It is not easier for the Consort, a disembodied voice said. Nightshade’s. But she understands her duty and her responsibility. If the Lord of the West March is lost, he will be replaced. If the Consort is lost, the replacement will be difficult, and it is all but guaranteed to be a long time coming. There will be any number of Lords willing to make the attempt to fill her role—but very few will succeed, and if they fail, they are also lost to us.
She grimaced as the top side of her feet hit the underside of a raised branch and sent her staggering. Her weight didn’t unbalance the Consort, but it was close.
And if she is lost, he continued, there will almost certainly be a succession war. You have never seen one.
Her death won’t kill the High Lord.
No. But she has not yet had children. If she perishes here, she will not. Any Barrani who can touch the lake of life will therefore be mother to the High Lord to come. I understand that politics have never been of import in your life, but you are a Lord of the High Court and you must come to understand at least the obvious basics.
A branch slapped her in the face, which caused the small dragon to hiss in fury. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m not used to carrying a passenger.”
Where are you? Kaylin all but demanded.
I am at the side of the Lord of the West March. He has not fallen, and, Kaylin, he will not. You are only a few miles from the edge of his domain, and in his domain, he has strength that not even the High Lord in the High Halls possesses.
“Nightshade,” she said, in out-of-breath Elantran, “is fighting beside your brother now. They’re both alive.”
The Consort didn’t reply. She didn’t appear to have heard. But she gave the arm she was using as a rope line a brief squeeze—and then increased the pace. This had one advantage: it gave Kaylin very little time to think.
* * *
There was no obvious moment at which the forest transformed. It didn’t fall away; it didn’t immediately open up into an obvious clearing. The path the Barrani followed remained invisible to Kaylin; it didn’t widen or flatten enough for carriages or wagons to use. Which made Kaylin wonder exactly how the carriages the High Court had abandoned would have made it here in the first place.
In spite of this, she knew when they’d arrived. Something about the forest changed; it took her a moment to realize what. She could hear birds. It was still night, but the differing shades of gray were clearer. The Barrani party slowed to a walk. They did not, in any other way, relax.
Nor did the Consort let go of Kaylin’s arm; her fingers were now tingling, the Consort’s grip was so tight. “Let me do the speaking,” she said. To Kaylin’s surprise, she spoke in very quiet Elantran.
It was a warning, of sorts. There was no one in sight—present company excepted—to speak to. Severn approached the Consort but stopped ten yards back. The rest of the Barrani remained armed; Severn chose to leave both hands loose by his side. It was hard to tell if he was paler, or if the run had exhausted him, but if it had, he failed to acknowledge it.
He waited.
Birds sang. From within the group, birds apparently answered. Kaylin felt less relieved about the sound than she had moments ago. The arrows that studded the path in rapid succession didn’t help. Or it didn’t help her; the Barrani surrounded her and didn’t even blink; clearly this was the Barrani version of a gate check. Two of the Lords of the High Court lifted bows of their own; after a moment two arrows arched into the air, landing with audible thunks in the trees high above where the Consort stood.
The Consort raised an arm; moonlight touched her fingers and her hands, silvering her skin in a way Kaylin found disturbing. It wasn’t magic—it wasn’t the magic that caused Kaylin’s skin to ache until it felt raw. But it wasn’t natural; the moonlight touched nothing else here. Kaylin couldn’t see the moon for the trees. Arrows flew again. Three, this time.
Kaylin took a step back, or tried; the Consort had not released her arm. She opened—and closed—her mouth. The Consort’s eyes were midnight-blue. They were standing in the home of the Lord of the West March, the seat of his power. This was supposed to be safe ground. But Kaylin knew the Barrani, and there was no mistaking that eye color as the rest of the Consort’s skin began, like her raised hand, to shine.
Silver had never seemed so wrong. Pale skin had never seemed so threatening. It was not a color Kaylin associated with life. She was afraid. She was afraid for the Consort. The fear of her hatred, her anger, and her endless disapproval was swallowed by it.
Kaylin, what is wrong?
She didn’t have the words for it.
Kaylin!
