That is because you lack will and strength. Truly, if the outcaste desired it, he could wrest control from you with very little effort. And that is true, as well, of the Lord of the West March. I understand the inhibitions placed upon the Lord of the West March; there would be consequences should he do so. I fail to understand what prevents the outcaste from regaining control of his name. Regardless, I cannot answer your question because I cannot repeat it.
The Lord of the West March turned to the Hallionne Orbaranne. “If it will not trouble you overmuch, we will perhaps entertain our guests in the hall here.”
“Good,” Kaylin said, deciding. “Perhaps you can tell us what happened to the people who made their way to Orbaranne.”
He met her gaze and held it in uncomfortable silence.
13
Kaylin sat at the table upon which food had magically appeared. Her appetite had not returned, and would not return for some time, but at least the sight and scent of food didn’t make her nausea any worse. Bellusdeo looked at the food as well, as if assessing the likelihood that it contained poison. There was no fear in her expression; her eyes were orange, but that suddenly seemed a sensible color. At least they weren’t the blood red of fury that implied someone was about to die.
Kaylin had no illusions. If Bellusdeo went full-on Dragon here, it was Bellusdeo who’d die. And Bellusdeo, no fool, probably understood this better than she did. But this Bellusdeo, Kaylin had almost never seen. She was Imperial. Regal. She looked almost disturbingly Barrani; no hair out of place, no motion that was not graceful or deliberate. She took the seat that was held out for her—by the Hallionne, not the Lord of the West March; she fiddled with the various bits and pieces of junk that came before formal dinner—napkins, cutlery, weird plates.
Kaylin felt almost embarrassed. This style of social manners had not been part of Bellusdeo’s kingdom when she ruled it; she still considered it far too Barrani to be adopted by Dragons. But...she clearly, in spite of that, had learned, and learned perfectly. Kaylin once again felt like she was coming to the dinner table after she’d just run down a criminal suspect across two warrens.
“Hallionne Orbaranne, could you please tell us what you think happened? We know that Sedarias and the rest of her friends set out from the Hallionne Alsanis by the portal paths. They wished to arrive in Elantra quickly, and felt that the weeks of overground passage would cause too much of a delay.”
“The portal paths are not taken except in cases of emergency,” the Hallionne replied, “as I believe you know from your past experience.” Her voice was neutral, the way stone was neutral. Kaylin hadn’t expected that, and was surprised at how it stung.
“Could we take the portal paths now?”
Silence.
“Did the Hallionne not just say that they were not to be taken except in cases of emergency?” The Lord of the West March said.
“It’s an emergency,” Kaylin replied, in just as stony a tone as the Hallionne had used. “And I need to speak with Alsanis.”
“You might, at the Hallionne Orbaranne’s discretion, speak to him from here.”
“It won’t be the same, and you know it. They left the Hallionne Alsanis, and when they left they were safe. If they chose to take the portal paths, they did so from Alsanis. He’s aware of them in ways that nothing else is.” She tried very hard not to fold her arms defensively, and only barely succeeded. She was very, very troubled by the Consort’s advice. “And I have a pressing emergency.”
“Oh?”
“Your sister, the Consort, has graciously accepted an invitation to dine at my home in three days. If we can’t use the portal paths—”
“There is no way that you will arrive in Elantra in three days. I suggest you avail yourself of the mirrors here to inform the Consort that you will have to reschedule her dinner.”
“Fine. I’ll also need to talk to Helen.”
“Your home.”
“Yes. She’s probably going to be worried.”
* * *
That was, of course, an understatement, if a hopeful one. Helen did answer the mirror call. She was standing in her one safe room, and her eyes were obsidian. Literally. She had also ditched the more maternal lines and wrinkles that implied gentle smiles from the corners of her eyes and mouth; her hair was pulled back from her face in a very, very martial way.
Her voice, however, was mostly normal. “Grethan carried word from the Keeper,” Helen said, after Kaylin had blurted out both an apology and a précis of their current location. “I should possibly inform you that the Imperial Court is also aware of what happened.”
