Cast in Peril

by Michelle Sagara

  Kaylin nodded.

  “Those stories are not one thing, Lord Kaylin. They are not a single narrative.”

  “That’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it?”

  He raised a brow as he finally turned to meet her gaze. “No. Not in that sense. When the recitation begins, the gathered Lords listen until it is done.”

  Probably without fidgeting, which Kaylin was doing right now, even though she was deeply interested in the subject matter. “Who tells the story?”

  “Generally? The Lord of the West March.”

  “So he chooses which of the stories are told to the gathered Lords?”

  “No.”

  She blinked. “He’s telling the story, somehow, and he doesn’t choose?”

  “That is correct. You will understand when you yourself are audience to the tale.”

  “I’ll probably be a bit distracted.”

  Andellen did not smile. “Not even you could be so distracted that you fail to see what occurs. If the Lord of the West March did, indeed, choose, there are tales for which he would not have survived the telling. He does not choose.”

  “Why the Lord of the West March?”

  “Because he is the Lord of the West March; it is for that reason, and no other, that the Barrani hold the West March tightly. It has never fallen to an outside force, be that force as great as the three Flights of the Dragons. It is not simply a title, Kaylin.”

  “So he doesn’t choose. Given that I’m now the harmoniste, I guess that makes sense. Which means no one knows what story they’ll hear when they arrive.”

  “Indeed.”

  “If the story is the wrong story—”

  “‘Wrong’ is a very subjective word. But some stories are longer in the telling—in all ways—than others, and they press a weight upon the Teller, and a burden upon the harmoniste. It is not often that the harmoniste fails,” he added softly. “But when they fail, it is because the burden of disparate stories is too great; they cannot contain, or perhaps find, the meaning that informs each. They have no way of forcing the stories to overlap, and instead of a complex, complicated, and cohesive narrative, they are left with chaos and disorder.”

  “It drives them insane?”

  Andellen was silent for a long moment. “No,” he finally said. “I think in your case, that is all we have to fear, but I am not entirely certain. Understand, Chosen, that I, Lord Teela, and every other Barrani here, are alive solely because of the existence of True Words. The harmoniste, in their role, must understand what is being said on a level that is more visceral than mere linguistics. They must somehow hold the thread not of a single word that grants life but of the equivalent of pages. Those pages will come to them all at once, and if they falter, their name is swept away when the words leave.”

  Chapter 15

  The way station of the evening was not part of a tree. It was, instead, part of a cliff—the bottom part. She saw this because she was almost hanging out the window at the time.

  In the night, with moonlight silvering the forested land, the cliff was a solid sheet of black. Light appeared only when the carriages at the head of the long caravan came to a stop and their passengers sought breeze and open sky.

  “Do you recognize this one?” Kaylin asked when she was allowed the same freedom.

  Severn nodded.

  “Is it a lot like the tree?”

  “Very like, although the interior is architecturally different.”

  “Does this mean we’re no longer in the Empire?”

  Andellen coughed.

  Severn raised a brow. “No. I have a map if you want to look at it. We won’t be outside the Empire for at least a week.”

  “A week of days this long?”

  “Yes. The Barrani carriages are superior in all ways to the carriages or caravans we would otherwise use, but heavy rains still slow them down.”

  * * *

  Kaylin hung back when it came time to enter the way station; she’d seen what the dragon on her shoulder had done once, and she wanted to make sure that no one else did. The Barrani approached the cliff face, touched the rock as if it were a warded door, and then stepped forward into nothing. They did this in a line that started with—that waited for—the Consort and continued until only a handful of the Lords of the Court were left. There had been some subtle jockeying for position, but in truth not much.

  When most of the line had dispersed, Kaylin began a slow walk toward the cliff’s face. Teela was there, waiting. Andellen was not. Neither, to Kaylin’s relief, was Evarrim. Teela, on the other hand, looked less grim; she even smiled when Kaylin approached.

  “Sorry about the morning,” she said in Elantran. “I’m feeling a bit cooped up, so I wanted a change of pace.”

