Cast in Peril

by Michelle Sagara

  “We’re clearing straight ahead?” she asked the Consort.

  “If it is possible, yes.”

  * * *

  The good thing about elemental, sentient fire was that it could, if pressed, choose what to burn. It didn’t spread, consuming anything flammable in its path. It wanted to, of course, but you expected that from fire. Unconstrained, it was death. But it was also warmth in the winter; it was at the heart of the forge and the heart of the stove, and in both cases, it transformed what it touched. It was compelling, almost hypnotic, to watch, a fact Kaylin quickly became reacquainted with as she walked.

  The one time the fire had carried her across the elemental gardens at their most wild, it had burned nothing in its path. She began her small story from that moment, as trees cracked, split, and fell at his touch. Fire was not complicated; what it wanted from narrative, Kaylin didn’t understand. The story she told the elemental fire would have seemed pointless—and boring—to the foundlings under Marrin’s care. It was not boring to the fire. It liked to hear the stories about itself and the interactions—the necessity—of flame’s presence in the lives of mortals.

  She didn’t speak of death, although fire caused death; she spoke of the ways in which it granted and illuminated life. She gave it, she realized, as more trees slowly vanished, a sense of its own place in the world. She did slip in a few words about the candle, as well, because it had taken her so long to get the damn thing lit.

  This last part interested him enough that he forgot to burn anything else for a minute while he listened.

  Kaylin, please. Concentrate.

  Reddening, which she would blame on the heat if anyone asked, she let her grievance with the candle go.

  * * *

  The small dragon was wide-awake. His head swiveled back and forth between his perch and the elemental in her company. He didn’t seem frightened to Kaylin; he seemed excited. When the elemental deigned to notice him, he puffed up his translucent chest and squawked. He really did sound like a bird.

  He is not a bird, the fire said.

  “You—you know what he is?”

  He is yours. When the small dragon squawked, the fire stopped. Heat rose, treading the dangerous line between uncomfortable and deadly. If you do not understand this, you are in danger, the fire whispered as he brought his flames back under his control. You must see him, and you must name him.

  “Why?”

  The fire continued to burn its way through trees and undergrowth. When you try to light a candle, he finally said, you call my name.

  She nodded.

  When you call fire, you must contain it, or you will die.

  She nodded again, waiting for the conclusion. The fire, however, seemed to feel he had said enough. “And?”

  You do not wish to chain or contain him, the fire replied. But if you do not contain me, I will destroy.

  “I don’t contain you now.”

  No. Lord Evarrim does. But I am contained. I do not desire your destruction; I desire the burning. You will die if you are not cautious, and in the same way.

  She glanced at the small dragon. He was not, in any way, shape, or form, elemental.

  He is, the fire told her. He is not fire, earth, air; he contains himself—but he cannot continue to do so. You should not have brought him here.

  The small dragon met her gaze. His eyes, wide and dark, reflected a landscape that had nothing to do with trees, ash, and fire. She knew it as reflection only because she could see her own face staring back at her. For a moment, the small dragon seemed ancient to her—the way the Keeper’s garden was ancient, the way the Hallionne were ancient. She knew this was wrong, because she’d seen him hatch.

  She had no name to give him, because she knew that calling him Wilson, or the closest thing that came to mind, was not what the fire meant. She had delivered a part of one name to the High Lord of the Barrani Court. She had taken a name for herself, although it hadn’t changed anything as far as she could tell. She suspected—strongly—that taking a stroll down to the Barrani Lake of Life wouldn’t help her here.

  It would not.

  “He has a name of his own.”

  He has, just as I have. But you have found my name. Find his. Find it quickly.

  What else did she know about names? She thought of Bellusdeo then. And, inexplicably, of Tara. But…the small dragon was the size of a mangy cat. It couldn’t contain what a Dragon or a Tower with constantly shifting geography could. It couldn’t require it. But the fire…the name of fire was the name of fire. Lighting a candle or burning down a building complex required the same name.

