Michelle Sagara (35 page)

“Why?”

He will understand. Or perhaps he will not; the greenheart is not what it was when last he ventured into it.
She lifted a hand again.
Come home. Ybelline is concerned.

“About me?”

No, Kaylin. But she will speak to you if you approach her.
It is time.

* * *

Kaylin walked out of the heart of the green, and into the heart of the green, Teela by her side. “I’m fine,” she told the Barrani Hawk. She even gave her a shove in the direction of the rest of her kin. “I’m honestly fine. There’s nothing that can hurt me here.”

Teela snorted, but it was a halfhearted sound; she wanted to join the others. After a short while, she did.

Nightshade wore the crown of the Teller and the Teller’s robes; they were unchanged. Kaylin’s dress was not. It was still green, but the skirt hadn’t shrunk any. She grabbed the train and bunched it in her arms.

The Lord of the West March stood by the side of his Consort, his eyes blue. The Warden stood between Nightshade and Lirienne, his eyes even darker. Ynpharion stood behind the Consort, his hand on the hilt of a sheathed sword. His eyes were the usual blue of caution. The Consort’s eyes, however, were the color of Kaylin’s dress.

Annarion was speaking with Nightshade. The others were loosely grouped around them. Kaylin glanced at Severn; Severn was watching, but he kept his distance from every other person in the clearing. He smiled as Kaylin stepped into view.

Where’s Iberrienne?

I believe he chose to retreat.

To
where?

The Hallionne Alsanis. It wasn’t entirely his idea; the eagles came.

Kaylin swallowed, and Severn offered a wry grin.
He is invited to remain in Alsanis with his brother. I may visit if I so choose.

You can’t kill him in the Hallionne.

No,
was the grave reply.

She shouldn’t have been happy. She was.
Oh. You’re to go to the fountain.

She expected confusion; what she got instead was surprise. Surprise and hope. He kept them mostly to himself as he approached the basin into which clear water ran. Kaylin followed, dragging material. She could see nothing in the fountain itself but water.

Severn, however, didn’t have that problem. He reached into those waters, and when he pulled his hands clear again, he was carrying two familiar blades.

“The green,” Lord Barian said, “favors you, Lord Severn. I admit that I was ill-pleased when the blades chose their wielder the first time you made your way to the heart of the green.”

“And now?”

The Warden’s smile was soft; the blue faded from his eyes. He looked up at the bowers of ancient trees; he looked down at the waters of a fountain which was no longer dry. “The green works in mysterious ways. My blessing is not required, but if it brings a measure of peace, you have it; were it not for your willingness to surrender what you had once been given, we would not now be here.”

He turned, then, to Kaylin. “Let the train down, Lord Kaylin. Let it be. It is the green’s way of making clear that you have told the tale the green would tell if it could speak as we speak. The Vale will see. The Vale will know.”

But Kaylin shook her head. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of laughter—Barrani laughter. “I think the Vale would know anyway.”

Chapter 28

Kaylin woke to snoring. This wasn’t unusual, but
usually, the snores were hers. Tonight, they belonged to a delicate, translucent
dragon. He hadn’t spoken a word since she’d left the green. She’d spoken
several—to him, in Leontine, and they’d had the usual effect.

The room itself was large, but it was cool and quiet; it had
windows—and these windows, at least, reminded her of home. Of her old home. They
weren’t glassed or barred; they opened to air and breeze. The fact that neither
of these—air or breeze—appeared to come from the West March in which the
building was situated no longer bothered her; she was in a Hallionne, after all,
and the Hallionne had a very tenuous sense of place.

The Warden had repeated his offer of hospitality, of course,
once they’d left the green. But even offering it, he gazed—with green-eyed
longing—at the facade of the Hallionne Alsanis. The Hallionne itself no longer
appeared to be made of shadow-mired crystal; nor did it look like a tree, a
cliff, a river, or a patch of random, grass-covered dirt. It was, it seemed,
made of stone and glass, and its spire—for it had one—ascended to neck-cramping
heights.

Which didn’t stop Kaylin from looking.

The Guardian—Lord Avonelle—had been waiting for them. Her eyes
were blue and her expression was as friendly as winter. The bitter, killing
kind. But she’d offered the Teller and the harmoniste a perfect obeisance.
Kaylin privately thought it almost killed her. She then offered them a phrase so
archaic Kaylin only barely recognized it as High Barrani.

The Warden’s eyes remained a cautious blue; they didn’t verge
into gold. But he was utterly still. Absence of movement often meant surprise,
in the Barrani. Of course, it often meant “you’re about to die if you don’t
move,” as well.

Lord Avonelle’s eyes were a shade darker when Teela joined the
Teller and the harmoniste; they were a color that Kaylin couldn’t describe when
the rest of the lost children, save only Terrano, followed. She only barely
offered the Consort a correct gesture of respect; Kaylin thought the snub to the
Lord of the West March wasn’t actually deliberate. He didn’t seem to care.

He looked—as Barian did—to the south, where a spire Kaylin had
never seen stretched toward the clear sky.

“Alsanis.”

