Cast in Sorrow

Chapter 22

It was well past dawn when the eagles and their nausea-inducing method of travel deposited the pilgrims at the edge of the green, where a thunderous, midnight-blue-eyed Lord Avonelle waited. She wore the armor of the war band; she wore the sword. She had no less than a dozen similarly armed attendants.

The color of her eyes lightened when she caught sight of Barian; they did not, however, shade to green. “Where is Lord An’Teela?”

Lord Barian glanced, not at Kaylin, but at the Consort.

The Consort said, in a clear, resonant voice, “Lord Teela chose to remain in the green as the price of my release.” Her eyes were a lighter blue, but they were tinged with a hint of purple.

Lord Avonelle was not satisfied with the answer, but she couldn’t accuse the Consort of lying without offending the rest of the Court.

“We have been commanded by the dreams of Alsanis,” the Lord of the West March now added, “to return at the appointed hour of the recitation. It was suggested that we number only four.”

The lightening of Lord Avonelle’s eyes reversed in a spectacular dive back into the near-black range. She was bristling with rage.

“Guardian,” Lord Barian said, stepping directly in front of the Lord of the West March and the Consort whose weight he now supported. “It was suggested by the dreams of Alsanis. They feel that it is more of a risk than even the tale told to the lost. The Lord of the West March offers no disrespect to our line or your guardianship. The wards could not be activated. The propicients could not invoke them. Were it not for the dreams of Alsanis, we would never have reached the heart of the green.”

She said a very tight-lipped nothing. Kaylin wondered, not for the first time, what the relationship between this Barrani mother and her son was like. Teela’s mother was dead. Kaylin’s mother, dead. Maybe the Consort’s mother was right: those who survived had to be harsh and cold.

Lord Barian now turned to the Lord of the West March. “My domicile is not as fine as the Lord’s hall, but the Lord’s hall is compromised. It would be my honor to offer you, and your people, the hospitality of the Warden’s perch.”

The Lord of the West March bowed. It was not a perfunctory gesture. “It would be my honor to accept your generous offer.” He glanced at his sister. She was, to Kaylin’s eye, much paler than usual.

She offered the Warden a smile, but no other courtesy; judging from the color of his eyes, the smile was enough. He bowed to her and rose.

To Kaylin’s surprise, the eagles landed on his shoulders. They were broad, Barrani shoulders, but the eagles were not small, and the Warden raised both of his arms, elbows bent, to offer them a less crowded perch.

Kaylin said nothing. She hid behind Severn. She didn’t want to speak with Avonelle. She didn’t want to speak with anyone. She couldn’t. What she wanted to do was to go back to the heart of the green, throw herself into the water in the fountain, and swim all the way back to wherever Teela was.

She wasn’t certain—couldn’t be certain—that the Consort was lying to Avonelle. That was the worst of it. Everything she’d said in the heart of the green—every single word—could have been a lie, a way of leaving the green. And she’d do it, too, not because she valued Teela’s life so little, but because she was the conduit to life for the rest of her people. No one would think what she’d done was wrong; no one but Kaylin.

Kaylin.

I don’t want to talk to you right now, she told Nightshade.

Then perhaps it would be best if you were not shouting. I am not the only one who will hear your thoughts and your grief. I will not use them against you; can you be so certain that no others will?

She couldn’t, and he knew it.

You must learn to hide this, Kaylin.

I am hiding it. It’s on the inside of me.

You have learned how to hide thought, Kaylin; you have learned how to shield what must be shielded. You are mortal; you are exhausted. Even exhausted, you must not forget. You found the Lady.

Yes.

Understand that the High Court is, once again, in your debt.

Kaylin said nothing.

Yes. You understand what that means. You are not wrong. Given a choice between her own life and the life of any other member of our race, she is duty bound—honor bound—to save herself. If you think this does not grieve her, you fail to understand her.

It’s easy for you to say. You want what she wants.

Ah. No, you misunderstand the Lady. But yes, Kaylin. What Iberrienne wanted—before he lost so much of himself—I want. I did not understand what had happened to Iberrienne; I understood only that he had seen his brother. The brother he thought lost. He has spent centuries attempting to do just that—only that—in secret. I knew.

Why did you turn him in?

Silence. It didn’t last. Do you not understand?

No. I don’t ask questions to make conversation.

It was the only thing I could offer that would bring you here.

You knew. That I would be harmoniste.

No. It was, from the beginning, a gamble. You are Chosen. You do not understand your power; no more do the Barrani. But I have seen what you have done with it. You stumble. You fail to plan. But you free the trapped. You tell stories that I cannot hear, but cannot doubt.

