Michelle Sagara (3 page)

Ask the Lord of the West March—ask him what’s wrong—ask him what I should
do.

Do nothing unless she releases you. She has taken the risk. Respect it.

It would be a helluvalot easier to respect it if I
understood
it.

He laughed. He laughed, but the laughter died abruptly as the first of the birds came to land in the Consort’s upturned palm.

* * *

Except it wasn’t a bird. It had the shape, but none of the movement; although it had what looked like wings, they never flapped; they were rigid and extended, a dark plane of shadow, and as the creature alighted in the Consort’s open palm, she saw that it had claws. But it had no face, no head; the whole of its body appeared to be...wings. Those wings wrapped themselves around the Consort’s hand, obscuring both it and the light it shed.

She grimaced. She didn’t lose color—in Kaylin’s opinion there was none left to lose. What she lost was illumination. Some of the disturbing light was leeched out of her exposed skin. No one drew audible breath in the clearing; no one but the Consort. Her breath was even, steady, voiceless.

Kaylin wanted to scream. She opened her mouth and the small dragon bit her ear. She turned to glare at him, which was a relief; he met her furrowed brow with wide, opal eyes. Opal, shining eyes. He also yawned, exposing almost solid teeth.

For a long moment, the shadow remained perched in the Consort’s palm, and then it began to sink, vanishing into her skin as if absorbed. Light faded, then. The Consort’s grip on Kaylin’s arm loosened. As if that were permission, Kaylin pulled her numb arm free and slid an arm around the Consort’s shoulders. She didn’t ask any of the questions she desperately wanted to ask. Instead, she let the Consort lean heavily against her.

“Lord Evarrim,” the Consort said. “Lord Haverel.”

Both men bowed in silence; they asked no questions. The archers who had fired the first three arrows failed to materialize; the path failed to widen; the West March—if that didn’t refer to this entire godsforsaken forest—continued pretty much as it had begun.

No,
Nightshade said, voice soft and tinged with something unfamiliar.
It is not. Be cautious. You are almost upon the green.

Nightshade, what
was
that?

A messenger,
he replied. Unless she forced the issue, he wasn’t going to tell her more. She suspected he didn’t actually have the answer, and felt his keen amusement.
You are learning,
he said.

The two lords so named stepped forward. “Lady?” Lord Haverel bowed. His glance strayed briefly to Kaylin—who apparently had the ignorant effrontery to
touch
the Lady while trying to bear the greater part of her weight.

“The way is clear,” she said. “Gather. We will continue to—” Her blue eyes rounded as the second bird appeared and began its gliding descent; it was joined, seconds later, by a third, a fourth, a fifth.

Kaylin didn’t need to speak to Nightshade to know this was bad. She wasn’t certain what this disturbing ceremony was supposed to be or do. “Lady—”

The Consort lifted an arm, lifting chin and exposing the long, white line of her throat. She pulled herself free of Kaylin, planting her feet as the two lords—Evarrim and Haverel—stepped aside. As the sleek, black forms continued to glide above her in a slowly decreasing circle, she lifted both of her arms, exposing her palms.

Both arms raised, she looked as if she were inviting embrace—but her expression was fixed; her arms were shaking. “If I falter,” she said, to Kaylin’s surprise, “you have permission to heal me.” She spoke in formal High Barrani, her words surprisingly distinct. Kaylin waited for the disturbing glow to once again grace the Consort’s pale skin. It didn’t.

“You can’t do this,” she said, in Elantran. In High Barrani it would have sounded too much like a command. In her mother tongue, it sounded like the plea it was.

“They cannot be allowed to fly,” was her soft response.

“They clearly flew
here.
”

“They will not stop here, if they are given no harbor.” The Consort closed her eyes. Two of the shadows alighted almost delicately, their stiff wings folding around her open hands, encasing them. Like the first such creature, they had claws, and like the first, they seemed to sink into her hands, into her skin. But this time her hands, the length of her arms, became a shade of very unhealthy gray-green as they vanished. Her shaking arms fell, as if they weighed too much to be lifted. But they stopped at the height of her heart, palms open again, and waiting.

Kaylin had seen corpses that color in Red’s morgue. The Consort trembled for one immobile moment before she steadied herself and opened her eyes. Her eyes were Barrani-blue. Her arms were trembling, but she held them before her, palms once again empty and open.

Kaylin, however, had had enough. She took one look at the gathered Barrani; they were silent, blue-eyed, witnesses. None of them spoke. None of them moved.

Do not interfere—

Shut up.

The Consort was taller than Kaylin. Everyone in this party was. But her arms weren’t raised above her head, where their reach would be impossible to match. Kaylin extended her own arms, and laid her hands above the Consort’s, their backs resting against the Consort’s icy palms. She heard one sharp, drawn breath. It was Teela’s. No one spoke.

The shadows descended, gliding along a decreasing circular path as if following a funnel no one else could see. Kaylin wasn’t Barrani; she flinched when they landed. But when they did, she lifted her hands from the Consort’s, drawing them away from the Lady and toward herself. She moved slowly and deliberately, as if the creatures in her hands were alive and might spook.

But she did not want them touching the Consort when they began to fold their wings.

They gripped the edges of her palms with their claws; the claws sank, like small, sharp blades, into her skin. They were cold. They were cold enough they almost felt hot. Wings folded in perfect unison, engulfing her hands. She resisted the urge to shake them off—mostly because she knew it wouldn’t work. She wasn’t the Consort. A steady, quiet stream of Leontine left her lips, with a few choice Aerian words thrown in for good measure.

Her arms began to burn.