  “Walking?”

  The Barrani Hawk lifted both brows. “Walking? Me? Hells, no. I was driving. And I was in a foul enough mood that I decided against driving the carriage you were in—you complain too much.”

  “Teela—”

  “Have you ever heard a Barrani complain about my driving?”

  “…No.”

  “Well, then.” She glanced at the stone face of the cliff. “Are you going to enter, or are you going to stand here all night?”

  “Given this morning, I’m thinking of camping in the tent.”

  “Oh, I’m certain the wildlife would love that.” Teela folded her arms and leaned against the stone’s surface. She also raised an eyebrow. Severn stepped into the gap that followed; he placed his palm against the cliff face. He didn’t bother to cut it first.

  “I’ll see you on the other side,” he told her.

  “Coward.”

  That got a smile, but it didn’t keep him on the Kaylin side of the door. He walked through the stone, which rippled only slightly in his wake. This left Kaylin standing beside a lounging Teela. Teela no longer looked angry, which was good; she looked bored, which was bad.

  “Why don’t you go on ahead?” Kaylin asked without much hope.

  “Given the previous way station, I’ll wait.”

  Kaylin lifted her left hand—she always touched door wards with her left, because it was her off hand—and pressed it firmly into the stone. The stone was cool to the touch, smooth and hard. Her arms did not start tingling the way they usually did when magic was involved; her hand didn’t go numb. But the rock didn’t part, either. She glanced at Teela. In the dim light that surrounded the door, her eyes were a mix of green and blue.

  Surrendering, Kaylin nudged the small dragon’s head with the tip of her chin. “Go on,” she told him softly. “Unless you’re going to be reasonable about me spilling my own blood.”

  The dragon peeled himself off her shoulders and rose in a lazy swirl of wings. Hovering in front of the stone, he opened his delicate jaws. He bit the rock.

  Since Kaylin was now expecting it, she observed him carefully. The rock was more or less flat, and it was certainly hard enough that biting it should have caused the dragon serious difficulty. But his nose seemed to dip beneath the surface that Kaylin’s hand couldn’t penetrate, and as he closed his teeth, it seemed to grow amorphous, almost cloudlike. It was too much to hope that Teela hadn’t noticed, but ever the optimist, Kaylin glanced at her fellow Hawk. Teela was watching the dragon, and only the dragon.

  He came back to Kaylin’s shoulders and wrapped his tail loosely around her neck. Taking a deep breath, Kaylin entered the way station.

  * * *

  Stepping through the way station’s door was not unlike stepping between the giant statues that served as both pillars and warnings outside the High Halls in the City of Elantra. The ceilings were, in her opinion, of a height with the ceilings of the High Halls, but these halls looked far grander because they were wider, the floors laid out in a smoky-green marble that caught light and returned random flecks of color. A small army would be dwarfed by these halls.

  She took a step forward and was surprised that it didn’t echo.

  Teela’s, howe
ver, did. “The door, you’ll be pleased to note, has not been broken by the interference of your pet.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I could not enter without touching the door myself.”

  “But not bleeding on it.”

  “Not this time, no. I have been here before. So, apparently, has Corporal Handred.” Her eyes, in the much brighter light of the way station, were a deep emerald.

  Teela slung an arm around Kaylin’s shoulder, which caused the dragon to hiss in outrage, because he happened to be on most of it. She moved her arm a bit, but didn’t let go. “Kitling, you honestly need to find less territorial friends.”

  “You could lead by example.”

  Teela snorted. “I’m Barrani. Don’t ask for miracles.”

  They began to walk down the hall. If the first one had seemed long, this one seemed endless. Kaylin could jog here and keep in top shape without ever hitting a door. “You’re not angry?”

  “No. I’m impressed.” With Barrani there was often no practical difference. “I would never have surrendered my blood to the station if it were not absolutely necessary to enter it.”

  “You’re not worried?”

  “I am, of course, worried, but I reminded myself on the drive here that you’ve been nothing but a constant worry since you were a child.”

