“You’re thinking again. I can hear it.”
“Very funny. I saw one of the lost children in the forest on the way to Bertolle.”
“And you recognized him, cast in glass.”
“No. That’s the strange thing. I didn’t recognize him.”
Teela shrugged. “It was dark.”
“In both places. The only light in the courtyard was the one I brought with me. The words,” she added, “they glowed.”
“Very well. Statues.” The Barrani Hawk’s eyes had lost their green.
“Technically, no.”
“If you take much longer to tell me the rest, I’ll strangle you myself.”
“Didn’t you just say—”
“I told you not to bleed on the dress. I don’t recall that strangulation causes bleeding.”
“The statues moved. They followed me. They tried—they tried to touch one of the words. I thought of them as ghosts,” she added. “They always reacted to the same word.”
“I am not going to ask you what the word was, because I really will strangle you when you can’t answer.” Teela folded her arms across her chest as if to stop her hands from acting of their own accord.
“They couldn’t touch it; their hands passed through it.”
“Yours clearly didn’t.”
“No. But—every time one of them tried, the word grew heavier. By the end, even you would have found it a strain.”
“And that end?”
“I walked into a room. It was behind a warded door. My hands were full; I had to hit it with my head.”
A grin tugged the corners of Teela’s lips up as she considered this. “It opened?”
“With a lot of noise, and if by ‘opened’ you mean turned to burning ash.”
“Alsanis was never rumored to be this dramatic. Continue.”
“The Consort was there. In the center of the room. Which wasn’t a room at all—it had no ceiling. The sky on the inside was daylight; the sun was high.”
“Did she cast a shadow?”
Had she? Kaylin frowned.
“Did you?”
“I was kind of busy, Teela. Is it important?”
“It’s a dream. Or a nightmare. Everything—and nothing—is important.”
“The Consort had been singing. She was almost at the end of her song when I arrived; I panicked.”
Teela shot Kaylin her best “water is wet” look.
“The weird thing is, she was standing in front of a fountain. The fountain was at the heart of the room. The room was like an eleven-pointed star, in shape; the floors were stone. The ghosts—they all followed me in a line—walked to the eleven corners, and climbed invisible pedestals; they were all facing inward. They were looking at the Consort or the fountain.”
“Or you.”
That hadn’t occurred to Kaylin. “Or me. I had to let go of the words to catch her before she fell. But the words waited.”
Teela didn’t even tell her that the words weren’t sentient. “And then?”
“The Consort touched the words; they were solid, for her. We kind of—kind of pushed them into the fountain.”
Teela stared at her.
“There was nowhere else for them to go, Teela, and they had to go somewhere. I’d’ve given them to the ghosts, but there were eleven ghosts and two words.”
“I cannot believe Lord Sanabalis considers it wise to teach you magic.”
“Whisper that in his ear if it’ll get me out of his lessons.” She hesitated. She had come to the end of safe story—if mentioning the eleven was safe at all.
Teela, of course, noticed.
“One of the words sank into the water. The weightless one. The other hit water—and rose.” She sucked in air, and rose herself. Standing was in all ways less impressive. “The water froze as the rune changed shape, Teela. In the center of the fountain, made of ice, I saw you.”
“You have not spoken of this to anyone else?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“It wasn’t technically speaking.” Kaylin didn’t like the color of Teela’s eyes; she didn’t like the Hawk’s sudden stiffness, either. “The eleven came off their pedestals then. They walked to the center of the room, to the lip of the fountain. They lifted their arms—to your image—and, Teela, they screamed.”
* * *
She wasn’t certain what Teela would do. She ate, in silence, although she’d lost all appetite. She was a betting person, but this could go either way; there was a good chance Teela would pivot on heel and leave the room. She had that tight-lipped “keep away” look that would have sent most of the office on whatever errands they could find that took them farther away from her desk.
Kaylin, with eight years of experience in the same office and no reasonable—or farfetched—errands to run, should have said nothing. It was safest. “Teela, what happened to the children? What happened to you?”
“Nothing happened to me,” was her bitter, bitter reply. Kaylin almost didn’t recognize her voice.
“What happened when you served as harmoniste?”
“Nothing.” Teela looked over her shoulder to the closed door. “If I had known that you would be involved like this, I would never have allowed you to—”
“We needed that information.”
“No, kitling, we didn’t.”
“People were dying—”
“Yes. But we didn’t know that at the time, and the truth of the matter is, I don’t care about those people.” Her eyes narrowed as Kaylin’s jaw dropped in outrage that was entirely genuine. “I don’t care about them as much as I care about you. Is that better? You don’t value yourself. Fine; not all of us labor under your evaluation of yourself.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Teela stared.
Kaylin knew this wasn’t smart. She knew it. But she was underslept and overworried and her mouth kind of opened and all the wrong words kept falling out. “You hate it when people worry about you. You hate it when they care. You never ask for help, even when you—”
“Need it?” Teela’s eyes were now dark blue slits. “What help, exactly, do you think you can offer? You have no idea what you’re doing. You’ve no idea what you’re facing. You wander around touching things that should never be disturbed, and you don’t even realize you’re doing it.
