As they drew closer, she saw that the ruby at the peak of Lord Evarrim’s tiara had cracked; it was black now, the husk of a jewel. Lord Severn’s blades were sheathed, but the chain itself was as blackened as the ruby.
The guards opened up to allow them passage; they approached, and when they were barely a yard away, they knelt. She wanted to tell them that this gesture was unnecessary and unwanted here, but she knew that etiquette was its own cage, and they had all accepted its bars; she held her peace. Their obeisances were awkward, but they were not without a peculiar, specific grace, and she accepted them with gratitude and bid them rise.
Lord Severn said, “Kaylin?” forgetting forms and titles.
She shook her head. “An’Teela is still searching; she has taken the best of my men.”
“You were correct,” Lord Evarrim said. “Iberrienne was in the outlands.”
“You found him.”
He nodded, glancing at Severn. “The credit is not mine alone; it is not, in truth, mine at all.”
Lord Severn offered her nothing.
“Is he dead?”
“He was severely injured in our encounter, but he was not alone.”
“He escaped you.”
Evarrim’s eyes were blue; he was weary. “Yes.” He straightened his shoulders, retrieving the bulk of his weight. “The Hallionne survived.”
“Yes. It was…very close. Not even the war of the Flights touched the Hallionne.”
“No, of course not.” He did not say that only treachery could; it wasn’t necessary.
“Lord Severn, if Lord Kaylin was dead, we would know. Lord Calarnenne would inform us.”
“Would he?”
“At my request, yes.” She glanced at Evarrim; he grimaced. He said nothing, offered nothing; he was angry. But the anger would work in favor of the High Lord here. If the Court had been resistant to the casting out of Iberrienne, none of that resistance would remain. “Rest here, both of you. The danger, for the moment, has passed.”
“The Lord of the West March, Lady?”
“His forces have retreated; they are to the west of the basin. We will not encounter difficulty on the road to the West March, and if we do, it will be scant; he has fully two hundred men beneath his banner.” Or he had. She was uncertain what toll the battle had taken on their numbers; of the Lords who had chosen to accompany her, a full dozen were dead.
And another ten might join them, but of this, she did not speak. Five of the Lords who had ventured forth from the High Halls were still unaccounted for, and given the extent of the damage done to the immediate environs of the Hallionne, that accounting might never be made; they were lost in the outlands.
“Lady,” Evarrim said, “the Lord of the West March has arrived.”
She turned instantly in time to see the Tower shift in place, losing some of its drab physicality as it fashioned a door. Stone became momentarily amorphous along the west-facing curve of the wall, and when it hardened again, there was a strong rectangular shape, and in it, a drawbridge. That bridge now lowered, exposing, for a moment, some part of the interior of the Hallionne; that was not the Consort’s concern.
She began to walk as Lord Kaylin and the Lord of the West March emerged from the Tower. They were followed by Lord Ynpharion, which narrowed the number of the missing to four. Lord Severn joined her as escort, or perhaps as coconspirator. It was impossible to maintain a stately, distant grace—although it was true that her brother managed it. He saw her, he was aware of her, but he remained poised, diffident, a reminder to her that comportment mattered.
She understood and accepted the implied criticism—she deserved it—but didn’t slow; instead, she moved faster, and faster still, throwing off the weight of exhaustion and dread and guilt. She threw her arms wide, running now like a child. She saw his lips compress and thin as he stopped walking, folding his arms across his chest and lowering his chin.
Lord Kaylin glanced up at that chin and then across at the Consort and Lord Severn; he was not moving with any more restraint than the Lady. He had the longer stride, but he was mortal; any deficiency in his Court etiquette would be laid at the feet of his race. The Consort lacked that excuse, and found she didn’t care.
Her brother’s eyes were green, an emerald-green, a forest-green. They were, at this moment, the color of the blood of the green. His expression and his posture implied disapproval; his eyes, none at all. Their color dimmed as she drew close enough that he could see her face, and she faltered.
What he didn’t say, Lord Kaylin did: “Lady—you’re injured—”
“It was not the transformed,” she said quickly, slowing to a walk and lifting a hand to cover the deep gash in her cheek. It was vanity, really, a foolish, childish gesture; she forced her hand down, although it trembled. “There was some difficulty of a more magical nature.” She came to stand before her brother and Lord Kaylin. “And no,” she added, “you cannot heal me here. It is not a terrible wound, and with care, it will heal with little scarring.”