The small dragon, forgotten until now, rose; his claws gripped her shoulder. He hissed, squawking and spitting; he didn’t draw breath. The shadows turned toward him as his wings rose, batting her cheek and nose.

If her skin had melted, it wouldn’t have surprised her. She felt almost as if it should, the heat was so intense. Through the interior of sleeves that were more hole than material, she could see the marks on her arms: they were gold-white in color, and bright enough that she had to squint to make out their individual shapes. The light was not the subtle light that had imbued the Consort—but then again, Kaylin had none of the Consort’s restraint, none of her perfect, regal dignity.

The dragon continued to squawk, which was both a comfort and a distraction; the claws of the shadows cut deeper—but there was, to Kaylin’s eye, no resulting blood. Nor did the creatures sink into her hands and vanish, as they’d done with the Consort.

Instead, to her dismay, they seemed to grow more solid, not less, as the seconds passed. They were black, their wings developing texture, height, distinguishing characteristics. The light of her marks didn’t seem to dim—but they didn’t vanish, either. The shadows weren’t somehow eating them.

She thought they might become some echo of the small dragon, because they seemed to be listening to him, mesmerized by his squeaky, birdlike voice. He turned to look at Kaylin, hissed loudly in annoyance, and then turned back to his audience. They mirrored the motion. Kaylin’s hands were numb. Her arms were shaking. Shadows had no weight and little substance; what was now sitting in her palms was no longer entirely shadow.

Nor were they like the shadows cast by a gliding bird. The wings lengthened, brightened, and took on color; the indistinct, smooth surfaces of their shadow form cracked, giving way to—to
feathers.
As those wings snapped out, shards of shadow fell away, shaken off as if they were bits of shell.

Kaylin grunted. Two pairs of eyes turned to look at her; those eyes now rested above very,
very
prominent beaks. They inhaled and the golden feathers across their breasts rose; she could see white down beneath them. She had never seen birds this large. They didn’t really look like birds—they looked like predators. They were far too large for her hands, far too heavy; she struggled with their growing weight because she didn’t want to piss them off by dropping them.

As if aware of this—and the possible loss of dignity—they released her hands, leaping to the ground to one side of Kaylin and the Consort. When one of the Barrani Lords moved, they rose, their wings high in warning. That they didn’t knock either Kaylin or the Consort off their feet was a miracle.

A deliberate miracle. One of the birds turned to face them. “Lady,” it said.

Kaylin offered the Consort an arm—and her shoulder. The Consort was willing to let Kaylin absorb most of her weight, but her eyes—her eyes were a shade of gold, ringed in pale blue. They looked like the sun at the height of a cloudless sky. Kaylin had almost never seen that color in Barrani eyes before.

From the forest beyond them, Barrani approached. They were armed with bows, and they wore a different style of armor—if it was armor at all. But their hair was the ebony of Barrani hair, and it fell unimpeded down their backs. They moved slowly, and their eyes, as they approached, were the same gold as the Consort’s.

“The Lord of the West March requires aid. We go now,” the bird on the left said. His voice was clear, resonant; it had none of the squawk she expected of birds.

The Lady closed her eyes. Opened them rapidly, as if afraid that what she’d seen would vanish. The birds lifted wings again, and this time, the wings continued in a flurry of motion that took them into the night air.

* * *

The Barrani of the West March were silent as they watched the two birds take flight; silent as they watched them wing their way to the east, where the Lord of the West March was fighting. Only when they’d passed beyond sight—well beyond Kaylin’s—did they break away.

It was clear there were complicated rituals of approach. Kaylin shouldn’t have been surprised. Everything the Barrani did was complicated. But it was also clear that they’d dumped most of those rituals the minute they’d seen the birds emerge from the shadows. The gold of their eyes had given way to an emerald-green that Teela’s eyes rarely reached. They were happy.

“Lady,” the man in the lead said. He bowed. It was a low, complicated bow.

She felt the Consort tense—but the Consort was exhausted. There wasn’t a lot of strength left for tension. “Lord Barian. This is Lord Kaylin of the High Halls; she has made the pilgrimage to the green, as all our adult kin must.”

To Kaylin’s surprise, he turned to her. “I am the Warden of the West March,” he told her, and he offered a bow that was almost identical to the one he’d offered the Consort. The rest of the tension left the Consort’s body then. Kaylin grunted as she took the rest of the Consort’s weight. Barrani, while tall and slender, were not exactly weightless.

“We are in your debt, harmoniste.” He held out his arms.

Kaylin’s closed automatically around the Consort, and a black brow rose. So did the corners of his mouth.

“The history of the West March and the High Halls has not always been peaceful, but she is the Lady; she will come to no harm while my kin reside in the greenhome.”

“She’s already come to harm,” Kaylin replied. She spoke in less formal Barrani.

The Warden’s smile faded. “You are mortal. Rumor traveled that a mortal had been chosen by the green; it was only barely given credence. There are those who will not be pleased, Lord Kaylin. I would have been one of them. But I am grateful now that I came in person to greet the Lady, for if I had not I would not have seen...what we have witnessed this night.

“The Lady is welcome in the greenhome. She is welcome in its heart. And you, Lord Kaylin, have my welcome and my gratitude. I am in your debt.”

“The Barrani hate debt,” she replied.

He surprised her. He laughed. But he held out his arms again. “I will bear your burden with honor and dignity; you may travel as witness, Lord Kaylin.”

Kaylin knew she couldn’t carry the Consort. But she was fairly certain Teela could. “Teela?”

Every Barrani from the West March—there appeared to be eight—stiffened at the sound of the Barrani Hawk’s name, and their eyes instantly lost most of the emerald-green the sight of the giant birds had placed there.

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?”

“Very 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.