Look, she told him, whispering although no one else in the world could hear. Look through my eyes. She felt his presence for a moment.
Tell me what’s happened. Quickly, Kaylin.
She didn’t use words; she didn’t have to use them. He saw what she had seen. Tell me I don’t have to worry, she thought.
You will not believe it. Not when we speak like this.
The Consort moved her hand, opening her palm and turning it up toward the sky. Three arrows flew. To Kaylin’s surprise, they didn’t hit anything; they were struck—in almost perfect unison, by three arrows traveling in the opposite direction. The Consort watched the arrows fall, her chin slowly lowering as she did.
Her hair was bound, like Kaylin’s; unlike Kaylin’s, the run hadn’t dislodged any of it. Teela approached—without any signal from the Consort—and released the Consort’s hair. It fell down her back in a cascade of silver as Teela once again retreated. The Consort’s lips lost color.
Ask the Lord of the West March—ask him what’s wrong—ask him what I should do.
Do nothing unless she releases you. She has taken the risk. Respect it.
It would be a helluvalot easier to respect it if I understood it.
He laughed. He laughed, but the laughter died abruptly as the first of the birds came to land in the Consort’s upturned palm.
* * *
Except it wasn’t a bird. It had the shape, but none of the movement; although it had what looked like wings, they never flapped; they were rigid and extended, a dark plane of shadow, and as the creature alighted in the Consort’s open palm, she saw that it had claws. But it had no face, no head; the whole of its body appeared to be...wings. Those wings wrapped themselves around the Consort’s hand, obscuring both it and the light it shed.
She grimaced. She didn’t lose color—in Kaylin’s opinion there was none left to lose. What she lost was illumination. Some of the disturbing light was leeched out of her exposed skin. No one drew audible breath in the clearing; no one but the Consort. Her breath was even, steady, voiceless.
Kaylin wanted to scream. She opened her mouth and the small dragon bit her ear. She turned to glare at him, which was a relief; he met her furrowed brow with wide, opal eyes. Opal, shining eyes. He also yawned, exposing almost solid teeth.
For a long moment, the shadow remained perched in the Consort’s palm, and then it began to sink, vanishing into her skin as if absorbed. Light faded, then. The Consort’s grip on Kaylin’s arm loosened. As if that were permission, Kaylin pulled her numb arm free and slid an arm around the Consort’s shoulders. She didn’t ask any of the questions she desperately wanted to ask. Instead, she let the Consort lean heavily against her.
“Lord Evarrim,” the Consort said. “Lord Haverel.”
Both men bowed in silence; they asked no questions. The archers who had fired the first three arrows failed to materialize; the path failed to widen; the West March—if that didn’t refer to this entire godsforsaken forest—continued pretty much as it had begun.
No, Nightshade said, voice soft and tinged with something unfamiliar. It is not. Be cautious. You are almost upon the green.
Nightshade, what was that?
A messenger, he replied. Unless she forced the issue, he wasn’t going to tell her more. She suspected he didn’t actually have the answer, and felt his keen amusement. You
are learning, he said.
The two lords so named stepped forward. “Lady?” Lord Haverel bowed. His glance strayed briefly to Kaylin—who apparently had the ignorant effrontery to touch the Lady while trying to bear the greater part of her weight.
“The way is clear,” she said. “Gather. We will continue to—” Her blue eyes rounded as the second bird appeared and began its gliding descent; it was joined, seconds later, by a third, a fourth, a fifth.
Kaylin didn’t need to speak to Nightshade to know this was bad. She wasn’t certain what this disturbing ceremony was supposed to be or do. “Lady—”
The Consort lifted an arm, lifting chin and exposing the long, white line of her throat. She pulled herself free of Kaylin, planting her feet as the two lords—Evarrim and Haverel—stepped aside. As the sleek, black forms continued to glide above her in a slowly decreasing circle, she lifted both of her arms, exposing her palms.
