; they were blue. “I am aware of her intercession. She is mortal, Barian—and impulsive in ways the young are. And for the moment, I am grateful for that impulse. Remember the results of it,” he added, in a slightly stronger voice, “and forgive her lack of familiarity with our customs.”

  “The other mortal—”

  “He is hers,” the Lord of the West March replied. “Lord Kaylin will not allow him to be driven off; she will certainly object to his execution. Lord An’Teela did not lie; Lord Severn survived the test of name.” He glanced at the blades in Severn’s hands, and his eyes darkened; for a moment Kaylin thought he would say more.

  The eagle on his arm said, “He is to be granted passage and hospitality while either remain.”

  Lord Barian bowed.

  “Come, Kaylin, An’Teela. We will repair to my domicile.”

  * * *

  Kaylin wasn’t certain what to expect. The first Hallionne she’d encountered had been a tree. A huge, ancient tree, true—but nothing about it had screamed building. Yet its interior was large enough to house the entire Barrani contingent, plus the two mortals who were caught up in the pilgrimage. Easily.

  It occurred to her as she walked by the side of the Lord of the West March that the entire West March might be the same: any one of these trees could be buildings as grand, mysterious and architecturally impossible. There wasn’t a pressing need for something as mundane as a passable road if you had a building provided for all of your equally mundane needs.

  But the High Halls had drives. Palatial drives. And the Lords of the High Court spent money in the city, given the way the Merchants’ guild fawned all over them. The Hallionne were, to all intents and purposes, like the Towers or Castles in the fiefs—and as far as Kaylin knew, there was only one Tower in each fief.

  “We are at the outskirts of the green,” the Lord of the West March told her. “The Hallionne of the West March has not been habitable for centuries. It is not there that you—or any member of the Consort’s entourage—will stay. But no; there are few roads that lead to the West March, and we did not travel by any of them. My people do not require paths of heavy stone to smooth their way.” His answer reminded her that he had, as Nightshade had, offered her his True Name. If she wasn’t careful, he could hear her thoughts.

  “The carriages?”

  “There is a road,” he replied. “It is not easily traversed by your kind because they cannot easily find it.” His smile was almost gentle. Kaylin tried not to take offense when she realized he was treating her as a child; in strict years, she was. “Understand that An’Teela is an unusual member of the High Court. By birth, she belongs to two worlds.”

  “Like you?”

  “Ve
ry like. She is of the West March and she is of the High Court. There are very few who have her lineage.”

  “But she’s not trusted by either.”

  “She is trusted—inasmuch as any Barrani Lord—in the High Court. But her history makes her position in the Court of the Vale unusual.”

  “You—you have your own court here?”

  His brows rose, and his smile deepened. His eyes were a shade of emerald-green; she’d amused him. “Yes,” he said, “and there is very little in my life that does, at the moment. I consider it a gift. The West March has its court, the Court of the Vale; it always did. You will find that any gathering of significance does.

  “You are aware that my title is Lord of the West March. Are you aware that the High Lord is also called the Lord of the Green?”

  She nodded.

  “This, then, is the green. My brother is the leader of our people—but in theory, the leader of the Human Caste Court is the leader of yours.”

  “That’s a pretty tenuous theory,” Kaylin replied. “I’ve never met him, and even if I had, I don’t serve him.”

  “No?”

  “I serve the Halls of Law. My ruler is the Eternal Emperor.” She spoke quietly, but was reminded that the Barrani had excellent hearing when they all fell silent. Part of her was irritated. What she’d said was true. It was fact. Finding fact offensive was pointless.

  On the other hand, fact was hundreds of miles away, and offense was up close and personal. She made a mental note not to mention dragons—any dragons—while in the West March. Then again, she probably didn’t have to. Teela had made her take Sanabalis’s amulet out, and the Barrani generally knew what it signified: she belonged to a dragon.

  As she fingered the heavy chain, the Lord of the West March frowned. “It is best not to draw attention to what you bear.” It wasn’t the first time she’d visited a Barrani court wearing a sign that said Property of Dragon Lord. In fact, it wasn’t the first time she’d worn this sign. In the High Halls, it had seemed less dangerous.

  “I wasn’t allowed to leave until I’d promised to wear it.” But Sanabalis was also hundreds of miles away.

  “It is never wise to break an oath given to dragons,” the Lord of the West March told her.

  “It’s probably stupid to give them the oath in the first place,” she conceded, falling into her mother tongue. “But we weren’t going to get the information we needed unless I promised to make the pilgrimage to the West March. And I couldn’t make that promise without also taking the amulet.”

  “Lord Sanabalis did not feel that my ring would guarantee your safety?”

  “It’s probably stupid,” she said, after a long pause, “for me to open my mouth at all.”

  He laughed. “It is not in our nature to trust others to protect what is valuable to us. Even were it, that trust would not cross this particular racial divide. I had heard rumor that some Imperial overtures had been made.”

  “Yes. But I don’t think that’s going to happen again in this generation.”

  “No. The High Court was unamused by the presence of the Emperor upon their land.”

  “He was a little angry.”

  “Dragons do not generally breathe fire in the middle of the city when they are merely annoyed.”

  “I didn’t say he was annoyed—I said he was angry. You can’t blame him. One of the High Lords had just attempted to assassinate the only known female dragon.”

  “As a Lord of the High Court, Lord Kaylin, it is best not to spread that sentiment.”