  It’s just that she understood water, fire, earth, and air on an instinctive level. She knew what they were capable of, for good or ill. What did a small, translucent dragon want? To sit on her shoulders and complain a lot? To breathe dangerous but small clouds when threatened? How was that elemental?

  The dragon’s claws tensed and she stopped staring at herself in his eyes, mostly because his neck swiveled. A distinctly loud, rumbling growl had taken the place of the distant roars. It was hard to tell whether or not it was because the roaring creature was closer or a new, giant enemy had joined the first one.

  The Barrani Court didn’t have this difficulty. The swordsmen split evenly down the middle, one group skirting the edge of the clearing to the left and one moving to the right. Severn had the blades of his chain in hand; this was not the best place to start it really spinning. He joined Kaylin, and Kaylin said, “No, keep an eye on Teela.”

  A lift of dark brow asked the question he didn’t put into words.

  “I’m worried about her, that’s all. I should never have brought her here.”

  “I heard that,” Teela said more loudly than strictly necessary. “Frankly, I’m astonished you think you had any choice.”

  Kaylin would have cringed her way through an apology, given the chill in the words, but before she could start, something came crashing through the trees up ahead and to the left. It was Wilson.

  * * *

  He was bleeding. It was not a small amount of blood. At a distance, it looked like the normal red that fell from injured Barrani, not that that happened often in Kaylin’s daily life. The Barrani closed ranks as he approached, and Kaylin headed for the very small gap between two of them. Nightshade caught her arm. He said nothing; she made no attempt to break free.

  Wilson slowed before he crashed into the Barrani Lords; they didn’t move. He met Kaylin’s eyes over what had become a living wall. Blood ran down the left side of his face, his chest, and his left thigh. “Lord Kaylin,” he said, which was ridiculous. “There has been some difficulty.”

  “Where are your brothers?”

  Wilson didn’t answer. Instead he said, “You have chosen to create your own path, where the terrain is solid.”

  She nodded.

  “Orbaranne is under siege. I do not know how long the forest facade will hold. Two of my brothers have chosen to secure a very narrow gap of land. It will not be Orbaranne’s facade; it will not be forest.”

  The Consort had reached Kaylin’s side, and at a gesture, she parted the Barrani defenders. The forest growled again, at Wilson’s back. “Yes,” he said to Kaylin. “The nature of the forest is changing. The trees will impede your progress.”

  Kaylin glanced at the blackened ash that remained to mark the path they had taken so far.

  Wilson’s brows rose. He bowed to the fire. “My apologies, eldest,” he said. “But you are not present enough to guard against what must follow.”

  The fire rippled.

  “Lady?” Kaylin deferred to the Consort.

  The Consort, however, said, “Is he as he appears, Lord Kaylin?”

  “…Yes. Wilson—and his brothers—can change their shapes and forms, so we can’t really judge by appearance, but…yes, I’d bet on it.”

  “And his brothers?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say they just offered to turn themselves into a road.”

>   “Yes,” Wilson said. “You must not leave it.”

  * * *

  With the Consort’s permission, Wilson was allowed past the perimeter of swords. He seemed fascinated by the fire; the fire seemed pleased by the acknowledgment. Kaylin, however, was focused on his injuries. Or rather, on the blood; when Wilson drew closer, she couldn’t see any actual wounds.

  “The blood?” she asked.

  “It is mine. But not all of it.” She might as well have asked him about his hair.

  “You’re injured?”

  “Yes.” It was, again, so tonally wrong she was nonplussed.

  “Do you want someone to look at you?”

  His head tilted to the side, as if he needed to shift his view to understand the question she’d just asked. “Everyone already is,” he finally said.

  “I meant, look at your injuries. Possibly treat them.”

  “Ah. You mean a healer.”

  She nodded.

  “I do not require a healer at this time.”

  “If you do require a healer, will you ask?”

