Cast in Sorrow

Chapter 12

He could have pretended to misunderstand; he was tempted to do exactly that. But it would not get him the information he wanted—and Kaylin realized, with a distant surprise, that he couldn’t just pluck it from her thoughts the way he usually did.

No.

He’d tried.

Yes.

She didn’t understand why, but at the moment, she was grateful. It didn’t bother her that Severn might read her thoughts; he’d always seemed to know what she was thinking—and why. Sometimes he’d understood it before she did, and they were her thoughts.

But...no one—no one—had caused her as much pain.

“There were eleven. Eleven Barrani. They weren’t children—not by our standards—but they weren’t adults, either. Two girls, nine boys. If you don’t count Teela.”

“You have been speaking with Lord Barian.”

She didn’t deny it. “I don’t know what most of them were called. I don’t know their names in the legal sense of the word name. The dreams of Alsanis insist that none of the children have left the Hallionne—but I saw Terrano. Teela saw him. You recognized his name.”

He said nothing.

“Nightshade, were you there?”

“For the regalia which destroyed the children? No.”

“Were you there when Teela returned to the West March?”

“Yes.”

“And when she served as harmoniste?”

“Yes.”

“Did you understand either recitation?”

His answering smile was thin. “No, Lord Kaylin. I am not entirely certain either of us will understand the recitation in which we are meant to play a large part.”

“You think it has something to do with the children.”

“They are not children now.”

Kaylin watched him. “Do you think they can be saved?”

He watched the water fall. She realized that he wasn’t going to answer, because he believed two contradictory things: that they could be saved, and that they couldn’t. It wasn’t a matter of hope, although he did; the hope was too painful to touch and examine. She shied away from it because it wasn’t hers and she had no way of responding to it. He believed that both outcomes were possible; that both were probable. She couldn’t tell which he actually wanted.

“What did Teela do?”

“She will not tell you?”

“No. And you knew that.”

“I knew you were foolish enough to ask—but An’Teela has long been unusual; there was always the possibility she might answer.”

“If blood hadn’t been shed during the recitation—if it hadn’t fallen on the green—what would have happened?”

“It is a question much discussed,” he replied. “We have no answers, of course; it is not an experiment that has been repeated.”

“The people of the West March don’t trust her.”

“No. She is the daughter of the man who ordered the deaths in the heart of the green. She is of the High Court. She survived what none of the others survived. Had she been older, or wiser, she might have parlayed that survival into a formidable base on which to build political power; she did not.”

“Why was she spared what the others weren’t?”

“I am not the green, Kaylin. I am not of the West March. Teela bears the blood of Wardens in her veins. Her mother was—”

“Barian’s aunt.”

“Yes.”

Kaylin frowned. A thought occurred to her, but she was tired. “Why did they try to kill you?”

“I am Outcaste,” he replied.

“The Consort clearly doesn’t care.”

“No.”

“Teela said that it’s considered treason to try to kill the harmoniste.”

“While he or she wears the blood of the green, yes.”

“But not the Teller? Even if the Teller is chosen in the same way?”

“Is he?”

“Well, the green chooses.”

“Yes. But the criterion for such a choice is opaque. To my kin it is a random act, a choice that ignores the individual and his power. The robes of the role chosen for me are not significant in the same way; they are not the blood of the green. But the crown is significant. There have been no attempts to kill the Teller in the past; I believe, given the lack of reaction to the assassination attempt, there will be more in future. The harmoniste, however, is safe.

“We learn from past tragedies.”

“The problem with this one, as I see it, is that it isn’t.”

“A tragedy?”

“In the past. It’s not finished. It’s not done.” She grimaced and sat again. She also fidgeted; Nightshade might have been a statue, he moved so little. “The children are—and are not—trapped in the Hallionne. The Barrani are—and are not—corrupted. Iberrienne was—and was not—Iberrienne, but regardless, he almost certainly came to Elantra to—”

“To find sacrifices.”