  “I wasn’t a child when we met, Teela.”

  “Oh, hush.”

  * * *

  Because no argument had delayed her—and Kaylin wondered if the delay was the reason Teela had stayed behind—they reached the dining hall very shortly after everyone else had. The tree station, as Kaylin now thought of it, had contained rounded rooms, rounded arches, rounded ceilings; even the table had been a large oval.

  The cliff station was not given to such indistinct lines; everything was hard, solid, and squared. The table itself was—to Kaylin’s eye—one giant slab of coal-gray stone. It gleamed beneath lights that were bright and well-defined; they were much harsher than the lights of the tree station. The chairs were actually benches—of stone, of course. But the table was wide, and cloths of different colors had been laid across its center. So had food.

  Kaylin wondered how the food had gotten there, who had prepared it, and how they were paid, because that was the kind of thing she wondered about the Barrani. If it was all done by magic, it was a magic she wanted to own, especially if the magic also involved the cleanup. But at the moment, none of the impressive-looking food had been touched. None of the Barrani High Court had taken their seats; indeed none of them seemed interested in the food. Kaylin was, but the sight of a room full of Barrani—even a room this size, because it was huge—most of whose backs were turned toward her, implied that hunger was trivial.

  “Teela?” she whispered, because Teela was still attached to her shoulders.

  Teela had become as still as the rest of the Barrani.

  “What’s happened?”

  She glanced at the Barrani Hawk and saw that her eyes had darkened to a shade of blue that suited midnight. In the absence of an answer, Kaylin started to try to wind her way through the crowd, but Teela’s arm—and hand—tightened.

  And then she heard a familiar voice and froze herself.

  “Welcome, Lord Kaylin.”

  It was Nightshade’s.

  * * *

  At the mention of her name, the Barrani Lords nearest to the back of the room swiveled to face her. Their eyes were a uniform blue that was not quite as dark as Teela’s.

  “Lord Severn, I see you have chosen to accompany Lord Kaylin.” She still couldn’t see him, but his voice had hardened, the way water did when frozen. Kaylin glanced briefly at the High Court; no one seemed to have drawn a sword, and the Consort had not yet ordered Nightshade’s immediate death. He was Outcaste. Kaylin’s understanding of the Barrani High Court would never be considered complete, but she would have bet her own money that an Outcaste Barrani was subject to the death penalty if he was foolish enough to set foot anywhere near the ruling class of his race.

  Nightshade wasn’t just near it; he was at its heart. She heard his steps. As he seemed to be the only person walking, it wasn’t hard.

  But she heard the way Teela drew breath when he at last walked into view. She felt Teela’s grip tighten, and at this point, it was likely to leave a couple of bruises. Since bruising and Teela’s company weren’t strangers—or at least Kaylin being bruised—she barely noticed.

  Nightshade was dressed in flowing ivory robes, but those robes were edged in a blue that defied Kaylin’s description. It wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t pale, like sky; it wasn’t green, but it didn’t shade into the purple. Instead, it seemed to encompass all these things. As he drew closer, she realized that the ivory was, like the blue, not entirely fixed; it was white, it was cream, it was a range of shades simultaneously.

  He wore a tiara. She couldn’t recall seeing it before and, regardless, didn’t like it—it reminded her too much of Evarrim’s, although the stone that hunkered in its peaked center was not a ruby. It was…an emerald. It was an emerald that Barrani eyes seldom approached, the green was so deep and so pure, and even Kaylin, who owned very little in the way of jewelry, knew it was worth a small fortune—where small in this case probably covered the whole of the block she’d lived on until an Arcanist had decided to play.

  Nightshade was smiling broadly; he was, as far as Kaylin could see, the only Barrani present who was. Even Andellen, whose face she caught in the crowd, had turned a shade of white that was pale, for Barrani skin. His hands were in fists. The mark on Kaylin’s cheek was warm; she automatically lifted a hand to cover it.

  Nightshade approached and gently caught that hand and lowered it.