  “I will ask.”

  She surrendered. She knew that the form he had taken was not his native form, and had no idea whether or not blood was even part of that. “Where did the paths to left and right lead?”

  “To the West March,” Wilson replied.

  “But that’s where we want to—”

  “No,” Teela said sharply. “It is not. Not that way. Wilson, is Hallionne Orbaranne compromised?”

  “We are uncertain,” he replied. “Bertolle is not, but it would be difficult to return to Bertolle by these paths now. It is our supposition that Orbaranne holds fast; otherwise, there would be no reason to divert the existing path. It is almost certainly not Orbaranne’s doing.” He tilted his head to the side again, as if listening to something at foot level. “We must depart.” He turned toward the forest that had not yet been cleared. “Lady?”

  “You have my permission,” the Consort replied. She did not, however, call him Wilson.

  “My apologies, eldest,” he then said to the fire. He reached for the closest tree that happened to be standing in their path. He forgot that the length of his arms were supposed to stay fixed, and they traveled a good three feet farther than they would have had he actually been Barrani. “These forms are very confining.”

  Kaylin didn’t bother to point out that he wasn’t in form at the moment, because what he did next was vastly more disturbing: he grabbed the tree by wrapping his arms around it twice, as if they were rope, and then proceeded to consume it. He didn’t eat it, not in the way Barrani usually ate food, but it was being devoured nonetheless. It took him less time than it had taken the fire.

  “Lord Evarrim—”

  “I will retain the fire for the moment.”

  The Consort nodded and stepped back while Wilson brought down a few more trees. It was vastly more disturbing than watching the fire consume them, although, given the end effect was the same, Kaylin realized this made no sense.

  She fell in beside Severn, who seemed less repelled. “It’s a reminder,” he said quietly.

  “Of what?”

  “Wilson is not Barrani.” Severn watched in silence. “In combat, he would be like facing Shadows. Unique Shadows, not Ferals. He’s more dangerous.”

  “Because he looks Barrani?”

  “Because he can. I suspect he could also conform to mortal norms, as well.”

  “I think he’s doing it because—”

  “It doesn’t matter why.”

  When the sixth tree vanished, the forest opened up. What lay beyond it, however, was not a beaten dirt path. It was a mosaic of corruption that extended as far as Kaylin’s squint could follow it. Her arms began to itch, and as she scratched them, Severn caught her hand.

  * * *

  The Barrani Court did not immediately avail themselves of the path. What Kaylin saw, they also saw, and they turned to the Consort. Kaylin turned to the small dragon perched on her shoulder. He was alert, his eyes wider and larger than they often were when he flopped. “Well?” she asked him softly.

  He turned his gaze upon her. Once again she saw her reflection. To one side, she saw flames. To the other, shadow. It was the shadow that disturbed her.

  “Is it safe?”

  He had no obvious eyebrows to lift, and his shoulders were slender and translucent, but he seemed to shrug them. Or maybe that was just the movement of his wings. He had not relaxed once since they had begun this woodland trek, but he was capable of his version of a definitive no when he felt it necessary.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  She then turned to the Consort, who seemed to be waiting for her.

  “I’m willing to go first.” This was, judging from the darkening of the Consort’s eyes, not the appropriate response. It was the only one Kaylin had, so she tried anyway. “I can’t say it’s safe; my arms are starting to hurt. But I don’t think we have much choice, and I’m willing to take the risk.”

  “You,” was the glacial response, “are mortal and the youngest member of the High Court ever. It is not the custom of my kin to push children into the path of danger while we cower behind them.” She spoke High Barrani as if it were a language composed entirely of instantly lethal curses.

  Nightshade stepped forward and bowed—quite low—in the face of the Consort’s anger. “Lady,” he said in the smoothest and softest of tones, “forgive my companion. She means no offense. What she is willing to risk, I will risk. I am no child,” he added as he rose. “And no newcomer to the High Court.”

