The Chronicles of Elantra Bundle

by Michelle Sagara

“Elianne,” Severn whispered, stroking her face, calling her back.

  It had once been her name. Kaylin had once been her name. She felt them as words—Elantran words—shorn of life or power. No, not power. There was power there: When Severn called, she looked up.

  “Severn,” she whispered. “What do you know of Barrani names? True names?”

  He shook his head, drawing her close; she went into the hollow of chest and arm, and found shelter there. But not truth. She wanted to tell him. She’d never been good with secrets, and she was terrible with lies.

  But the instinct that shut her mouth was older and stronger than either, and she said nothing at all.

  Minutes passed, or hours; Severn was stroking the dirty mess of her hair; he was whispering something that made no sense, in the most quiet of his voices. She wanted the peace of the moment, and took it, High Halls be damned. She had seen too much, and this was the way she accepted it: in his arms. In that safety.

  If safety was illusion, comfort was not.

  “It’s over,” he told her. That’s what he’d been saying. “It’s over, Elianne. It’s over.”

  She let him say it again and again until she half believed it. The wanting was stronger than the ability to have, but hadn’t Severn himself said as much? She held on to it anyway.

  And then, looking up from his chest, pulling herself a little way from the harbor of his arms, she looked at the only door in the room. “It is over,” she told him quietly. “For now.”

  As it happened, she was woefully optimistic.

  Severn led her to the door, and she followed him, learning to walk again. Halfway there, he bent and removed her shoes. He didn’t offer to carry her, and she wouldn’t ask. What he carried instead, he did without physical effort, but it was more important. Well, except for the shoes.

  They reached the door together, and to Kaylin’s relief, it wasn’t warded. It was a simple door, an elegant door, and engraved across the planks of its surface was a tall tree. Severn caught the door’s handle—because it had to have one, missing the ward—and pulled it open.

  Sunlight seen through the height of forest leaves fell at an angle through the open door, and the sound of soft music and softer voices drifted toward them.

  So, too, did a breeze, and it carried the scent of food. Kaylin’s stomach did a sharp turn and grumble, which would normally embarrass her. She was beyond embarrassment.

  Mostly.

  But when she stepped through the open door, her hair mired in root-dirt, her nails a mix of blood and earth, her one whole sleeve resting above the slash made by dropped dagger, her torn sleeve exposed and ragged, she stopped. Beneath her feet was familiar stonework, and she could feel it all against the soles of bare feet; it was sun-warm and hard, but not so hard that she couldn’t walk it with ease.

  She looked around with a growing sense of dread.

  And found herself in the center of the circle of the Lord of the High Court, somewhere about three feet to the left of his seat.

  There should have been noise.

  Or shouting.

  There should have been surprise, or at least consternation. Guards should have drawn swords. Barrani should have sneered or looked down their noses or said something. Anything. At all.

  But as Severn joined her, standing by her side in such a way that his shadow covered her, she realized that they were all watching the Lord of the High Court. Every single one of them. Kaylin had often been in crowded, large rooms; she’d carried words that caused surprise or shock. She’d watched that surprise spread, like the ripples around a stone dropped in still water, but even when it didn’t, it never shut everyone up; there was always a child, a buffoon or a man too deep in his cups to notice the Hawks were there.

  This attention was therefore entirely unnatural, and it made her nervous. The fact that she was underdressed in the extreme didn’t seem to have caught anyone’s attention. And it should have. It should have been either a joke or an insult.

  She looked at Severn. He did not touch her with anything but his eyes; those eyes were slightly narrowed. A silent reminder that she wasn’t among friends. As if she needed it.

  And maybe she did. She felt disoriented. The High Circle looked strange to her eyes, as if the luminous and magical light that mimed the sun had increased both in brilliance and the multiplicity of its colors; as if it fell on one thing more heavily than the object just beside it. She wanted to talk to Severn. She wanted to ask him if he saw what she saw.

  To ask him anything, really. To hear the sound of his voice. Because she knew that sound; knew all of the variants of it. Knew its weight, its seriousness and its mockery. He offered her silence instead, and his silences had never been so comfortable or predictable.

