Michelle Sagara (6 page)

Kaylin shook her head. She almost reverted to Elantran, but she didn’t recognize this woman as one of the party that had traveled with the Consort, and she wasn’t certain she’d be understood. “I hated it,” she said, voice low. “I couldn’t understand, at first, why the test existed at all.

“But I understood it during the
Leofswuld.
No one who intends to rule the High Halls—and the Barrani, even if at a distance—can be vulnerable to the forces trapped beneath it.” This was not entirely truthful, but the theory was absolutely sound. “The High Halls houses something ancient and monstrous at its core; it’s meant to stand as a wall against that darkness. Those who have faced it and walk away can hold fast. If someone untested took the seat, what’s leashed there would be free.”

“And you consider that a significant danger.”

Kaylin was nonplussed. “I do.”

“To our people or your own?”

“Both.” The hands that rested in her lap began to ball into fists. “I understand bitterness at the loss. Believe that I understand it. But no one is forced to take that test.”

“Are they not?” was the cool reply. The woman glanced across the table, and her gaze fell squarely upon the Warden of the West March.

“No.”

Teela cleared her throat; it was audible because no one else spoke. Kaylin dared one look at Lord Barian, and regretted it.

“Perhaps,” the Barrani woman continued, “mortal customs are different. Or perhaps your knowledge of the Barrani is inexact. You were not required to take that test—indeed, I imagine that there are those present who would have argued strenuously against such an attempt. But for my kin, there are positions and privileges which accrue only to those who have taken that test and emerged.”

“My knowledge of the Barrani people is, as you suggest, inexact. My knowledge of my own people isn’t. There are positions within society which I’m unqualified to hold. I’ll never be part of the Human Caste Court, and I’ll never be wealthy. I was born in the fiefs, and spent all of my childhood there.” She did not look at Nightshade, because she was angry. Had she wondered where her anger had gone?

“But I choose the work I do now. If I had been told that my job depended on taking this test—and had I been informed that pass or fail was a simple matter of survival—I would have two choices.” She emphasized that last word. “I could have taken the test, in the hopes of keeping my job, or I could have found a different job.”

“And if someone was more than qualified for greater duties, but did not, for the same reasons, choose to undertake such a risk?”

“Then he’d have to find a different job. I understand that you feel there’s not much choice in that. But—it’s a choice, even if it’s a bad one.” She hesitated, and then said, “The Lady has what we would consider an extremely important job. Mortals don’t have True Names; we don’t require a Lady of our own. But not everyone can see the Lake of Life. Not everyone who does see it can hold their own name in abeyance; the desire to join what is there proves too strong.”

Kaylin, how do you know this?

She didn’t answer the Lord of the West March; she concentrated on the Barrani woman.

“Someone who can’t pass the test of name won’t survive the duties of Consort. If the Consort fails, a search will begin for someone new. But every single one of those women will be tested. I imagine the search won’t even extend to those who haven’t passed the test, because—” Her brain caught up with her mouth, and she shut up.

“And if someone was found who could touch the words, but had not taken the test?”

“The words would kill her if she weren’t strong enough to face what is caged in the High Halls. I’m sorry.”

Can I assume that most of the people in the West March don’t take the test of name?

Yes. That would be a safe assumption.

And that you’re ruling as Lord of the West March precisely because you have?

A glimmer of amusement touched Lord Lirienne’s inner voice.
Indeed.

And last, that the Warden is qualified in all other ways to
be
Lord, except this one?

Very good.

Is she his wife?

He laughed, although his expression was all graven sobriety.
No. She is his mother.

Kaylin felt a moment of discomfort as she readjusted her frame of reference. But...none of the Barrani ever looked like a mother, to Kaylin. She couldn’t, when it came right down to it, imagine that they could be. She’d never been asked to attend a Barrani birth and wondered idly if they carved their babies out of stone and hauled them to the High Halls only when they felt they could protect their artistry. Birth—of either the Dragons or the Barrani—was not one of the things covered in racial integration classes.