  Kaylin, tired and unexpectedly angry herself, said, “She was living with me at the time. Every item of value I owned was destroyed during that attempt.”

  The small dragon squawked.

  “Almost every item. I understand why Iberrienne tried to kill her. But I’m not willing to pretend that was a good thing. Even if my home hadn’t been ripped to pieces by an Arcane bomb, I still wouldn’t. I’m an Imperial Hawk.”

  “Yes, Lord Kaylin, you are. What I now wonder is what else you might be.” He glanced at the Warden of the West March; Lord Barian was no longer walking. He, and the men who had arrived by his side, had spread out in a line ten yards from Teela, the Lord of the West March, and Kaylin. “Ah. We’ve arrived.”

  They had; there was a small stream, too slender to be called a river—and far too shallow—and the Barrani began to line up at its far edge as the Warden of the West March signaled a halt. “A word of advice, Lord Kaylin. The would-be assassin is Outcaste. Do not use his name in polite company.”

  And what am I supposed to call him?

  Outcaste, Nightshade replied, amused.

  Outcaste what? Outcaste number twelve or ninety?

  The context will make it clear. The Lord of the West March has claimed you as kin. He will guide you, as you allow. He is not his father; he is not his brother. He is like—very like—his sister. He will indulge you where it is safe to do so. Do not make the mistake of believing his indulgence to be a social norm. It is not.

  She wanted, very badly, to fall over and sleep. Had she been at home, she probably wouldn’t have made it out of her clothing first. Severn joined her and slid an arm around her shoulder. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to speak. She accepted what he offered, leaning against his shoulder; letting him carry some part of her weight.

  From there, she could watch.

  She could watch as the bed of this modest stream began to widen, to stretch away from the Barrani on all sides. The stream itself could be crossed with a simple leap—or a running leap, in Kaylin’s case; the river it had become was far too wide.

  While thinking that, she saw the Lord of the West March take a step forward, into the moving current.

  His foot never hit water. It hit air instead, and that air obligingly became a bridge. It didn’t rise out of the water. That would have been too simple. No, it appeared in broad strokes, as if painted in place by an insanely fast, insanely good artist. It was brighter than the rest of the landscape; brighter than the moonlight should have made it, and it appeared, to her eye, to be made of glass.

  Given that most of the Barrani were wearing armor, this was not comforting.

  The Lord of the West March then turned to Teela. “An’Teela.” He did not offer her an arm; she couldn’t take it and continue to bear her burden. But she inclined her chin and preceded him. If material composition of the bridge concerned her, it didn’t show. She climbed what appeared to be slope without stairs until she stood at the midpoint of the bridge; there she paused to look out at the currents of the river.

  Kaylin, following, stopped beside her. “Teela?”

  The Barrani Hawk looked down her perfect nose. “Home,” she said, wearily. She turned then, and walked down the incline that led, at last, to the city at the heart of the West March.

  * * *

  The Barrani did not appear to favor stone—at least not underfoot. Elantra had roads. Even in the fiefs, where the roads were broken and undermined by weeds and water runoff.

  But the Barrani of the West March had lawns instead of roads. Grass gave way to stairs, many of which went down, rather than up; it gave way to doors and to trees. There were flowers, as well, but the flowers didn’t seem to grow in specific, boxed beds; they seemed artless and wild—but for all that, they didn’t get in the way of the High Court, or anyone else who walked the green.

  The trees that had been the only constant during the overland trek were everywhere, but they grew in more ordered rows; they were at least as tall as the trees on the other side of the bridge. But there were no fallen branches, no hollow, standing trunks; here, the trees were like lampposts, without the lights.

  In fact, the trees seemed to mark what passed for road here; they formed explicit boundaries in rows, opening up or ending, as if they were the walls of a maze. Mazes were the province of the monied. Warrens—like mazes made of buildings—were the province of the wretched, but Kaylin had no sense that she’d find slums in the West March.
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  The Lord of the West March glanced at her, the corners of his eyes and lips crinkling. She’d amused him again.

  “It is seldom indeed that I see my own home from the vantage of a visitor entirely new to it. It is...engaging. We will follow this road, as you call it, and turn to the right; the trees—the type of trees—are indicators.”

  “Of what?”

  “Ah, forgive me. They would, in your parlance, be street names, I believe.”

  It wasn’t a short walk. Kaylin, who had always known that Teela was physically strong, was more than impressed when they at last reached the home of the Lord of the West March. If stone wasn’t favored as a general building material, it wasn’t absent here. The building reminded Kaylin very much of the High Halls in Elantra—at least from the outside. The stairs that fronted it were flat and wide, the columns that held the roof almost the height of the trees that stood to the right and left of the building.

  They were carved in the likeness of warriors, and words were engraved across the rounded base of each; Kaylin couldn’t read most of them, although she was certain they must be High Barrani. Then again, she couldn’t read most examples of High Barrani carved or written centuries ago; she was assured that the language was the same—but the style of the writing made the entire thing look like a mess of loops and crosses. It was aesthetic, but not practical.

  She could make out individual letters at the beginnings of words.

  “Can you read these?” she asked Severn. He had sheathed his swords when Nightshade and the Lord of the West March arrived.

  “Not all of it, no. That one means weapon or sword, depending on the context.”

  “Thanks. I was kind of hoping to feel less stupid.”

  “Then you don’t want to be left behind,” he replied, grinning. “The Lord of the West March is opening his home to the High Court. We want to be there before he’s finished.”