Kaylin stumbled; Severn caught her, sliding an arm around her waist. She was too tired and too dispirited to care when her stomach growled, but she did watch—a little vindictively—as a large shadow crossed the green, catching Avonelle’s attention. The dragon had followed the eagles at a discreet distance—but something the size the dragon now was would never, ever be stealthy.

Avonelle’s eyes did not take on the gold of surprise, which was a pity. They didn’t really shift at all; the color of fear—which the Barrani never acknowledged—was pretty much the color of their more socially acceptable rage.

She did, on the other hand, feel Nightshade’s surprise. Kaylin, what is this?

Small dragon. Well, not so small dragon.

He didn’t appreciate her humor. This made her feel a little bit better.

What happened to it?

I needed him to carry Teela. Which guttered the little bit better entirely.

Can you control him? The question was sharp, insistent.

She glanced up at the sky and the underside of translucent belly. At this distance, he looked almost like himself. If he squawked instead of roaring, it would almost be a comfort. He predictably roared.

No.

You allowed him to...grow...without being certain of your control?

Since the answer was pretty self-evident, she didn’t bother with one. Instead, she said, Which one of the lost was yours? Because she wanted him to leave her alone, and she was pretty certain the question would shut him down.

It did.

Kaylin had only seen a small portion of the Warden’s perch; her visit to Lord Barian’s ancestral home had been cut short by the presence—and demands—of the dreams of Alsanis. She was exhausted by the time she reached the Warden’s halls; she was dragging her feet in a kind of stupor that meant morning would start sometime around late afternoon. Given that it was pretty much full-on daylight, it might start later than that.

Severn walked by her side, and to Kaylin’s surprise, the Consort joined them; her brother walked by her side and the Barrani High Court, disheveled, bruised, and otherwise less perfect than normal walked both in front and behind. Avonelle didn’t live in the Warden’s perch; it was a small mercy on a day when mercy was in short supply. Kaylin took it.

The eagles stayed with Barian; he led the High Court into his halls. Kaylin, by this point, was tired enough that taking a seat with her back to the nearest wall seemed like a better option than tripping over her own feet. Severn glanced at her. A minute later, maybe less, he stepped in front of her and crouched. “Climb on.”

She hesitated for less than ten seconds. Yes, being a Lord of the High Court made demands on dignity. No, at the moment, she didn’t care. She let herself be piggybacked down the tall, wide, light-filled halls, and surprised herself by drifting off.

Lord Kaylin. Lord Kaylin—wake.

The voice was unfamiliar for one long moment; Kaylin snapped out of sleep, and the shattered edge of dreams, when she recognized it. It was Ynpharion’s. She recognized the background blend of bitter humiliation and rage. Both were muted. His concern—his fear—was not.

She rolled out of bed, which was her first mistake; the beds in the perch were obviously meant for people at least six feet in height who nonetheless always landed on their feet. They were much higher off the ground than the rickety bed she’d once owned.

She landed on her knees, shook herself, and gained her feet as smoothly as she could.

Ynpharion?

She felt his impatience at her obvious ignorance, but he answered. Yes.

What’s happened? Are we under attack? What time is it?

It is almost midnight, he replied, with just a hint of condescension. Both the Lord of the West March and the Warden gave orders that you were not to be disturbed. I believe they have changed their minds. We are wakeful; the Lady herself has been roused, and she is...concerned.

Great. Kaylin made sure she had her daggers, although they didn’t provide much comfort; too many Barrani, too many swords, and too much shadow magic. She longed for Elani street with a passion usually reserved for hating it.

Severn was at her door before she’d opened it; he was armed with the two blades of his weapon chain. She stared at them.

Ynpharion, is Iberrienne still alive?

The question confused him, which Kaylin took as a yes. “What’s happened?” she asked as she exited a room that did not—at first glance—appear to have a door ward.

“Your dragon is breathing on select buildings in the West March.”

Kaylin wanted to turn back to her room and crawl under the bed. “Any particular buildings?”

“You’re not going to like the answer.” He began to walk down the hall; she followed at a jog, to make up for the difference in their stride. She recognized where he was leading her, although it was a lot more crowded than the last time she’d seen it—he headed straight for the giant trunk around which stairs were wound. He took them two at a time; the lack of rails on the side that faced an increasingly grim drop didn’t bother him at all.

“Did they have their council meeting?”

“No. The Consort called a recess, given the current situation. Lord Avonelle might have argued, but she’s now occupied with the wards in the green.”

“The ones that don’t work?”

“Yes.”

Two small mercies.

Sleep had done Kaylin good. Lack of food hadn’t. She reached the top of the viewing platform thinking about bread. And cheese. And meat. They were petty concerns, given Severn’s news, which is probably why she clung to them. Ynpharion was on the viewing platform.

So was a very pale Evarrim.

Severn—why is he even standing?

The Consort asked for his presence; he acquiesced. You are not, of course, to notice any weakness or injury he doesn’t speak of himself.