  The Lord of the High Court rose from his seat beneath the bowers of the central tree. He trailed odd light, and his expression was not so sharp as it had been; it was as if he stood in mist, or was of it. Kaylin wanted to slap herself; she felt like she’d been drinking a shade too much.

  Well, where a shade meant several hours’ worth.

  He turned to Kaylin, and to Severn, and he studied them in silence for what seemed far too long. He did not speak.

  The woman by his side, the silent slender woman, came to stand beside him, facing Severn. She touched her Lord’s arm, and he looked to her; their eyes met. They were an odd shade, an almost unfamiliar color. Pale blue. But then again, her hair was pale and fine, as unlike Barrani hair as human hair would seem.

  It was the Consort who spoke first. “Lord Kaylin,” she said quietly, and then, “Lord Severn.” And she inclined her head. “The Lord and Lady of the High Court greet you and bid you welcome to the Circle. Take your place.”

  She was speaking in High Barrani. She might as well have spoken in Dragon, for all the sense she made. Except that she did make sense. Dim sense. Political sense.

  Kaylin had failed politics at least once, but the failure there—the profound inability to recall the right dates or names—had been theoretical; confined to scratches on board or paper, and the weary disapproval of a Master of the Halls of Law.

  Here, it was worse. But here, she was willing to try a hell of a lot harder. She bowed to the Lord of the High Court, and then bowed, more deeply, to his Consort. At this, a whisper did rise among the Barrani, but it was like the sound of wind in leaves; she couldn’t pinpoint its source.

  “You have been tested by the High Halls,” the Consort told her almost gently. “And you have returned to us.” Her words were formal, and they should have been stiff—but they weren’t. There was an odd warmth in her expression, something that spoke of kinship and secrets. Then again, everything about the Barrani spoke of secrets. Especially on the rare occasions they claimed not to have any.

  She straightened, feeling every inch of dirt that had been ground permanently into her dress. That, the blood on her hand, the blood on her chest, and the ragged half sleeve, finally hit home, and she almost winced, looking down at herself.

  But the Consort said, “The Barrani have that effect on humans. Were you to arrive at this tree wearing nothing but scars, you would still be worthy of honor. That you have arrived at all is a story that will be told long after you have gone the way of mortals.” Her smile was not unfriendly. Which was shocking in and of itself.

  As if those words were a signal, the Barrani were suddenly free of their strange paralysis. The first to approach Kaylin was the Lord of the West March. And by his side, Andellen and Samaran. She almost forgot to breathe, seeing them here, in the High Court; the Lord of the High Court had been very, very specific about their duties. And the value of their lives.

  But if his word was law—and it was, here; there was no other—he seemed neither surprised nor ill pleased; he offered no expression at all.

  Andellen bowed to her.

  “You said you’d wait by the arch,” she hissed. She couldn’t help herself. Her brows, she was certain, had disappeared into the unruly mess of her dirty ha
ir.

  His expression was grave, but his eyes were brown. Entirely brown. They almost looked human.

  “Lord Kaylin,” he replied. If she expected an excuse or an explanation, it wasn’t going to come from him. It occurred to her that Samaran had no place at all in the High Court. It must have occurred to Samaran as well; his eyes were blue. But he showed no fear and no hesitation as he offered his respect—and possibly his envy—to Kaylin and Severn.

  The Lord of the West March offered her a bow as deep, but he held it longer. When he rose, he smiled, and his eyes, green, were ringed with the same brown that had changed Andellen’s eyes. “There is only one place to wait,” he told her quietly, “when the trial has been undertaken. And it is here, in the heart of the High Circle, at the feet of the Lord of the High Court.”

  “I—”

  “You were granted your freedom of the High Halls,” he said gravely, “by the Lord of the High Court himself. And the laws that bind the test are older than he. He will not visit judgment upon your guards.” “But—” She looked into the crowd. Saw Teela. Saw, beside Teela, Lord Evarrim. She expected Lord Evarrim to argue; saw by the cast of his features that he had no argument to give. His expression was neither cold nor warm, and he was just distant enough that she couldn’t see the color of his eyes.