Both arms raised, she looked as if she were inviting embrace—but her expression was fixed; her arms were shaking. “If I falter,” she said, to Kaylin’s surprise, “you have permission to heal me.” She spoke in formal High Barrani, her words surprisingly distinct. Kaylin waited for the disturbing glow to once again grace the Consort’s pale skin. It didn’t.
“You can’t do this,” she said, in Elantran. In High Barrani it would have sounded too much like a command. In her mother tongue, it sounded like the plea it was.
“They cannot be allowed to fly,” was her soft response.
“They clearly flew here.”
“They will not stop here, if they are given no harbor.” The Consort closed her eyes. Two of the shadows alighted almost delicately, their stiff wings folding around her open hands, encasing them. Like the first such creature, they had claws, and like the first, they seemed to sink into her hands, into her skin. But this time her hands, the length of her arms, became a shade of very unhealthy gray-green as they vanished. Her shaking arms fell, as if they weighed too much to be lifted. But they stopped at the height of her heart, palms open again, and waiting.
Kaylin had seen corpses that color in Red’s morgue. The Consort trembled for one immobile moment before she steadied herself and opened her eyes. Her eyes were Barrani-blue. Her arms were trembling, but she held them before her, palms once again empty and open.
Kaylin, however, had had enough. She took one look at the gathered Barrani; they were silent, blue-eyed, witnesses. None of them spoke. None of them moved.
Do not interfere—
Shut up.
The Consort was taller than Kaylin. Everyone in this party was. But her arms weren’t raised above her head, where their reach would be impossible to match. Kaylin extended her own arms, and laid her hands above the Consort’s, their backs resting against the Consort’s icy palms. She heard one sharp, drawn breath. It was Teela’s. No one spoke.
The shadows descended, gliding along a decreasing circular path as if following a funnel no one else could see. Kaylin wasn’t Barrani; she flinched when they landed. But when they did, she lifted her hands from the Consort’s, drawing them away from the Lady and toward herself. She moved slowly and deliberately, as if the creatures in her hands were alive and might spook.
But she did not want them touching the Consort when they began to fold their wings.
They gripped the edges of her palms with their claws; the claws sank, like small, sharp blades, into her skin. They were cold. They were cold enough they almost felt hot. Wings folded in perfect unison, engulfing her hands. She resisted the urge to shake them off—mostly because she knew it wouldn’t work. She wasn’t the Consort. A steady, quiet stream of Leontine left her lips, with a few choice Aerian words thrown in for good measure.
Her arms began to burn.
The small dragon, forgotten until now, rose; his claws gripped her shoulder. He hissed, squawking and spitting; he didn’t draw breath. The shadows turned toward him as his wings rose, batting her cheek and nose.
If her skin had melted, it wouldn’t have surprised her. She felt almost as if it should, the heat was so intense. Through the interior of sleeves that were more hole than material, she could see the marks on her arms: they were gold-white in color, and bright enough that she had to squint to make out their individual shapes. The light was not the subtle light that had imbued the Consort—but then again, Kaylin had none of the Consort’s restraint, none of her perfect, regal dignity.
The dragon continued to squawk, which was both a comfort and a distraction; the claws of the shadows cut deeper—but there was, to Kaylin’s eye, no resulting blood. Nor did the creatures sink into her hands and vanish, as they’d done with the Consort.
Instead, to her dismay, they seemed to grow more solid, not less, as the seconds passed. They were black, their wings developing texture, height, distinguishing characteristics. The light of her marks didn’t seem to dim—but they didn’t vanish, either. The shadows weren’t somehow eating them.
She thought they might become some echo of the small dragon, because they seemed to be listening to him, mesmerized by his squeaky, birdlike voice. He turned to look at Kaylin, hissed loudly in annoyance, and then turned back to his audience. They mirrored the motion. Kaylin’s hands were numb. Her arms were shaking. Shadows had no weight and little substance; what was now sitting in her palms was no longer entirely shadow.
Nor were they like the shadows cast by a gliding bird. The wings lengthened, brightened, and took on color; the indistinct, smooth surfaces of their shadow form cracked, giving way to—to feathers. As those wings snapped out, shards of shadow fell away, shaken off as if they were bits of shell.