Is there a reason that he’s never taken the test of name?

You will have to ask him, although I do not advise it.

What
exactly
does the Warden of the West March do?

Centuries past,
he replied softly,
he spoke with, and tended to, the Hallionne. Lord Barian’s father, and his grandfather before him, absorbed the nightmares of the Hallionne. It is Lord Barian’s duty now.

Your sister is not Lord Barian.

No.

Then why did she—

Do you not understand? She knows the burden borne by the West March, and she knows why they must bear it. She is fully capable of doing what the sons of the West March have done.

And anyone else?

No, Kaylin. It is why they die.

And it’s why they can’t afford to lose him.

Perhaps. But the dreams of the West March fly above this citadel. While they last, they will speak with the Warden.

And not with you.

He did not reply.

* * *

If dinner had ended there, Kaylin would have considered it a win.

The blue-eyed mother of the Warden fell silent. Not to be undone, another Barrani spoke. He was, again, unfamiliar. “I cannot imagine how novel it would be to have a mortal living in the West March. Tell me, Lord Kaylin, how does your experience in the High Halls differ?”

“I’m not a Lord of the Court of the Vale,” she replied evenly. She had pretty much lost her appetite. That wouldn’t stop her from eating.

“No, of course not.”

Now this? This was exactly what she expected from the Barrani. It was, if she was being truthful, what she expected from the Human Caste Court and the moneyed class of her own species.

“There’s no convenient—and impartial—test of fitness,” Kaylin replied evenly. “Although I’m certain just being a citizen of the West March is qualification enough.”

His smile, which was lovely and grating at the same time, froze on his perfect face.

Lord Barian surprised her. He rose. He instantly had the attention of the room, which confirmed Kaylin’s sour suspicion that the pathetic mortal was the evening’s entertainment. “Enough, Avanel. Lord Kaylin is an honored guest. She has touched the dreams of the Hallionne, which is test enough for the Warden’s seat. It is an act of singular grace—and in gratitude, we bid her welcome.”

It was a welcome already extended by the reigning Lord of the West March; he did not, in any way, demur. But he watched the Warden; the Warden’s glance stopped, briefly, at his, as he surveyed the gathered dignitaries of both Courts.

Avanel didn’t apologize. Nor did Kaylin expect an apology; she imagined that the humiliation of being forced to do so would make her an enemy for life. Dinner was served; wine was offered. A silence broken by the muted syllables of distant conversation ensued, like an armistice.

The next jab at the mere mortal wasn’t aimed at Kaylin; the Warden’s word appeared to be law. No, the next question came one table over, where Severn was seated.

“Lord Severn.”

She turned to see who was speaking and caught the back of a head. The voice was male; the clothing marked the wearer as West March. More than that, she couldn’t tell, and she turned back to her food.

“Lord Tanniase.”

“It has been some time since a mortal has chosen to visit the West March.”

Severn appeared to be eating; he wasn’t doing a lot of speaking.

“In fact, I believe the last time one visited, he was not a member of the High Court. His circumstances were, however, highly unusual. Perhaps you recall them?”

“Mortal memory is imperfect, Lord Tanniase.”

“Yet you remember me.”

Severn failed to reply.

“Perhaps you interact with many of our distant kin in your fabled city. The journey to the West March is not one to be undertaken lightly, yet you chose to make it.”

“I did. I believe my sponsor of the time obtained all requisite permissions, and the Hallionne did not refuse me their hospitality.”

“The Hallionne do not decide.”

“No. I believe the Lord of the West March did.”

“In exchange for the warmth of our welcome, you killed a man and took an heirloom with you when you departed.”

Kaylin concentrated on her food, which was hard. She wanted to push her chair back from the table, get up, and move to stand by Severn’s chair. But he wouldn’t appreciate it, and neither would anyone else in the room. She’d never appreciated the visceral nature of Leontine culture quite so much.