  Or shouldn’t have been able to. But they were blue.

  Teela’s were a blue-green, a pale blue, and flecked with gold.

  “If you were not to be offered the opportunity,” the Lord of the West March told her, “to undergo the rite, you would never have found the tower. We do not speak of these things to outsiders,” he added, “but you are no longer an outsider.

  “And the High Halls are yours to wander now, at the pleasure of the Lord of the High Court.”

  She didn’t understand.

  She looked at Andellen because he seemed to, but he offered her nothing to hold on to. As if this, too, were a test. Then again, he was a Barrani; it could just be malice. But his eyes were brown. Approval.

  “You have missed the meal,” the Lord of the West March told her quietly, “but food will be brought.”

  “I—”

  “Food will be brought,” he repeated, with just a little more force.

  She smiled brightly, and saw Teela wince.

  What she really wanted was a bath, a change of clothes, a bed and about a week’s sleep. But she was going to have to settle for food.

  Before the food came music. It started everywhere, as if it were part of the light, but it coalesced, at last, into instruments held by two Barrani; they were draped in a pale sky-blue, and their hair was braided and fell almost to the stones of the circle. They looked like twins. It had been a long time since Barrani had looked like twins to Kaylin’s eyes, and she wondered, then, if they really were.

  But their music was pleasant, even soothing, and they added no words to mar it; the strings of their small harps seemed to speak of peace, and only peace; of repose, of the small joys that came at the end of a successful journey.

  Barrani songs were usually high tragedy or dark lay; she expected that they would get around to those sooner or later, and profoundly hoped for a later that didn’t include her.

  But as she sat—beside the throne itself—she felt her stomach’s familiar grumble, and winced. Food, when it came, came in the hands of other Barrani—tall and proud and dressed like Lords or Ladies. They carried thin platters and fine goblets; they carried slender-necked bottles, and fruit—peaches, berries, brown furry things that she hoped weren’t actually alive. They set these on the ground around her; there was no table, and there were no implements of destruction.

  Which is pretty much how she felt about the seventy knives, forks, spoons and other things that she had failed to learn the correct use for back in school.

  They expected her to eat with her hands. It was a relief. Probably the only one she was going to feel.

  The Lord of the High Court watched her, and she realized that relief was bound to break sooner or later; she wasn’t accustomed to being the object of theater.

  Which this was, more or less.

  Severn had bound her hand. The blood had seeped through the binding, blending with green until it was just a dark stain. She saw it every time she moved her right hand, and she would have eaten with her left hand, but she wasn’t left-handed. Besides which, her left hand was numb and heavy; it responded slowly when she tried to use it.

  Teela approached her as she sat, Severn by her side. He ate more than she did, and with more comfort—but then again, even dirty, the Hawk that glittered between strains of dirt was still the Hawk: it was a source of pride. Not so what remained of the dress.

  “Lord Kaylin,” Teela said, kneeling to join her.

  Kaylin started to say don’t you start, too, but Severn touched the back of her hand in warning. The same warning that he had often given in the fiefs, when noise might mean discovery, and discovery might mean death.

  “Lord Teela,” Kaylin began. “Lord Anteela.”

  Teela raised a dark brow. But she smiled. She did not, however, touch bread, cheese or fruit. “Lord Severn,” she said, inclining her head.

  “Lord Anteela.” He swallowed before he spoke. Kaylin hadn’t. Gods, she hated Court. And uncomfortable silence seemed to be part of Court.

  “It is unusual that the test of the Halls is faced by two,” Teela told them quietly. “And it is that fact, more than your mortality, that will be spoken of for centuries.”

  “Why?”

  “Not one of the Barrani Lords has ever faced the tower with another by his—or her—side.”

  Kaylin shrugged.