  “Calarnenne—”

  He smiled at the Consort. It was a lazy movement of lips and the corners of his eyes. He almost called her by her name; Kaylin felt it and wondered, again, what their story was. “Do you fear for me? I am Outcaste, Lady.” His smile deepened. “Allow me this; you have never been able to protect us from ourselves.”

  Her eyes had shaded from the near-indigo of anger to a paler blue, her expression softening in response to his. “I would almost think you planned this were I not so certain such planning were impossible. If you are not careful, it will devour you.”

  “Many, many things have tried,” he replied, sweeping again into a bow that was not perfunctory. “And yet, I am here.” He turned to Kaylin as the affection faded from his expression, leaving it perfect, flawless, and almost lifeless in comparison.

  But he smiled again. It was a different expression. “I ask that you wait until I call you. I do not command it.” He made no attempt to speak softly.

  She nodded, but as Nightshade stepped beyond the boundary of discernible forest, she took a step forward. Severn caught her arm and shook his head. “He’s made it clear that the choice is yours, yes.” Before she could reply, he added, “That was—or would have been, were he not already Outcaste—costly. Honor the request, if you can.”

  She wanted to tell Severn she didn’t care if Nightshade died. Ten years ago, she would have been grateful. Joyful, even. But something had happened to him in the past, in the West March and in the High Halls. Something that implied he had once had a heart.

  Does it matter? Nightshade asked. He didn’t run; every step he took was deliberate. But he didn’t slow, didn’t hesitate, either.

  No.

  He laughed in the silence that joined them, one to the other. You are a child, Kaylin. That is how you survived. You had hope, and you protected it, nurturing it in the face of every new despair. You came close to death only when the strength to protect it had all but guttered. You fight, always, to keep hope alive. Yours. Others’.

  And you? she asked.

  I am not you. Hope is not required, and over the centuries, it becomes a bitter, bitter companion; it is bright, but it is bright the way blades are: it has an edge that cuts, and cuts, and cuts if you but attempt to grasp it.

  But you grasp it anyway.

  He failed to answer for a long moment. The path is stable. It is texturally unpleasant, but it is sol
id.

  She turned to the Consort. “Lord Calarnenne believes the path to be stable. Will you allow me to risk it?”

  “Yes. I will allow you the same risk that the Court itself will now take.”

  * * *

  “Kitling.”

  Kaylin was staring at her feet. The soft, supple boots seemed to weather the passage across ten yards of blistered matter without any significant transformation.

  “You’re holding your breath.”

  “Sorry.” Her arms had gone from itchy to a throbbing, painful ache, and she was certain that the runes that covered more than half her body were glowing. Wilson had sprinted across the terrain to join Nightshade, who was still on point.

  “Do not expect humanity from Nightshade.”

  Kaylin said nothing.

  “It is a weakness to desire to see humanity in everyone with whom you interact.”

  “I don’t care for Evarrim.”

  “No. But were he to reveal his vulnerabilities to you, it would disarm you. Not immediately; he is not a fool. His general contempt for the animal races prevents even the attempt, which serves your cause. Nightshade is not Evarrim; he is subtle and unpredictable. But in my opinion, his is the greater danger.”

  “Do you know what he wants here?” Kaylin asked, lowering her voice and switching to Aerian.

  Teela did not reply.

  “Teela?”

  “If he will not answer that question, I will not, although I do not owe him that consideration.”

  “And you?”

  “What I wanted—when I set out from the city—was to bring you back in more or less one piece.”

  “And now?”

  Teela was, once again, silent. It was the introspective silence that was dangerous. It led to taverns, brawls, dirty fights on the banks of the Ablayne with really stupid drug dealers. Teela didn’t particularly like introspection. “I want to believe that we cannot go back; we cannot relive or revive the past. Enough; if you feel it necessary to badger someone unwisely about the events in the distant past, badger your Corporal.”