She stood once more, her hands in fists. She felt no raging fury, though. She accepted that Nightshade was Barrani; he wasn’t human. If she were honest, the Exchequer probably had had some idea of what was going on, and he was human, and didn’t care, either. The Exchequer was unlikely to escape unscathed.

And she hated him more because he, at least, should have known better.

But Nightshade was Nightshade. He was what he was. He had power. He had gold. If you wanted a man in power to pay attention to what you wanted, you either had to be a power yourself, or you had to have something he wanted. “I can help you achieve whatever it is you hope to achieve, but I want something in return.”

He waited.

“Change the way you rule the fief. What Tiamaris does, you could do. You’ve never done it. It’s probably not as easy as Tiamaris makes it look. But if he can do it, it can be done.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and then he laughed. It was bitter laughter, but contained genuine amusement. “You do not even know what I want.”

“No.” She met, and held, his gaze. “I’ll know. When—if—it happens, I’ll know. You’ll push me. You’ll guide where you can. You’ll manipulate. You’ll do everything in your power to use my power to do whatever it is you want done. I won’t fight you, in this. I will do whatever you think needs doing.”

“And if I told you to kill An’Teela?”

“Within reason.”

“I do not choose to expose it.”

Kaylin shrugged. “Suit yourself. I can’t pick it out of your thoughts.”

“If you wished to assert sovereignty, if you wished to exert power, you could.”

“No, I can’t. I’ve had one enraged Barrani Lord hammering away at the inside of my skull for days now, looking for weaknesses. If I knew how to forget a name completely, believe that I would. I don’t. I have the energy—or the sense of self-preservation—to resist. I have nothing left over—at all—to start playing games with you.”

“Kill him.”

She’d given it serious thought because she was fairly certain she could. Not in a fair fight, but she could probably force him to stand still long enough to slit his throat. “I can’t.”

“You won’t; they are not the same. In any other case, I would not counsel such a killing; in yours, there is no advantage to his survival. You will not use him.”

“I won’t use any of you.” But Ynpharion wasn’t like the others.

“No. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. Ynpharion will be called—and questioned—by the Council of the Vale. Listen to him when he answers if you will not force truth from him. You will know when he lies.”

She thought of Ynpharion and exhaled sharply. “Ynpharion was a forest Feral when I found him. I don’t know if he could shift shapes, but it’s my suspicion he could: he could appear to be Barrani, and he could be—whatever it is you call them. But I’m not sure he chose to become what he became. He’d kill Iberrienne slowly if he found him; Iberrienne is the only person he hates more than he hates me.

“He had to have agreed to whatever was done to him; I don’t get the impression that he was kidnapped and dragged to Iberrienne kicking and screaming. He allowed whatever happened. He would never allow it again. There’s something laid on them, over them—something that changes not only what they can be, but what they want.

“But I swear he’d cut off his own head before he’d serve Iberrienne again in any way.” She hesitated. “Iberrienne wasn’t one of the lost children.”

“No.”

“But he was the one who attempted to destroy Orbaranne.” She paced for a bit. “I don’t understand where the children are, what they are, or what they want. I don’t understand what they attempted to even do with Orbaranne—if we assume they didn’t intend to just destroy her.

“And I think we need to know.”

“You will find that the Imperial Hawk does not confer either privilege or responsibility in the West March.”

“No.”

“I will not agree to your conditions, Lord Kaylin; I have no reason to do so. Were I to tell you everything, were you to understand the whole of my part in this tale, it would change nothing. You will do what you do. If I am Nightshade, you are Kaylin Neya. You have my name. If you wish change in the fief, use it. Try.” His smile was cutting.

“And if you will not, when you are a Hawk and everything I do is a crime, ask yourself why. I am one man. Those who suffer under the neglect of my rule are multiple. You spend a life attempting to apprehend those who break Imperial Law; it is your highest duty. You have risked your life—you will no doubt continue to do so—in pursuit of imperfect justice. You have the means.

“You are merely squeamish, Kaylin. It is a weakness.”

“Yes,” she said, facing the water. “But I’m human.”

