The Chronicles of Elantra Bundle

by Michelle Sagara

  The burden, Kaylin realized, of being mother to an entire race for far, far too long.

  Kaylin loved the midwives. She loved what they did. They charged money for it—but Kaylin expected to be paid for performing her duties as a Hawk, and pay didn’t lessen her pride in those duties. Midwives had leeway; they charged when they could. Where money was absent, they went anyway, and they brought life into the world. They saved life, in the bringing.

  And in the Consort, to her lasting surprise, she saw a mother—and also a midwife. But a midwife who had worked alone, with no companion and no apprentice, with no Kaylin to call when things were at their grimmest and death at its closest. A woman who was responsible for breathing life into the sleepers—but worse, and she saw this clearly, too—responsible for the shape of who they would become.

  In some sense, she defined the whole of their lives. Not the fact of it, as mortal midwives did everywhere, but the whole of it. It was a staggering responsibility.

  She whispered a word. Leoswuld.

  And the Consort smiled. It was both sad and grim, and the edges of the expression were hard.

  It was not just the Lord of the High Court who would pass on the gift of his life, she thought. The Lady would, as well.

  And then she frowned. Saw more.

  She rose, brushing crumbs off her ruined skirts, and she offered a perfect bow to the Lord of the High Court. But it was the Consort she approached.

  “Come,” the Consort said quietly. “There is a fountain beyond the tree…it is mine. No one will approach us there who does not wish to face my wrath.”

  Kaylin nodded. She cast a backward glance at Severn, and Severn read her expression. He nodded once and returned to his food. To the conversation between he and Teela, which was broken by silences, the way streams are by large rocks.

  The fountain was so simple, so unadorned, that it looked out of place in the garden. It boasted no fine statue, no alabaster arms, no pillars, no funny fish. It was a burble of water in a stone basin that was wide enough at the lip to accommodate sitting. The Consort sat, and she indicated, by the simple dip of her head, that Kaylin should join her.

  Kaylin said, “You know their names.”

  And the Consort raised a pale brow. “Is it mortal, to speak so bluntly and without recourse to grace and idle pleasantry?”

  “I can’t speak for anyone else,” Kaylin replied. “But we feel time differently. Or I do, at any rate,” she added, thinking of the teachers in the Halls of Law who could drone on for hours without pause for anything but breath. And sometimes she wondered, given the color they often turned in her presence, if they bothered with that.

  “Then be mortal,” the Consort replied. “For time, here, is drawing at last to an end. For me,” she added quietly. “The leoswuld is coming, and I am bound to it.”

  Kaylin frowned, trying to decide, in the space of that expression, how blunt she could be. It didn’t take her long, but she was Kaylin. “If I had to guess,” she said, trying to speak with tact or what passed for tact, “I’d say you aren’t bound to it, you’re driving it.”

  The Consort’s silence was oddly textured, and music seemed to play in its shallows. It was a strange music, something that was just within range of hearing, but contrived to escape its reach.

  “It is not a horse or a carriage, to be so driven,” she said at last. “But Kaylin—I think you’ve seen the source.”

  Kaylin could have lied. Or tried, at any rate. She could have bluffed; she was slightly better at that. She could have played the confusion card, which was kin to the stupid-me-what-was-I-thinking card, and which occasionally got her out of difficult situations.

  She didn’t. She nodded.

  “Then you understand,” the Consort said quietly.

  “But I don’t.”

  “Can you have truly seen—and touched—the source of life, and come away unchanged?” Her eyes were green and bright, but they were also slightly narrowed. She did not suspect Kaylin of lying; she was trying, in her way, to bridge the gap that race imposed. It was a big damn gap, and there were no obvious bridges.

  “No,” Kaylin said quietly. “Not unchanged.”

  The Consort nodded. “You chose a name,” she said.

  Kaylin nodded. And then she frowned. “How do you know—”

  “I can see that you bear one,” the Consort replied. And then, in a slightly different tone, “Or two.” And she met Kaylin’s gaze and held it. Expecting answers.

  Kaylin lifted her left hand. It was numb, and it tingled; it hadn’t stopped. She could flex her fingers but movement was difficult. She could not, however, see the word she had lifted from the river of words; she could see the lines of her hand, the mound of her palm, the strange geography of her flesh.

  And knew, then, that she was looking for something else—after all, who thought of their own damn hand as geography?

  “I kind of had to take two,” she said, as if confessing a crime. “I—” She winced. “I couldn’t leave unless I did.”

  “But your companion bears no such…change.”

  “No.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He didn’t need to.”

  The Consort frowned.

  “We don’t like change all that much,” Kaylin said. “I would have thought Barrani—who change so little—would like it even less.”

  “There are some changes we contemplate. But if we abhorred all change, there would be no leoswuld. You understand my burden,” she added quietly.

  And Kaylin swallowed and nodded. “But only part. I don’t think I could do what you do for the rest of my life—and my life is pretty damn short.”

  The Consort said nothing.

  “You do know their names.”