“You can barely save yourself. Do not insult me by implying that your concern can somehow save—” She stopped. Turning, she walked out of the room.
* * *
The small dragon returned a short time later, squawking.
“No,” she told him, from her glum perch in the chair she now occupied solo. “It didn’t go well.”
Squawk.
She poked at food. The small dragon landed on the table, skidded across its smooth, flat surface, and smacked into a silver tray. “Don’t eat that,” Kaylin said. “You won’t like it.”
He hissed.
“Fine, suit yourself.” She pushed herself out of the chair and started to pace. The room was large, but it was still a room, and at the moment, it felt like a cell. She glanced at the small hole in her dress, and then, frowning, at her arms. Ice shards had struck skin—but they’d caused no pain. Instead, they’d stilled the burning of the marks on both arms.
She stopped pacing and looked down at him. His eyes were wide and dark; they were the only thing about him that wasn’t translucent, unless you counted his teeth.
“I’m going for a walk.” She headed toward the same door that Teela had exited, and he jumped and attached himself to her shoulders. “You don’t have to come with me. You can find Severn and keep him out of trouble.”
The small dragon bit her ear.
“Listen, buddy, if I wanted pierced ears, I’d’ve had it done years ago.”
* * *
Walking through Barrani-owned halls was not as relaxing as a stroll through the city streets. Then again, walking through the city streets often ended up being less relaxing than i
ntended; it was most of the reason Kaylin didn’t bother when she wasn’t on the job. But she felt caged by expected behavior standards when in the rooms that were theoretically hers.
She felt caged in the halls, period.
The Consort, Teela, and every other person willing to condescend to speak with the merely mortal had made clear that the residence of the Lord of the West March wasn’t a safe space, but Teela’s little story about blood on the dress made Kaylin bold. That, and it was harder to find a target that was constantly on the move.
She wandered through the halls and found herself in the courtyard. This took less time than she’d feared; this building—at least so far—appeared to be geographically fixed. She could memorize it, as if it were the Imperial Palace, and make an internal map she could follow. At the moment, she wanted air.
Oh, who the hells was she kidding? What she wanted was water. She wanted the fountain. Men in armor passed her in ones and twos as she walked. They weren’t Imperial Palace Guards; they didn’t stand at attention all over the bloody place. They did notice her; they didn’t stop her or ask her business. She couldn’t bring herself to ask them for directions; she might have asked her servants if she’d cleared her head before she’d left them behind.
But she did find the exit eventually. The doors weren’t guarded—but they weren’t closed, either.
She hesitated, and then walked toward them, through them, and beneath the night sky. The moons were high, but not full; the light they cast was subdued. Kaylin’s eyes adjusted as she listened to the fall of water into water. Fountain.
From this distance, at this hour, it was exactly as it seemed. There was obviously some enchantment laid on it, because water didn’t normally fall from thin air, but the enchantment didn’t make the marks on her skin itch, so she didn’t class it as magic.
And she didn’t classify the water as magic, either, although anyone in their right mind would. She took a seat at the edge of the fountain; she wanted to touch the Tha’alaan, just for a minute. She wanted the feeling of welcome, inclusion, and acceptance—because she wasn’t going to get much of that here.
“Lord Kaylin.”
She exhaled in frustration, lowering the hand she’d lifted before it made contact with anything wet. She wasn’t alone. “Lord Nightshade. How long have you been here?”
“I have only just arrived. The Consort kept us for some time.” He emerged into the shadowed light, walking around the curved basin of the fountain. “She did not choose to answer many questions; nor did she choose to ask them. She held court,” he added. He was smiling; Kaylin couldn’t see the color of his eyes. “She held court almost as if she were her mother. I think she intended to spare you interrogation, where at all possible.
“Lords Barian and Evarrim are not pleased.” He glanced at the falling water as if it were of passing interest to him. It wasn’t at the moment, and he knew she knew it.
She wanted to touch the water. “Did you attend the recitation where Teela served as harmoniste, or was it after you left the Court?”
He watched her without answering. Kaylin hardly ever found silence comfortable, but she waited this one out. “What did you see in the nightmares of Alsanis?”
She didn’t answer. After a pause that was just as long, she said, “I couldn’t speak to you when I was there.”
“You made the attempt?”
She nodded. “You couldn’t see what I saw while I was there, either.”
“No. You were unsettled upon your return, if return is the word for it. Were it only you, I would be less concerned—but Kaylin, the Consort is disturbed, as well. What did you see? What did you do?”
This was why he had come. She felt the sharp edge of something that was far more than idle curiosity.
She rose. Pacing beneath moonlight felt far more natural than pacing in an enclosed room. “Who did you lose?” Her voice was quiet.
Chapter 12
He could have pretended to misunderstand; he was tempted to do exactly that. But it would not get him the information he wanted—and Kaylin realized, with a distant surprise, that he couldn’t just pluck it from her thoughts the way he usually did.