“Are you?” He offered her an unexpected bow, and left her by the side of the water that had fallen without pause throughout their conversation.

She was silent. The small dragon was not. He didn’t generally seem to care for Nightshade, but tonight, he had remained flopped across both of her shoulders and the back of her neck, as if the conversation was trivial. Or boring.

“Is he right?” Kaylin asked.

She didn’t expect an answer, but the small dragon lifted his delicate head and rubbed it against her cheek.

“Is it just because I’m squeamish?” She lifted her hands; they hovered above the water’s rippling surface. She hesitated for one long minute, and then let them fall to her sides. The Tha’alani feared and distrusted Kaylin’s people because they felt they were all insane—the outcome of living a life in the isolation of fear, anger, and ignorance.

Tonight she was afraid, angry, and ignorant, and the Tha’alani didn’t deserve to be stuck with her thoughts. Or with her.

But she frowned as she looked at the fountain and its base, because it was so familiar. She couldn’t change fear or anger tonight. But ignorance? Ignorance could be, as the Arkon said, alleviated. She walked around the fountain’s perimeter, pausing to kneel on flat stone to look at the underside of the basin. She had no light; all she could see was the general shape, and it was pretty much what she’d expect of a normal fountain.

Tomorrow, then. She rose, brushed off her skirt with way more care than she’d brush clothing she actually owned, and headed back to her rooms.

Sleep was a problem.

By the time she’d removed the dress and taken the bath that seemed to be expected, she’d made a list of things she needed to understand. She didn’t number the points, because the number shifted; she couldn’t be objective.

She needed to understand Iberrienne.

She was certain that the Human Caste Court believed his experiments might pave the way to immortality for the chosen—murderous—few, but people often heard what they wanted to hear. She didn’t believe it herself.

But the Arcanum—or at least three of its members—had been involved. She would bet her own money that the other two had no idea of what Iberrienne had intended to do with all of his kidnapped mortals. They thought he intended something. They’d aided him, inasmuch as they could. They knew about the paths to the outlands. What had they been offered?

They were Barrani. Barrani were less likely to hear what they wanted to hear—or at least less likely to trust it. None of the Barrani expected the full story when they negotiated, not even from their allies. So...they had to have suspicions. The suspicions had been wrong. No matter how Barrani intended to gain power—and they always did—planning the Consort’s death was outside the parameters of acceptable risk.

What had Iberrienne showed them?

She could understand how Iberrienne could reach the rest of the Barrani he’d likely ensnared; he was a member of the High Court. He could walk in—and out—without comment. How did he choose? Was choice even necessary?

Argh.

Iberrienne might have gone entirely undetected if he hadn’t tried to level the city block Kaylin lived in with his Arcane bomb. His reaction to Bellusdeo—to a female dragon—implied that he was, at heart, Barrani, no matter how much he’d changed. Unless the Dragons somehow presented a threat to the lost children, and Kaylin couldn’t see how that could be true.

She was certain that Iberrienne was involved with the lost children. The transformed. But how? The Hallionne Alsanis was forbidden. But Kaylin had seen with her own eyes that the lost children weren’t trapped in the Hallionne. They weren’t trapped in the outlands, either. Terrano had approached Teela on the forest path, on land that was technically outside of the green.

And of course, the end point of her worries, and the start of them, which kept her mind running on a narrow, visceral track: Why had the lost boy approached Teela? He had been—he had sounded—delighted to see her. Delighted, surprised. If the lost children had freedom of movement—or enough freedom to somehow contact Iberrienne, couldn’t they have contacted Teela on their own?

What did they want from Teela?

Why had Teela been part of the nightmare?

Why had she shattered?

She rolled over, and the small dragon smacked her nose with his tail. He generally slept just above her head on a pillow, the back of her neck being unavailable. She might as well give up on sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d gotten almost none. She rose, dragged herself back into the dress that was the best armor—against Barrani—she’d ever wear, and headed out of the darkened room.

She found servants. One man and one woman. They hadn’t, from the look of it, been conversing the way she was certain mortal servants would. But they were doing something. Her arms began to itch as she approached them. She was glad, then, that she’d chosen to wear the dress.