  “I know some part of them,” she replied. “Just as a mortal mother knows some part of their children. It is not the holding of a name,” she added quietly, “but it is not entirely unlike. When I was younger—” She looked away, at the rippling surface of water. As if the sight of it offered strength.

  As if speech required it. And maybe speech did.

  “Few of our kind are born. We are not like mortals. We exist between the cracks of history, part of one age and part of the other, but not wholly one or the other.

  “When I was younger, I did not see as clearly, and I did not have the strength to choose as wisely.” She waited.

  Kaylin wasn’t certain for what. “Can you read the words?”

  “I can read them in the same fashion that you did,” was the reply, which wasn’t much of one.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then perhaps I can read them more clearly. I will not ask what you did. Each Consort must find her own way.”

  “Not a Consort, here,” Kaylin said quickly.

  “No. Perhaps not. But the Barrani who pass through the tower do not find the source. Only the Consort is led there.”

  “You had to take the test?”

  “Oh yes, Kaylin. And pass it.”

  “But there was—”

  “There was only one daughter to the High Lord of that time. Yes. But leoswuld is the gift that we pass to our kin. And what I pass to my daughter is part of the path that will guide her to the Source. From there, she must return on her own, as all Barrani do, who face the High Halls.”

  “And if she fails?”

  The silence was terrible; even the water seemed to freeze.

  “Never mind.”

  “No, I will answer. If she fails, another must stand in her place, without the gift I have given. And if she is not strong enough, if she is not determined, we must wait until one comes who is, and the children that are born must die, in truth, for without the word, we have no life. It has happened before,” she added.

  “But—”

  “Yes?”

  “But this waiting—I don’t understand. You can’t wait for the birth of another—” Kaylin froze.

  “No. It is not upon a new generation that we will rely. The women wi
ll come. They will come at need, one after the other, and they will try the Tower.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “She is my youngest. I think she has the strength.” She paused, and then said, “The Lord of the Green is my oldest, and he was born when I was very young. His birth was a gift, or so I thought it at the time. And I went to the source, carrying him, and I chose for him a name that seemed auspicious.” Again she was silent, but this time the water moved. The wind moved. She was beautiful in a way that didn’t make Kaylin feel dirty or ungainly. A lie.

  Kaylin had to clear her throat. “The Lord of the Green—”

  The Consort touched Kaylin’s hand.

  The lights that dotted this tranquil, sparse place brightened until they were white; Kaylin blinked against the sudden brightness. She could see the Consort clearly—and only the Consort; even the fountain had vanished.

  I ask you not to interfere.

  I don’t understand.

  I know. I know, child. But I chose his name, and I have come to understand what that choosing entails. It is bitter to me, but life has grown bitter to me. I ask you again—because I cannot command it, and because the Lord of the High Court cannot—do not interfere.

  But he’s—his name—

  I know. It was a mother’s voice. A mother’s pain. I know what you are. I see it. You are a Hawk, and it defines you. You fly and you hunt. Fly, little Hawk, and hunt. But do not interfere.

  Kaylin almost promised. She even tried, because she thought—for just a moment—that the promise would offer peace to this strange and beautiful woman.

  But her lips—if she was moving them at all—wouldn’t open. She couldn’t say the damn words.

  And she recalled something Nightshade had said. You cannot lie to me. Not like this.

  It wasn’t meant to be a lie. It was meant to be the truth. But it was riven from her.

  The Consort’s smile was a bitter one, but there was no anger in it; just the guttering of something that might have been hope.

  I’ll try, Kaylin said. It was all she could force herself to say.

  And the Consort lifted a hand and touched the mark upon Kaylin’s cheek. She whispered something that sounded like a name. Like Nightshade’s name. But there was no anger or hatred in the whisper. Just pity and pain.

  She let go, and the world returned. “Go now, and speak with my son. My younger son,” she added with a grim smile. “He is waiting, and he presses upon me. He will not disgrace himself by interrupting us, but he is impatient.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The Lord of the West March was, indeed, waiting. And he was waiting along the path that led to the fountain. He hadn’t stepped over the invisible line that clearly stated Cross This and Die, but he must have been lingering awfully close, given the color of the Consort’s eyes.

  On the other hand, given the resignation in her expression—and it was open enough that Kaylin found it obvious, where so little Barrani expression was—it wasn’t the first time he’d done it. She wondered, then, what he’d been like as a child. And how much he’d changed. She had a suspicion if she asked his mother, the answer at the moment would be “Not at all,” and decided against it.

  “Kyuthe,” the Lord of the West March said, choosing the intimate form over the formal one. His bow, however, made up for the lack of the title Kaylin didn’t want anyway. “Your companion was weary, and has returned to my wing with your guards. I promised them that I would personally see you there in safety.”

  She imagined that he had, and that the weight of that promise would have broken the backs of lesser mortals. It didn’t seem to bother him.

  “I will leave you, Kaylin,” the Consort said, also choosing to forgo the title. “For I fear my son has much he wishes to discuss, and any who pass the test are often weary.” It was a warning to the Lord of the West March, and he accepted it with grace.