“Your memory is harsher than mine,” Severn replied. “I was given the heirloom in question because I defeated a Barrani Lord in single combat. I appreciate the concern you feel on behalf of your kin, but believe it misplaced in this case; the weapon was not, and would never have become, yours.”

Eat, Kaylin. If you are concerned for Lord Severn, your concern is misplaced.

Is it true? Did he come here to kill a Barrani Lord?

He came, and a man died. Had he, as implied, attempted to steal the weapon he now carries, it would have destroyed him. While he lives, he wields it. It was damaged in the outlands, and there are craftsmen here who might see to its repair. They may well refuse,
he added.
But I think it unlikely. He is mortal. The weapon will return to our kin in a brief handful of years.

Why did you give him permission to travel here? When?

I am not at liberty to tell you if you do not already know. He is, in many ways, yours—but he is a man, not a child. He does not require your permission; nor does he require your knowledge.

“Perhaps we will test your knowledge of our artifacts,” Lord Tanniase replied. His voice implied eyes of midnight-blue.

“You propose a challenge?” Severn’s voice was softer. Colder.

Who brought him here?

The Lord of the West March failed to answer.

To Kaylin’s lasting surprise, Lord Evarrim spoke. “Lord Tanniase.”

“Lord Evarrim.”

“I would, of course, enjoy the spectacle of a Lord of any Barrani Court issuing a challenge to one merely mortal; I am certain it would afford us all some amusement. But the outlands appear to be held against us, and the legion of the transformed occupy the forests. The recitation will occur, regardless; if you wish to lower yourself to such a challenge, it might be advantageous to do so when the recitation is complete.”

“Are you implying that I might lose such a challenge?”

Lord Evarrim did not reply.

Kaylin couldn’t tell whether or not Evarrim’s comment was a not-so-subtle goad, but she knew Severn was in no shape to accept such a challenge. He could be in perfect health, and it would still be dicey—enough that Kaylin would bet real money against him.

She ate. The food might have been sawdust. She didn’t touch the wine, but remembered enough to use the right utensils. The entire meal reminded her of the entrance exam she had undergone in order to join the Hawks as more than their official mascot. It was worse because she’d wanted to be a Hawk so badly. Passing this exam, on the other hand? The only possible work advantage was that it might prove she was fit for the delicate investigations that involved Barrani—and that meant more time with Barrani.

She was enormously grateful when the ordeal ended. Lord Tanniase had not challenged Severn to a duel. She had been asked no more questions about the High Court, the High Halls, or her unenviable lifespan. She had not, that she was aware of, embarrassed her race or her profession.

But when the Lord of the West March rose, signaling an end to dinner, the Warden rose, as well.

“Lord Kaylin,” he said, bowing.

She froze. She was accustomed to being the butt of several jokes; she was even accustomed to condescension. Respect, when it was offered, made her ill at ease; she was certain some game was being played, and she didn’t want to become a game piece on whatever board the Barrani had chosen.

But she returned the bow with a nod, stiffening her knees as she remembered the protocols of theoretical equals. “Lord Barian.”

“I would converse with you about matters concerning the West March,” he said. “If your time is not already spoken for, and you are willing to do so, I extend the hospitality of my humble halls for the evening.”

She glanced automatically at the Lord of the West March; his eyes were a cautious blue, but not an angry one. He offered her no guidance. She wanted to say no; she’d had enough testing for one evening. But she wanted to offer no offense, either—not by accident. His intervention had prevented the dinner from descending into mortal-baiting; she owed him.

He noted her hesitation; it wasn’t brief.

“I extend my offer of hospitality to Lord Severn; he is, if I am a judge of mortal character, your man.”

“I would be honored,” she said.

He nodded. It became instantly clear to whom; four men rose and joined him. As did his mother.

Will you at least tell me her name?

Amusement.
She is Avonelle.

Kaylin wondered why all Barrani names sounded so similar.
Is she Lord Avonelle?