She was too tired to care much about tact or appropriate behavior. She wasn’t too tired to worry that Teela would be pissed at her. She left the ruder words out, which meant High Barrani as her chosen language of communication. “What are you doing?”

Their eyes were blue. It was a darker shade of blue than the usual; there hadn’t been a lot of green in these rooms. The man bowed. “We are securing the room. Mortals sleep.”

She really was in a bad mood. Everything made her suspicious. Even the explanation, which on the surface made sense. “No one is going to try to kill me—”

“You do not wear the dress in your sleep, Lord.”

She let her arms fall to her side, glancing at the layout of the hall. It was too narrow for sword work; daggers would be fine. But daggers against at least one mage? One Barrani mage? Toss-up.

Teela could—and occasionally did—use magic. She didn’t use it often. Kaylin couldn’t offhand think of another Barrani Hawk who could. She’d wondered about it at thirteen—and for several years after—because the mages who came to the Halls were pompous men who considered the ability to use magic a gift that set them above the rest of the people who had to work for a living.

Teela, however, was the only Lord to work as a Hawk. The rest of the Hawks—according to Teela—hadn’t taken the test of name. Kaylin had assumed, when she’d discovered Teela’s patrician background, that that was the difference. Maybe it hadn’t been. Maybe it was the test of name that somehow conferred that ability.

The test of name seemed to be a bit of a political sore spot for the denizens of the West March. Kaylin couldn’t believe that men and women who had survived it would work as servants.

The small dragon was sitting on her left shoulder, watching the servants. Watching Kaylin, as well. He didn’t seem to be concerned. Kaylin forced her hands to relax. These were Lirienne’s people. She recognized both of them; they hadn’t switched between shifts.

But they weren’t normally servants. She was now certain of it. She exhaled. “Were you both born in the West March?”

This caused them to exchange a glance, although they kept all expression off their faces. It was the woman who answered. “Yes.”

“Have you ever traveled to the High Court?”

“We have both made that pilgrimage. If you mean to ascertain whether or not we are Lords, we are not.”

“Actually, what I want to know is whether or not you’re normally servants.”

The woman’s eyes lightened; the man’s darkened. “We serve the Lord of the West March,” she said. “Servant has connotations in the High Halls that it does not in the West March. We are in the service of Lord Lirienne. It is he who decides what form that service takes, and where our specific talents are most needed.” She glanced at her companion. His eyes had not gotten any greener.

“You spent more time in Elantra than your friend.”

“I spent a great deal of time in Elantra,” she replied—in Elantran. “I will not ask you to return to your room, but I must warn you, there is some difficulty in the halls at the moment.”

Kaylin glanced at the small dragon; he was staring at the door farthest from where the three stood.

“What difficulty?” she asked, reaching uneasily for the daggers she always carried with her, although they weren’t in the usual place.

The drawing of the daggers caused the man’s eyes to go all the way to midnight-blue. The woman’s were the more traditional “this is bad” color with which Kaylin was most familiar.

“You are not to fight in that dress,” he said. “Lord Kaylin.” The title was clearly afterthought.

“I’m not going to stand here and do nothing if—”

“When,” the woman said, as the itchiness of Kaylin’s arms became a burning that spread across her entire skin. “Lord Kaylin, please retreat.”

But the back of Kaylin’s neck was burning as she turned to look down the small hall. “I don’t think that’s going to help,” she said in Elantran. She added a single Leontine phrase. The small dragon’s claws did their usual attempt to burrow. He hissed.

Kaylin didn’t even tell him not to breathe, because she could now hear the sounds of fighting in the hall beyond her rooms. She was surprised when he lifted his wings, because he didn’t attempt to fly; instead, he spread one until it covered her face.

In theory, his body was translucent, not transparent. In theory.

But this wouldn’t be the first time she’d looked at the world through the veil of his wings.

“Lord Kaylin?”