The Lord of the West March reached out and caught her by the chin, a gesture not at home in the High Court. Or any Barrani Court. “You did well. You are alive.”
“Many of my companions are not.”
“Then they fulfilled their highest duty.” He caught her in his arms before she could say another word, lifting her off her feet. “Come, we must return to the West March; the High Lord awaits my report, and he has never been patient.”
“You told him?”
“Yes. I considered it wise, as I was forced by circumstance to mobilize four of the war bands.”
“You are aware that he was not pleased by my attendance of the regalia?”
Her brother laughed. “I am perhaps far more acquainted with that fact than you, Lady. There are things he might safely say to me that would be unwise in the extreme to say to you. If these,” he added, encompassing the devastation of the basin in one brief sweep of hand, “are the trappings of freedom, you must find what meager entertainment they might provide; I do not think he will grant permission for another such excursion for the next century. Or three.”
His smile dwindled. “It was not my interference that preserved the Hallionne.”
She sighed. “No, I somehow doubted it would be; I thought your interference might serve to save her life, not the Hallionne’s existence.” She turned to Lord Kaylin and frowned. “Your forehead.”
The youngest Lord of the High Court grimaced. “There’s another mark?”
“There is. It is quite…distinct.”
“A Barrani died in the heart of the Hallionne.”
All curiosity fled; what remained in its wake was a visceral, icy anger. “And you could…take…his name?”
Kaylin’s eyes widened. “No!” She grimaced again, and the small dragon, hidden behind the fall of her unrestricted hair, raised his head. “No, that’s not why…” She glanced at her companion, and he warbled.
“I—I only meant to save it. The name,” she added. “His name. Iberrienne was somehow draining it. I grabbed it instead. I knew if I didn’t, the word would be irrevocably lost—and I couldn’t let that happen.” She spoke in her inelegant and rushed Elantran. And she believed every word that she spoke.
The Lady’s anger did not desert her; it slid to the side, aimed now at a target that was not in reach. Exhaling, the Consort said, “Lord Kaylin, if we survive the nightmare of the coming regalia, and we return to the High Halls alive, all debt between us is forgiven.”
She felt a twinge of conscience at the open hope that transformed the young woman’s expression, and turned away. It was very difficult for her to nurse a grudge against a child.
And it was also very difficult to stand back and let that child careen, with her terrifying, unknown power, through the hidden, wild places of the world without guidance, even if such guidance was both imperfect and frequently disregarded.
She is a danger, she thought, but wondered as she did whether the Ancients had chosen mor
e wisely than any of the Immortals were willing to credit: Kaylin would live only a handful of years, and perhaps the weight of that handful was not enough to destroy her optimism and her palpable desire to believe that the world—and the people in it—was a far better place than it actually was.
Perhaps it was contagious, this hope, this odd openness. Perhaps it was dangerous—but as the Consort watched Lord Severn carefully put his arm around Lord Kaylin’s shoulder, the Consort thought that she might allow herself this indulgence: to believe in Lord Kaylin while she lived. It was such a short period of time.
* * * * *
And still the recitation awaits!
CAST IN SORROW
Acknowledgments
For the most part, I go about my writing in relative silence, with the occasional bout of hair-pulling during the difficult parts of the book. This book was mostly difficult parts with a few smooth, normal writing sessions holding it together, so there was rather a lot of hair-pulling and kvetching. Which means that my friends don’t really have to read this book—they know it inside and out. I probably used more words in my “discussions” than I wrote in the actual book. Thanks, then, to Tanya Huff, Alis Rasmussen and Chris Szego (who is fast becoming the real reason I can’t ever leave my part-time job), and also to Thomas and Terry, who are expected, when things are difficult, to offer useful feedback while reading the book a chapter at a time, even when the chapters get thrown out and new ones inserted at a later point.
My thanks go to to Mary-Theresa Hussey at LUNA for being a superhero editor, because when a book is difficult for me, there’s usually some fallout for her, and she’s been wonderful.
Also, thanks to my mother and father, who keep the house around me running, and keep my kids fed when I am so deep in the book I forget little things like laundry and grocery shopping and eating.
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ISBN: 9781459241268
Copyright © 2012 by Michelle Sagara
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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