  Teela said nothing, but the temperature dropped anyway, and she didn’t let go of Kaylin’s shoulders. But Nightshade’s moment of elegant smugness was ruined when the small dragon on Kaylin’s shoulder lifted his head—and his wings—and faced the fieflord squarely. The small dragon hissed and his wings rose, but his claws dug in, as well. It was clear his opinion of Nightshade hadn’t improved.

  Given the color of Nightshade’s eyes, neither had his opinion of the small dragon.

  Clearing her throat, Kaylin said, “Why are you here?”

  “I was summoned,” he replied gracefully, choosing to look away from the small dragon as if he were inconsequential.

  “Impossible.” To Kaylin’s surprise, the voice was Evarrim’s.

  “Demonstrably not, Lord Evarrim,” Nightshade said, turning.

  “You are Outcaste.”

  “The green does not choose to recognize the politics of the High Court.” Nightshade tendered Lord Evarrim a deep, respectful bow. “Nor, apparently, do its many hearts.”

  Hearts?

  These ancient fortresses, Kaylin. They are the hearts of the green; did you not know?

  She shrugged her hand free of his, too aware of the feel of his skin. The Lords that surrounded them in a loose, tense circle moved slightly to allow the Consort to pass between them; she came to stand a yard away from Lord Nightshade, her expression unreadable.

  “Ah,” Nightshade said, “Lady.” He did not bow, although he did incline his chin. A small ripple passed through the crowd, but no words—at least none that reached Kaylin’s ears.

  “Lord Nightshade.” She paused and then added, “Calarnenne.”

  He smiled then, and he offered her a bow that was the essence of obeisance.

  The Consort did not speak until he rose again, except to give him leave to rise. Kaylin tried not to feel a pang of resentment; clearly an Outcaste fieflord was granted a measure of respect that a Lord of the Court who was late for dinner was not. “You were summoned,” she said, no question at all in the words.

  “I was, Lady. I apologize if it causes you any inconvenience.”

  “It will, of course, cause a great deal of inconvenience, as you so put it. Does my brother know?”

  “Given my status in the High Court, I felt it unwise to burden
him with that information. He does not.”

  She glanced at Lord Andellen. “And your liege?”

  “It did not concern him. I am Lord.”

  Around the two, Barrani Lords began to relax; no one, however, moved.

  “And did Lord Kaylin know?”

  “No, Lady.”

  “How strange, given your relationship. Lord Kaylin?”

  “It never occurred to me that Lord Nightshade would appear here. Or anywhere else the Barrani High Court congregated. No, Lady. I had no idea.”

  “Do you understand why he is here?”

  Gods damn it. “…No, Lady. Forgive my ignorance.”

  The Consort lifted one platinum brow. “Perhaps I shall,” was her eventual response. To Lord Nightshade, however, she said, “You must be weary from your travel, Calarnenne. Join me.” It was not a request.

  Nightshade was not a Lord of the Court, but he nodded and bowed again. “With gratitude, Lady.”

  Kaylin, mouth slightly open, watched as Nightshade offered the Consort his arm. He led her through the crowd; given the height of the Barrani, she lost sight of them both fairly quickly.

  “Teela, my arm is numb.”

  Severn, however, whispered her name, and she turned. “Nightshade’s mark,” he said softly. “It’s glowing.”

  Great. “Does it at least match the dress?”

  * * *

  The Court now dispersed, but the anger and confusion that had stopped them in their tracks still conspired to rob them of many words. Kaylin understood why: the Consort had spoken; she had invited Nightshade to join her, and she had used the acceptable public form of his name. While she did not deny him, they could not, unless they wished to publicly place her in the wrong.

  But they moved stiffly and without their characteristic elegant grace. Teela, on the other hand, didn’t move at all.

  “Teela,” Kaylin repeated. “My arm. Numb.”

  Teela glanced, with blue eyes, at Kaylin’s face; the blue darkened into a shade that was almost indigo.

  “Tell me. Why is he here, and why is no one trying to kill him?”