He looks like crap.

Yes. Iberrienne is, however, not in a state to provide information at this point in time. Nightshade spent hours closeted with Iberrienne. The Consort joined Nightshade when she returned.

What happened?

I don’t know. Iberrienne is not considered well enough to attend, and Evarrim is considered the only other High Court expert in residence. He is therefore here.

So was the Lord of the West March and the Warden; both men were blue-eyed and grim. The eagles sat on the railing, facing outward; they might have been carved of stone. Beyond them, in the clear, midnight sky, Kaylin saw a cloud that was moving at great speed in an otherwise still sky.

“Chosen,” the eagles said, although neither moved.

She glanced at her arms; the marks were glowing a pale, faint blue. She was surprised when the Lord of the West March handed her a large drape of cloth. It was a jacket, sort of. It had sleeves very similar to the sleeves that had once been part of the dress she wore, but it was heavier and warmer. She doubted it was immune to water, fire, or dirt, but was grateful to have it anyway; she was cold.

“How long has he been out there?”

“He has been in our skies since you returned.” It was Lord Barian who answered. “What is he doing?”

Since that was more or less her next question, she swallowed it. She had no idea, but felt bald acceptance of her own ignorance was a career-limiting move. She walked over to the rails and took up a position between the two eagles. They both turned their heads—only their heads—to face her.

The not-so-small dragon was circling, in a desultory way. His flight path at this distance seemed very constricted; she squinted, cursing her vision.

Ynpharion—what’s in the sky beside the dragon?

The nightmares, Ynpharion replied, of Alsanis.

Are they flying in a pattern around him?

Yes.

Are they...attacking him?

“They are, Chosen,” the eagles said in unison.

She watched as the dragon roared; his voice probably blanketed the entire West March. It wasn’t as bad as the breath that followed. It clipped one small shadow. She watched as the shadow’s gliding path faltered. The shadows looked exactly like that, to Kaylin—they implied eagle.

What had she done? She’d caught the shadows, intercepted their flight, and pulled the eagles out of their insubstantial darkness. The dragon’s breath didn’t have the same effect—and why would it? The shadows gained weight, plummeting from the sky. They did not—at this distance—change shape; no birds emerged, and nothing less threatening took to the sky in their place.

Kaylin drew the jacket more tightly around her shoulders.

“Can you command your familiar?” Evarrim said. Kaylin had come, grudgingly, to understand that among the Barrani, Evarrim was considered blunt and to the point. And he was. His machinations, his desires, and his power, were always on display; it was hard to assume that he was in any way friendly.

Kaylin was silent for a long moment. “I’ve never tried,” she finally said.

Evarrim’s brow furrowed. Kaylin decided, at this point, that ignorance was less useful than dignity.

“What do you think he is trying to do?”

She was watching the nightmares as they fell from the sky. The dragon’s breath seemed almost silver at this distance, seen in moonlight and night sky. “I’m not certain. The building he’s flying around—it is a building, isn’t it?” It was, to Kaylin’s eye, a shadowy apparition.

Silence. Barian finally said, “Yes.”

“I don’t remember seeing it before.”

“No, Chosen. It is the Hallionne Alsanis. It has lain under protective wards for centuries. No visitors to the West March have seen it as you see it now.”

“Have you?”

“No. I remember Alsanis. I remember the form Alsanis chose to take.”

“Let me guess. It wasn’t an edifice of crystal shadow.”

“You are correct.”

“Did the dragon—”

“The wards are down. Lord Avonelle has ordered an evacuation of the buildings closest to the Hallionne.”

Kaylin watched for a few more minutes because the building was taking shape with the passage of time. It was not—yet—the height of the Warden’s perch; it was, however, taller than the towers of the Lord’s hall. Nor did it seem to be shrinking.

“Lord Barian, with your permission, I would like to approach the Hallionne.”

She felt Lirienne’s surprise; it was colored with strong disapproval. He did not, however, say no. He observed correct form.

“The recitation will take place in two days,” Lord Barian replied. As replies went, it seemed to have missed the question. Kaylin waited.

“It will take place,” the eagles said, “sooner.”

There was a lot of silence then. Kaylin, who was aware that the Warden was in theory responsible for the recitation, looked at the eagles. “How much sooner?”

“Can you not hear it begin, Chosen? Can you not hear the words?”

“Most of the words I can hear come from me, and I’m having a hard time keeping them on the inside of my mouth.” She said this in sharp Elantran.

“The Teller is leaving the domicile,” the eagle to the right said.

“He has the Consort and Lord Iberrienne with him,” the eagle to the left said.

“I’d like about two days more sleep before I do the job the dress chose me for.”

The eagles craned forward so they could look at each other. They then turned their heads toward the Lord of the West March, who was now standing rigidly near the exit. “Lord of the West March. Warden. You cannot reach the greenheart now.”