  Then again, he would probably have accepted a dagger with grace. He stepped aside to allow his mother free passage, and when she had gone, he met Kaylin’s eyes. His were green again. Approval, it appeared, didn’t last long.

  “It seems,” he said, looking down the path at his mother’s back, “that you have impressed the Lady of the High Court.”

  “I’m not sure impressed is the right word.”

  “You are not familiar with the Consort,” was the wry reply. “It is the correct word. She is seldom impressed enough that she seeks private audience with one newly come to the Court.”

  “I’m not exactly—”

  “As Lord,” he added quietly.

  “Oh.” She let the word hang there, and found other ones to add to it. “Andellen—”

  “Yes. I had words with the Lord of the High Court. He was prepared to execute your guards for breaking his law. But the circumstances were such that older law had precedence—should he choose to grant it—and he so chose. He was interested in the outcome, and little interests him now.”

  “He didn’t expect to see me.”

  The Lord of the West March frowned. “I would not say that, kyuthe. I would almost say the inverse. He did expect to see you, and he decided that it would go ill if your guards were disposed of. It is seldom that he deigns to show mercy, and when he does, it is never without cause. Or price. Come. I will lead you to the West Wing. Lord Evarrim is not pleased with the outcome, but not even he was bold enough to argue against it. You are of the High Court now, whether you wish it or no.”

  “What does that grant me?”

  “Freedom of the High Halls.”

  “I already had that.”

  The unfettered smile was beautiful; it was a gift. It made her feel awkward. “You did. But now you may walk those halls without escort.”

  “I have to have the escort, by your father’s word.”

  “The escort is now decorative,” the Lord of the West March replied. “I understand what I did not understand when you first arrived with Lord Andellen.”

  This time, she understood that the title granted was not a title granted by many. “What’s that?”

  “He was your anchor, in the High Halls. Samaran could not be what Andellen could, should the need arise. Now, Kaylin, there is no such need.”

  But that wasn’t the whole of it. She didn’t say as much.

  “I will not ask you what you saw. Lord Evarrim was bold, and assumed much ignorance on your part.”

  She nodded.

  “But I will ask you, instead, how you knew not to answer.”

  She saw the edge in the Lord of the West March. “Can we walk?” She countered. “I’m stiff, and if I don’t start moving soon, I won’t be able to.”

  “Ah. Very well.” He lifted his hands, and hanging by the straps were her shoes. She grimaced; she didn’t remember when she’d taken them off. But she accepted them and put them on—it was that or let him carry them, and even she wasn’t that stupid. They began to walk in the gardens, and birdsong replaced bardsong; the screeching and the squawking was almost a comfort. Looking up, she saw passing flashes of color. It was said that Hawks had no sense of color; she wondered.

  They left the garden by a door that Kaylin didn’t remember seeing. It had the advantage of not passing by the throne or the rest of the High Court. It led instead to halls that felt—rather than looked—vaguely familiar.

  She looked up at him, and caught him studying her expression. “It is,” he said, “the way to the wing I claim.”

  She nodded.

  “And you are aware of it now.”

  Nodded again.

  “You have exceeded my expectations here. You have confounded the expectations of many. Do you understand that you have made yourself a threat?”

  She frowned.

  “I thought not. You do much without thinking of consequences.”

  “I kind of like living,” she said sourly. “And it was do or die.”

  “True enough. But you were tolerated in spite of the mark you bear because you were mortal. What you have made of yo
urself now, not even the Lord of the High Court can say.”

  “And his younger son?”

  The Lord of the West March smiled; it was a cold smile. “I see the hand of Nightshade in this. He has always had a long reach.”

  “He didn’t—”

  “No. He did not tell you what to do. He couldn’t. And if I do not claim any expertise in the ways of mortals, even I am aware that you would be difficult to direct. Lord Andellen was here. And I believe he approves. But you are now a danger.”

  “I’m still mortal.”

  “Are you, Kaylin?” He paused. Stone girded them on either side, featureless except for the Barrani runes that bounded it by floor and curved ceiling. “No mortal has passed that test.”

  She shrugged, uneasy. “No mortal has taken it before.”

  “It is held as common knowledge that those without power cannot pass it. And you have. Therefore you are not without power as we understand it—and you are Nightshade’s. You bear his mark.” He was waiting for her to say something. She had no idea what.

  “Severn passed it.”

  The Lord of the West March raised a brow. His nod was a concession. “We do not fully understand how, or why, he was allowed to accompany you. We understand—from the little that Lord Andellen was willing to say—that it was meant to be your test.”

  “Why?”

  “You saw the rune,” he replied. “And your companion did not.”

  Fair enough. She lifted a hand and touched the wall, appreciating the texture of smooth, cold stone; it dampened the pain in her left arm. “Do you think Lord Nightshade intended for me to go to the tower?”

  “That is my belief, yes.”

  “Why?”

  His smile was thin. “You are his,” he replied. His smile deepened as her expression soured. “There is another concern,” he told her as she lowered her arm. “You are a Lord of the High Court by rite of passage, but you have not undertaken any oaths of fealty to the Lord of the High Court.”

  She said quietly, “I’ve sworn the only oath of fealty I can.”