* * *

Kaylin couldn’t think of the lost children
as
children; it was patently ridiculous. They were
older than she was, at least chronologically; they were taller, stronger, and
more confident. They smiled, yes, and sometimes they laughed outright; they were
slightly more demonstrative than most Barrani—but then again, everyone was.

Regardless, they left the green. They offered the Consort the
obeisances that Lord Avonelle had given strictly for form’s sake, and they held
them—as Kaylin had once done—until she bid them rise. She took her time.

She is cautious,
Lirienne said.

Kaylin understood why. She knew she should be as cautious, but
it was much harder for her. Teela trusted these people.

We trust, when we are young,
Lirienne replied.
And when trust is broken—and it is,
Kaylin; that is the nature of our kind—we learn caution. We learn wisdom.
The gaining is never pleasant. There is not the insignificant fact that they
intended to destroy the Lake of Life.

She started to argue, and stopped. It was true.
They wouldn’t do it now.

That is my suspicion. It is the Lady’s
suspicion, as well. If she is to trust the truth of your supposition, it
will take time. The young,
he added,
are
infamously impatient—but these were considered our best and our brightest.
They will wait.

Lord Avonelle didn’t bow to the cohort. Her expression made the
Consort’s long pause seem friendly and thoughtful in comparison. She did,
however, say, “Alsanis offers his hospitality to all who return from the
green.”

Sedarias nodded stiffly, a regal, downward tilt of chin. “We
have already been thus informed, Guardian, but we appreciate the courtesy you
have shown us.” She broke away from the group and approached Nightshade. “Lord
Calarnenne.”

“Sedarias.”

“Escort us to Alsanis. If there are to be guests and the halls
are to be open, we hope to be better prepared than you have found us.” She held
out one commanding arm.

Kaylin felt her jaw drop when he smiled ruefully and accepted
what was only barely a request.

She does not do it for his sake,
Lirienne said quietly,
but for Annarion’s. There
will be trouble there, I think, but not yet. Tonight, tomorrow, there will
be only celebration, only joy. Joy comes seldom,
kyuthe,
and where it does, it must be savored.

Kaylin glanced at Avonelle’s shuttered face. She felt
Lirienne’s very real laugh in response. The laughter stopped abruptly as Severn
stepped into Lord Avonelle’s view.
If your Corporal is
wise, he will avail himself of Alsanis’s hospitality for the duration of his
stay.

He’s been—

She is aware of what he now carries. She
is aware that the green has granted him what her kin have been denied, time
and again, when they abased themselves in the heart of the green. What she
herself has been denied. It is only barely acceptable when she is passed
over for a Lord of the Court.

Which, technically, he is.

Yes. Technically. He is not what you
are.

No.

This is not the first time he has been
granted such a gift; the first time, it was considered theft and
trickery.

Because it’s so easy to lie to the
green.

He was amused. He kept it entirely off his face, although he
spoke as he offered his sister an arm.
It is not
difficult—at all—to lie to the green; it is difficult to make oneself
understood at all.

Kaylin waited for Severn as the Barrani began to drift toward
the Hallionne. He shook his head, and carefully removed yards and yards of
fabric from the crook of her elbow.

“It’s going to get dirty—”

“It won’t. Trust the green. Wear it, as it was meant to be
worn.”

She started to argue, but the small dragon sat up and squawked
in her ear. “I swear, you bite me again and you’ll be walking home.”

* * *

She’d walked, as if she were part of a solemn
procession. Her legs hurt, her arms felt so heavy she could barely lift them.
What she wanted at this very moment was to crawl into her bed—the bed that was
splinters and feathers—and sleep for three days.

But the Barrani of the Vale came, standing to either side of
the procession of which she was only part. They were silent. Only two of them
detached themselves from the crowd, but she recognized them: Gaedin and Serian.
They quietly saw to the fall of her train, and they took up positions of honor
at her back.

She wanted to tell them that they’d been instrumental in saving
them all, because the shortcut had given her the knowledge necessary to save
Teela. She even opened her mouth. But Serian’s warning glance caused her to shut
it again. She wasn’t used to being the center of attention; she tried to enjoy
it, and failed. But Diarmat’s many lectures served one useful purpose: they kept
her moving. She held her head high. She didn’t fumble or even speak.

Not until the gates of Alsanis rolled open to welcome them all,
because waiting for them in the long, grand hall, with its many lights and its
many, many arches, was a Barrani man who was not, she was certain, Barrani at
all.

“No, Lord Kaylin,” he said, and he bowed to her in full sight
of the Vale. It was a low, graceful,
perfect
bow. “I
am not. But the Barrani are my distant kin, and I have longed, for centuries, to
speak with them again. I bid you welcome. I bid your Lord Severn welcome, as
well. While you live, my doors will always open at your command, and you will
always find sanctuary and welcome here.

“You will find welcome, should you return, in the green.” He
then turned and offered an equal bow—to the Consort. “Lady.”

She offered the Avatar of Alsanis her hand; he accepted it,
bowed over it, and then placed it on his arm. “Come. Food is waiting, and water,
and wine.” He turned, and then turned again. “Barian.”