“It is not the appointed time,” Barian said.

“There is now only one path to the greenheart,” they replied. “And time does not pass predictably. If you can walk the path at all, you will need Teller and harmoniste.”

Silence.

“And Lord of the West March, you must choose. The Lady will travel with you.”

“I will not take that risk.”

“She is the Consort, Lord of the West March. Her duties are not to you; they are not even to the High Lord.”

Nightshade, what in the hells are you doing?

We approach the Hallionne, Kaylin. Can you not hear it?

No.

You asked me which of the lost was mine.

She wasn’t particularly proud of the question.

You will have your answer. Come. I understand the shape of the story I am meant to tell, but it does not begin here, and if it ends here, it will end in one of two ways. I cannot do what you must do, although I would have taken the blood of the green over the Teller’s crown.

It didn’t do Teela any good, was Kaylin’s surprisingly bitter reply.

No. And in the end, it is unlikely that I would have succeeded where she failed.

Kaylin closed her eyes. She opened them, squaring her shoulders, and turned to face the Lord of the West March. “Will you order your people to remain behind?”

“It is not our way to strip ourselves of strength when we walk into the unknown.”

“Lord Barian?”

“The Court of the Vale has far less to prove than the Lords of the High Court—but no, Lord Kaylin. I will order none to remain behind who wish to accompany us.”

“And you’ll go?”

His smile was very odd. “It has been centuries since I have entered Alsanis. My childhood and all of the duties of my line lie there. I am not Teller, I am Warden, but if the doors open, I will enter them. We had intended to let you sleep; you are mortal. But the green has its own seasons, and the Hallionne, their own rules.

“If I understand the eagles, you are summoned, Lord Kaylin.”

The Lord of the West March took his leave almost before they’d finished speaking; Evarrim lingered. It was to Evarrim that Kaylin went. She offered him a stiff, formal bow. He lifted a black brow in response.

“I will not venture into Alsanis,” Evarrim said.

She thought it a small wonder that he had remained on his feet, but kept this to herself. “What do familiars want?” she asked, voice soft. Since she was among Barrani, soft words would carry almost as far as louder ones.

“There are very few extant records of such creatures. They are legend. It is hard to abstract history from legend, and it is my suspicion that it would be irrelevant.”

“Why?”

“Because no two of our legendary sorcerers were alike, Lord Kaylin. They amassed power in different ways, and used it to different purposes. We make assumptions based on our own observations of those who have power, but they are not sound assumptions. Power affects the powerful in different ways.”

“But the familiars—”

“They are not creatures of this world. Even you must understand that. In legend, they were able to shape the world. The creature as he appeared for most of the journey was not significant, but he was not insignificant; his abilities belied his size. You think of him as a mortal pet.”

She didn’t deny it.

“He is not. But even you must realize this now.”

Kaylin nodded. “He’s like an elemental. A summoned elemental. Except I didn’t summon him.”

“No. That may tell in your favor; I cannot say. In the three stories of which I am personally aware, the familiars were sought. They were not stumbled over as a byproduct of a world-threatening event; the world-threatening event was created to draw them into the world. In that way, they are unlike elementals. We know the name of the fire,” he said, his gaze intent, his eyes narrowed. “And perhaps, if we knew the name of the wilderness from which the familiars are drawn and of which they are part, we would be able to summon them in the way we call fire, water, earth, and air. Such studies have been made; none have been successful.

“The fire spoke to you in the outlands. I summoned it; it was my power that kept it leashed and present. But it spoke to you, Lord Kaylin, and without considerable expenditure of power on my part, it was you to whom it answered. I do not know what power summoned the familiar; nor do I know what its intent is. But, Lord Kaylin, absent your presence or my control, I know what fire wants.”

So did Kaylin. “The will of the fire,” she said quietly, “isn’t all one thing or the other. It’s complicated.”

“So, too, the familiar. But there are currents in the fire’s will. Were I at the peak of my power, I might contest your claim; I admit that it has been much in my mind. But I would not do it at this recitation, and I believe if you cannot control what you have been all but guardian to, there will be no recitation. The Teller, the Lord of the West March, and you yourself, will be lost. If we are very lucky, we will not face a similar fate.”

“How lucky do you think you’ll be?”

“The Barrani seldom believe in luck that we do not make with our own hands.” He turned to the Warden. “She must join the Teller.”

“Understood.”

The Lord of the West March spoke with the gathered members of the High Court; the conversation—if there was one—was short. They had come to hear the recitation, setting out—in some cases—after news of the presence of a harmoniste reached the High Halls. But they understood what had occurred when Teela was a child, and they saw, as they filed out of the Warden’s Perch, what remained in the wake of that disaster.

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.