“There’s magic here,” was her flat reply. The woman spoke to the man. The man didn’t speak at all for one held breath. When he did, Kaylin didn’t catch the word; it was almost—but not quite—inaudible. She was certain it was a useful word—and this was only the second time in her life she’d heard someone Barrani use one.

“Lord Kaylin!” the man shouted.

Kaylin didn’t need the warning. Black streaks appeared on the back wall, growing in number as she watched. They looked almost like the streaks fingers put on cold windows in the Halls, but there was something about their shape and the way they appeared that implied clumsy, hurried writing.

She couldn’t tell if what she saw was visible to the Barrani; she didn’t look back to see their reaction. She didn’t have to. The man pushed past her, moving to stand directly in front. The woman stayed where she was.

Lirienne, what’s happening?

No answer, but Kaylin could sense his presence. She was afraid to push for more than that because she knew he was fighting.

Nightshade—

We are under attack, he replied. He had no trouble fighting and talking, at least not this way.

Yes, I guessed that—by what? The Ferals?

The black on the wall—or what she could see of the wall through Barrani back—had darkened and spread. It no longer looked like writing; it reached ceiling and spread from the wall to the surface above; she was certain it was doing the same thing on the floor.

Kaylin, what is happening?

Look.

At the moment, it is not feasible.

There’s a large, black patch on the wall I’m facing, and it’s spreading. There’s magic here, and it’s growing; it is not a small spell.

You are wearing the blood of the green?

Yes. But...I didn’t notice that stopping the forest Ferals. I don’t think—

Evarrim is down.

She was silent for a full beat; even her thoughts failed. She found them again, quickly. Where is Teela? Can you see Teela?

She is with me, the Lord of the West March replied. We are fighting our way to you now.

Kaylin shook her head, although he couldn’t see it. I don’t think you’re going to get here in time.

What Nightshade found inadvisable, Lirienne now did. He looked. It was an odd sensation; Nightshade’s touch was so unobtrusive she was largely unaware of it. Lirienne’s was not; she had to fight the instinctive urge to push him back.

He slid away again. Kaylin almost told his servants that he was on his way, but managed to shut her mouth before stupid words escaped them. They’d only wonder how she knew, and the answer was so not public information.

She reached out, caught the Barrani man by the shoulder, and pulled him back; he allowed it. “What do you see?”

He ignored the question. To the woman, he said, “We take the front door.” He lifted his arms, held them, palms out, in front of him as he continued to back down the hall.

The small dragon squawked.

“Yes,” Kaylin told him. “Buy us whatever time you can.”

He flew. He flew past the Barrani man who’d inserted himself as a shield between Kaylin and whatever was forming in her apartments. She turned toward the Barrani woman and headed away from the growing darkness. She stopped when she reached the door, and grabbed the woman, in much the same way she’d grabbed her partner.

The woman froze instantly.

“Not a good idea,” Kaylin said, her voice muted. It was true—she could hear the sounds of fighting. She could hear—and this was worse—the guttural roar of an angry beast, and in the depths of that rumble, syllables. But she could feel magic, and it was the wrong magic; it was too strong, too familiar.

Lirienne! Don’t come down the hall—my door is trapped!

“Is there any other way out of this apartment?” Kaylin demanded.

The woman didn’t even hesitate. She nodded.

“We need to leave. Someone’s sketched an Arcane rune on my door, and I think it’s going to go off if the Lord of the West March comes anywhere near it.” Her legs ached and the back of her neck felt rubbed raw.

“Gaedin,” the woman said.

Kaylin looked down the hall. The shadows had spread, inching their way across the floor as if—as if they were the shadows contained in the heart of the fiefs.

He nodded. “We will not have much time,” he told her.

The small dragon squawked.

“We’re leaving,” Kaylin told him. She didn’t reach for him, because he was now flapping in front of Gaedin’s face. He was facing the back wall.

“Leave him,” Kaylin told the Barrani servant as he reached—with some reluctance—for the small dragon’s hind legs. “There’s nothing here that can hurt him.”