Kaylin grunted. Two pairs of eyes turned to look at her; those eyes now rested above very, very prominent beaks. They inhaled and the golden feathers across their breasts rose; she could see white down beneath them. She had never seen birds this large. They didn’t really look like birds—they looked like predators. They were far too large for her hands, far too heavy; she struggled with their growing weight because she didn’t want to piss them off by dropping them.
As if aware of this—and the possible loss of dignity—they released her hands, leaping to the ground to one side of Kaylin and the Consort. When one of the Barrani Lords moved, they rose, their wings high in warning. That they didn’t knock either Kaylin or the Consort off their feet was a miracle.
A deliberate miracle. One of the birds turned to face them. “Lady,” it said.
Kaylin offered the Consort an arm—and her shoulder. The Consort was willing to let Kaylin absorb most of her weight, but her eyes—her eyes were a shade of gold, ringed in pale blue. They looked like the sun at the height of a cloudless sky. Kaylin had almost never seen that color in Barrani eyes before.
From the forest beyond them, Barrani approached. They were armed with bows, and they wore a different style of armor—if it was armor at all. But their hair was the ebony of Barrani hair, and it fell unimpeded down their backs. They moved slowly, and their eyes, as they approached, were the same gold as the Consort’s.
“The Lord of the West March requires aid. We go now,” the bird on the left said. His voice was clear, resonant; it had none of the squawk she expected of birds.
The Lady closed her eyes. Opened them rapidly, as if afraid that what she’d seen would vanish. The birds lifted wings again, and this time, the wings continued in a flurry of motion that took them into the night air.
* * *
The Barrani of the West March were silent as they watched the two birds take flight; silent as they watched them wing their way to the east, where the Lord of the West March was fighting. Only when they’d passed beyond sight—well beyond Kaylin’s—did they break away.
It was clear there were complicated rituals of approach. Kaylin shouldn’t have been surprised. Everything the Barrani did was complicated. But it was also clear that they’d dumped most of those rituals the minute they’d seen the birds emerge from the shadows. The gold of their eyes had given way to an emerald-green t
hat Teela’s eyes rarely reached. They were happy.
“Lady,” the man in the lead said. He bowed. It was a low, complicated bow.
She felt the Consort tense—but the Consort was exhausted. There wasn’t a lot of strength left for tension. “Lord Barian. This is Lord Kaylin of the High Halls; she has made the pilgrimage to the green, as all our adult kin must.”
To Kaylin’s surprise, he turned to her. “I am the Warden of the West March,” he told her, and he offered a bow that was almost identical to the one he’d offered the Consort. The rest of the tension left the Consort’s body then. Kaylin grunted as she took the rest of the Consort’s weight. Barrani, while tall and slender, were not exactly weightless.
“We are in your debt, harmoniste.” He held out his arms.
Kaylin’s closed automatically around the Consort, and a black brow rose. So did the corners of his mouth.
“The history of the West March and the High Halls has not always been peaceful, but she is the Lady; she will come to no harm while my kin reside in the greenhome.”
“She’s already come to harm,” Kaylin replied. She spoke in less formal Barrani.
The Warden’s smile faded. “You are mortal. Rumor traveled that a mortal had been chosen by the green; it was only barely given credence. There are those who will not be pleased, Lord Kaylin. I would have been one of them. But I am grateful now that I came in person to greet the Lady, for if I had not I would not have seen...what we have witnessed this night.
“The Lady is welcome in the greenhome. She is welcome in its heart. And you, Lord Kaylin, have my welcome and my gratitude. I am in your debt.”
“The Barrani hate debt,” she replied.
He surprised her. He laughed. But he held out his arms again. “I will bear your burden with honor and dignity; you may travel as witness, Lord Kaylin.”
Kaylin knew she couldn’t carry the Consort. But she was fairly certain Teela could. “Teela?”
Every Barrani from the West March—there appeared to be eight—stiffened at the sound of the Barrani Hawk’s name, and their eyes instantly lost most of the emerald-green the sight of the giant birds had placed there.
Cast in Sorrow coe-9 Page 3