  “It is not the lack of willingness on the part of the Barrani,” Teela added with just the hint of Hawk’s frown. “But on the part of the High Halls itself. You know something of the Barrani, but you do not fully understand the ties that bind us, one to the other. It has been tried before,” she said quietly, “and it has never succeeded.

  “How did you manage this?”

  Kaylin frowned, and looked at Severn.

  Severn—damn him—shrugged.

  “He wasn’t willing to leave me,” Kaylin replied. “He followed. He usually does what he wants. I can’t imagine a building would stop him. I can’t.”

  Teela shook her head. But she lifted a hand and she placed it above Kaylin’s wounded palm. Before Kaylin could speak, she touched the hand, gripping it firmly.

  When she withdrew, her eyes were…almost golden. She said nothing, but she said it loudly; her shoulders were rigid. “Kaylin,” she whispered, and then, in Elantran, added, “what have you done?”

  Kaylin shook her head. But the contact told her something that she had never clearly felt before: Teela had a name. Oh, she’d known it; she’d learned that much from Nightshade. But knowing it intellectually, and feeling it as if it were a force, were not the same. And would never be the same again.

  Kaylin didn’t answer. And Teela, after her momentary outburst, didn’t seem to expect an answer. Or, in fact, want one. She withdrew her hand and put it back in her lap, and her smile seemed natural and unfeigned.

  But the surprise she’d shown was uncharacteristic enough that it drew attention. And red robes—unwelcome, even here—bore down upon Kaylin as Lord Evarrim of the Arcanum approached.

  He knelt, as Teela did; not in supplication, but in mimicry of companionship. It was pretty poor mimicry; he might have been a Leontine for just that moment.

  He was not pleased. That much, she could see in the lines of his face, although they hadn’t changed much. His eyes were a dark blue, his skin pale. His forehead, however, was weighed down by circlet and ruby.

  “Lord Kaylin,” he said. “Lord Severn.” To Severn, he inclined his head, the bastard. Kaylin put the bread that had been an inch away from her mouth down.

  “Lord Evarrim.” She hoped he could see bread crumbs.

  “Your companion appears unscathed,” he said genially. Or would have, if she
could have closed her eyes and pretended she was listening to someone else talk. The words themselves sounded friendly. Which was enough of a warning.

  “I’m clumsier,” she offered cheerfully. “Bread?”

  “I have eaten,” he replied coolly, staring at the broken loaf as if it were a cockroach. “I am curious, Lord Kaylin. What did you see when the tower opened to you?”

  “A lot of stairs,” she replied, with a pasted-on smile that she was aware was entirely unconvincing.

  “And nothing else?”

  “Oh, a lot of other things. Brass railings, walls. Stone. Stuff.”

  His frown—and he did frown—was pronounced. She might have gained the title of Lord, but she hadn’t gained much ground on the battlefield of Evarrim. She was mortal, in his eyes. She found it oddly comforting.

  “Nothing else of interest?”

  She shrugged. “Of interest to an Arcanist? I doubt it. You’ve seen the tower,” she added.

  “I have. Many centuries before you were born.”

  “Well, it probably hasn’t changed much.”

  His smile took her by surprise; it was momentary and genuine. “So,” he said. “You are not entirely foolish.”

  “Not entirely, no.”

  “Very well. Guard your secrets. It will be important that you learn to do so now—because now, you have secrets worth guarding.” He started to rise, and she turned back to the food.

  He grabbed her hand. Grasped it, as Teela had done, but without warning and without friendship.

  And she felt the force of his name in the touch as if it were fire, or worse; as if it could scorch the skin and flesh from her hand and leave nothing but seared bone beneath it.

  He felt it, too. He drew back slowly, but he let go quickly. And his eyes were blue that went on forever, deepening. “So,” he said again. And rose.

  She waited while he tendered his respects to the Lord of the High Court, making a note of how he did it. Apparently, when rising in the presence of said Lord, obeisance was required. She could learn this. She had to.

  But what interested her was not his brief obeisance; it was the look the Consort gave her. It passed through the Lord and the supplicant, and it was meant for Kaylin, and Kaylin alone. There was weariness in it, and the burden of inestimable years.