He didn’t argue. He did take the lead; the woman surrendered it without hesitation. Which was good; he didn’t attempt to head into the bedroom or out the arch that was diagonal from it, and those were the only two possible exits Kaylin could see.

Instead, he began to descend through a patch of floor—without lifting it first.

This did not, on the other hand, make Kaylin’s skin feel any worse, although considering the exit and the end of the hall, she might not have noticed anyway. There must be stairs, given his movements.

“Lord Kaylin,” the woman at her back said, voice low.

Kaylin took a step forward, and fell.

Gaedin was waiting to catch her. Given that her hands weren’t full, Kaylin might have been able to land—but her ankle hadn’t recovered from the last fall, and she really wasn’t looking forward to an all-out sprint if it became necessary.

“Serian?” Gaedin said, voice low.

“Here.” The perfect neutrality of the servant’s expression had fallen by the wayside. It made Kaylin feel vastly more comfortable. Given the Arcane rune and the creeping shadow, this was stupid, but sometimes she was stupid. “Does this happen frequently where you’re involved?” Serian asked Kaylin, in slightly brittle Elantran.

“Define frequently.”

Gaedin looked at Kaylin with slightly widened eyes. “I now understand why we were given the roles we were given.” He headed down the hall, pausing to cast a spell that meant Kaylin wasn’t tripping over her own feet in the dark, since it was dark here.

It was also uneven, because the ground seemed to be badly carved rock. Kaylin looked up, and saw no hatch, no trapdoor, and no break in the height of what was clearly tunnel. But she hadn’t felt the dislocation—and nausea—that usually accompanied portal transitions.

“You’re sensitive to magical energies,” Gaedin said. He surprised her; he spoke in reasonable, if accented, Elantran.

“Yes.”

“Is there magic here?”

Kaylin frowned. “Yours. Where exactly are we?”

Neither answered.

Squawk. The small dragon alighted on her shoulder. He remained upright and alert, staring ahead into the tunnel. Gaedin’s expression made clear that he hadn’t expected to see the small dragon again anytime soon.

“He’s like a cat,” Kaylin explained. “He pretty much goes where he wants; I don’t think there’s anywhere he can’t reach, and no, it doesn’t seem to matter if there’s magic preventing anyone else from entering. I think he wants us to move.”

“He’s not the only one,” Serian said. “We’ll pick up weapons as we go.”

If she wondered what weapons could be picked up in a rocky tunnel, the answer was swords. Swords, bracers, and rudimentary armor. They’d been placed in a standing crate in an alcove carved into the rock.

Kaylin.

We’re safe. We’re not in my rooms anymore, but we’re safe. Have you found the Lord of the West March?

We know where he is. It is not possible to join him at the moment.

Who is we?

Corporal Handred is with us.

Frustrated, she looked; she caught a glimpse of Andellen. He was carrying a familiar Barrani Arcanist. There are Ferals near the Lord of the West March. And, Nightshade? I think someone was trying to open a portal to the outlands. In my rooms.

Silence. It was the word outlands that had caused it. He didn’t ask if she was certain; he knew she wasn’t. But he also knew that she was. Something about the magic that was spreading across the hall had reminded her—for reasons she couldn’t pin down—of the door near the no-man’s-land between the fiefs of Nightshade and Tiamaris.

How would that even be possible? she asked.

No answer.

She added it to her list of things that made no sense as she followed the Barrani.

“Why are you hobbling?” Serian finally asked. Her eyes were Barrani blue. Gaedin’s hadn’t shaded much away from midnight.

“I fell and twisted my ankle. It’ll support my weight.”

“If you’re standing still,” Serian replied. She hadn’t drifted out of Elantran, but Kaylin thought she understood why. It was always easier to say forbidden things in a language that wasn’t your mother tongue.

“How much farther are we going?”

They glanced at each other.

“Are we going to come up somewhere in Lord Lirienne’s hall?”

“You might as well tell her,” Serian said. “It won’t mean much to her anyway.”

“We’re going to the heart,” Gaedin said, in a much grimmer voice than he’d yet used, “of the green.”