The Warden bowed.

“In the long years of my exile, I have heard your voice, and
yours alone of all your kin. Join us.”

* * *

Dinner was a loud and, for Barrani, raucous affair. Even
Kaylin, sick to death of Barrani functions and politics, found herself
laughing—in particular when Mandoran and Allaron decided to have an impromptu
eating contest. A certain amount of decorum was present wherever the Consort
generally was, but the cohort didn’t seem to be aware of it, and if she was
offended in any way, the Consort kept it to herself.

But Kaylin suspected, given the green of the Consort’s eyes,
that she wasn’t.

She wasn’t even upset when Kaylin, flagging to the point of
nearly dropping her chin into dessert, excused herself from the table and the
rest of the immortal merriment. Severn escorted her as far as her room—and in
Hallionne parlance, it was a long walk. Nor did the Hallionne intend her to
share, at least not with anyone who wasn’t a small shoulder ornament.

The last thing she remembered clearly was getting out of the
dress and hanging it in a closet. Well, draping it over a hanger in a closet.
She left the green boots beneath it. She expected both the closet and its
contents to be gone in the morning.

She didn’t remember reaching the bed, but it was pretty hard to
miss something this large. The small dragon sat up and warbled.

There was no noise in the room. But it wasn’t anything in the
room that had woken her.

In the distance, Nightshade was angry.

* * *

She rose and dressed, and this time, she took clothing
from the pack leaning at a tilt against the far wall. The closet was, of course,
a nonentity in the room. She made her way to the door, and from it, into the
halls; her eyes adjusted to the light slowly, but it didn’t matter. She had the
strong feeling she could stumble through Alsanis wearing a blindfold and she’d
fail to trip, fall, or injure herself in any way.

She made her way to Nightshade. Clearly, she was still
half-asleep if an angry fieflord was an emergency to run toward and not away
from.

“He is not angry with you,” Alsanis said. His Avatar had
appeared beside her between one step and the next.

“What is he angry about?”

“Annarion.”

Which would make it the world’s shortest happy reunion. “What
has Annarion done?”

“Sedarias feels it best that she and her friends remain here
for some time. She does not feel it is wise to leave the Hallionne in a state of
ignorance. The world has changed since they first left it, and to maneuver in
what remains, they must have knowledge.”

Kaylin nodded because this made sense.

“Annarion will not be remaining.”

“Wouldn’t that make Sedarias angry?”

“Sedarias? Why would she be angered?”

“If she doesn’t feel it’s safe—”

“She understands Annarion’s reasoning, and she accepts it.”

“Nightshade doesn’t.”

“No. He wishes Annarion to remain here. He has...insisted?
Commanded?”

And Annarion had refused. No wonder Nightshade was pissed.

“Calarnenne is Outcaste. It is not—or will not—be safe for him
once he leaves the Hallionne. It would not, I think, be safe for Lord
Iberrienne, either, but Lord Iberrienne will remain. The Consort has done what
she can for him,” he added, his voice softening. “But he was much damaged by his
interactions in the outlands. Will you tend him?”

But Kaylin shook her head. “No. He is—he will—recover.” She
hoped. “But I don’t want him to be what he was.”

“You are afraid Lord Severn will kill him.”

“It’s not a fear—it’s a certainty. He can’t do it here; he
won’t try. But Iberrienne as he is now is not a danger to anyone.”

“Eddorian will protect him.”

She thought it should work the other way around.

“Why? Eddorian was the elder of the two. Eddorian understands
some of what was done; he cannot, however, heal the damage. He will ask you, I
think.”

Kaylin said nothing. She approached an open door in a hallway
full of closed ones.

“They are brothers,” Alsanis said softly. Kaylin realized that
the term, brother, meant something to Alsanis that it probably didn’t mean to
anyone else here. She didn’t argue. Instead, she stepped into the room.

It wasn’t a bedroom; it wasn’t a sitting room, either. It was a
Barrani courtyard, open to a cool, gray sky, and artfully dusted with fallen
leaves. Both of the men in its center stiffened and turned as she entered. She
recognized them. One was Annarion, and the other, the fieflord of her childhood.
The Teller’s tiara no longer graced his forehead.

Nightshade was not the only one who was angry; Annarion was
pale with it, his hands in curved half fists by his side. The Barrani turned to
face her.

“Leave,” Nightshade said.

She ignored him. “Don’t even think,” she added, “of using your
mark against me. Not here. The Hallionne won’t allow it.”

“Oh?”

“I’m betting my life on it. Are you willing to bet yours?”

His brows rose, and a very tight smile tugged at the corner of
his lips. Turning to his brother, he said, “May I have the privilege of
introducing Lord Kaylin?”

Annarion was not amused. Not even close. The mark on her cheek
seemed to inflame, rather than quell, his fury. He was not, however, angry at
her. “I am aware of who Lord Kaylin is.” He bowed to her. He bowed stiffly and
very formally, granting her a respect that she would never have gotten in the
High Halls. “Private Neya,” he added, accenting the name in Elantran.