No.
He’d tried.
Yes.
She didn’t understand why, but at the moment, she was grateful. It didn’t bother her that Severn might read her thoughts; he’d always seemed to know what she was thinking—and why. Sometimes he’d understood it before she did, and they were her thoughts.
But...no one—no one—had caused her as much pain.
“There were eleven. Eleven Barrani. They weren’t children—not by our standards—but they weren’t adults, either. Two girls, nine boys. If you don’t count Teela.”
“You have been speaking with Lord Barian.”
She didn’t deny it. “I don’t know what most of them were called. I don’t know their names in the legal sense of the word name. The dreams of Alsanis insist that none of the children have left the Hallionne—but I saw Terrano. Teela saw him. You recognized his name.”
He said nothing.
“Nightshade, were you there?”
“For the regalia which destroyed the children? No.”
“Were you there when Teela returned to the West March?”
“Yes.”
“And when she served as harmoniste?”
“Yes.”
“Did you understand either recitation?”
His answering smile was thin. “No, Lord Kaylin. I am not entirely certain either of us will understand the recitation in which we are meant to play a large part.”
“You think it has something to do with the children.”
“They are not children now.”
Kaylin watched him. “Do you think they can be saved?”
He watched the water fall. She realized that he wasn’t going to answer, because he believed two contradictory things: that they could be saved, and that they couldn’t. It wasn’t a matter of hope, although he did; the hope was too painful to touch and examine. She shied away from it because it wasn’t hers and she had no way of responding to it. He believed that both outcomes were possible; that both were probable. She couldn’t tell which he actually wanted.
“What did Teela do?”
“She will not tell you?”
“No. And you knew that.”
“I knew you were foolish enough to ask—but An’Teela has long been unusual; there was always the possibility she might answer.”
“If blood hadn’t been shed during the recitation—if it hadn’t fallen on the green—what would have happened?”
“It is a question much discussed,” he replied. “We have no answers, of course; it is not an experiment that has been repeated.”
“The people of the West March don’t trust her.”
“No. She is the daughter of the man who ordered the deaths in the heart of the green. She is of the High Court. She survived what none of the others survived. Had she been older, or wiser, she might have parlayed that survival into a formidable base on which to build political power; she did not.”
“Why was she spared what the others weren’t?”
“I am not the green, Kaylin. I am not of the West March. Teela bears the blood of Wardens in her veins. Her mother was—”
“Barian’s aunt.”
“Yes.”
Kaylin frowned. A thought occurred to her, but she was tired. “Why did they try to kill you?”
“I am Outcaste,” he replied.
“The Consort clearly doesn’t care.”
“No.”
“Teela said that it’s considered treason to try to kill the harmoniste.”
“While he or she wears the blood of the green, yes.”
“But not the Teller? Even if the Teller is chosen in the same way?”
“Is he?”
“Well, the green chooses.”
“Yes. But the criterion for such a choice is opaque. To my kin it is a random act, a choice that ignores the
individual and his power. The robes of the role chosen for me are not significant in the same way; they are not the blood of the green. But the crown is significant. There have been no attempts to kill the Teller in the past; I believe, given the lack of reaction to the assassination attempt, there will be more in future. The harmoniste, however, is safe.
“We learn from past tragedies.”
“The problem with this one, as I see it, is that it isn’t.”
“A tragedy?”
“In the past. It’s not finished. It’s not done.” She grimaced and sat again. She also fidgeted; Nightshade might have been a statue, he moved so little. “The children are—and are not—trapped in the Hallionne. The Barrani are—and are not—corrupted. Iberrienne was—and was not—Iberrienne, but regardless, he almost certainly came to Elantra to—”
“To find sacrifices.”
She stood once more, her hands in fists. She felt no raging fury, though. She accepted that Nightshade was Barrani; he wasn’t human. If she were honest, the Exchequer probably had had some idea of what was going on, and he was human, and didn’t care, either. The Exchequer was unlikely to escape unscathed.
And she hated him more because he, at least, should have known better.
But Nightshade was Nightshade. He was what he was. He had power. He had gold. If you wanted a man in power to pay attention to what you wanted, you either had to be a power yourself, or you had to have something he wanted. “I can help you achieve whatever it is you hope to achieve, but I want something in return.”
He waited.
“Change the way you rule the fief. What Tiamaris does, you could do. You’ve never done it. It’s probably not as easy as Tiamaris makes it look. But if he can do it, it can be done.”
He stared at her for a long moment, and then he laughed. It was bitter laughter, but contained genuine amusement. “You do not even know what I want.”
“No.” She met, and held, his gaze. “I’ll know. When—if—it happens, I’ll know. You’ll push me. You’ll guide where you can. You’ll manipulate. You’ll do everything in your power to use my power to do whatever it is you want done. I won’t fight you, in this. I will do whatever you think needs doing.”
Michelle Sagara Page 17