Kaylin couldn’t help it. Her shoulders sagged. “Has the Emperor called?”
“No. Lord Emmerian, however, visited in person. I would suggest that you make contact with him. Or possibly the Arkon.”
“They won’t accept a mirror call from this source,” Bellusdeo unexpectedly said.
“I will endeavor to pass a message on, then. You are well?” she asked the Dragon.
“Yes. I have been treated as a guest, not a prisoner of war.”
“I don’t believe the Barrani took Dragons as prisoners,” Helen pointed out.
An unfortunate silence followed her words. Kaylin rushed to fill it. “I need to let the Consort know—”
“I do believe the High Halls will accept the message that the Imperial Palace will not. I should add that your familiar was somewhat agitated, and he is en route to you now. He asks that you not do anything foolish before he arrives.”
She looked past Kaylin to the Avatar of Orbaranne, then. “Kaylin,” she said, to the Hallionne, “is my Lord. She is my chosen Lord.” As if one building that was immobile could threaten another building that was immobile.
Orbaranne, however, nodded as if she had expected no less. “Lord Kaylin saved my life,” she replied, voice grave. “I owe her a debt of honor.”
“And that is not a debt you owe to Annarion and Mandoran’s brethren.”
“No, Helen. The two are with you, then?”
“They are, indeed, under my protection. As is the Dragon who is currently your guest.”
“Helen—”
Helen, however, was not done. She spoke in a language that Kaylin did not know, but nonetheless felt she should. And Orbaranne responded in kind. The floor shook, rumbling as if the earth beneath it was about to break open.
The Lord of the West March looked surprised. Helen did not. Bellusdeo might have been carved of stone for all the expression she was willing to surrender.
“Kaylin,” Helen said. “Find the water. Find it while it can still speak. I will leave you now to speak with the Consort, if she is available.”
She is, Ynpharion said. His interior voice, usually so loaded with condescension and disgust it was a wonder it could be used to convey anything else, was utterly neutral.
The mirror’s image didn’t shatter; it swirled like liquid leaving a basin, taking the images with it in elongating streaks of color that no longer suggested Helen or the interior of the one room in which she allowed the mirror network access.
Bereft of color, the silver surface reflected the people in the room before it: the Lord of the West March, the Avatar of the Hallionne, Bellusdeo and Kaylin herself. Before Kaylin could speak, that silver faded, and with it the interior lights of the great hall. Instead, a shadowed darkness seemed to envelope the mirror itself, and it was slow to return even the outline of an image.
Kaylin almost stopped breathing as her eyes adjusted. This was not the Consort’s room. Nor was it the cavern that was home in some fashion to the Lake of Life over which the Consort stood guardian, and to which she was servant.
The hair on Kaylin’s neck suddenly stood on end. So did the hair on her arms, which were covered, as they always were when she was on any sort of duty. This was not shock, although she certainly felt shoc
k; it was entirely other. When asked, Kaylin said she had an allergy to magic. It wasn’t precise, but it was close enough. On most days.
This was not most days.
She was silent as the marks on her arms began to glow. The glow was faint, but she knew that everyone in the room had noticed, save perhaps the Lord of the West March, who was staring at the mirror as if nothing else existed.
“Sister,” he said, his voice itself a kind of hush.
“Lirienne,” she replied. She could not be seen. Her voice could be heard. But hers was not the only voice Kaylin could hear, and she lifted both hands to her ears almost instinctively as the hall filled with the sounds of the damned.
The Consort was at the base of the High Halls—the reason the High Halls existed. “Can you hear them, brother?”
The Lord of the West March did not reply. Kaylin glanced at his profile; he was white, his jaw clenched. His hands had become fists by his side, but his expression was otherwise almost neutral. Almost. His eyes were midnight.
What is she doing there? Kaylin demanded of Ynpharion.
I am not at her side, Lord Kaylin. His voice, like the Lord of the West March’s expression, was neutral, devoid of the usual contempt, which was oddly creepy. This thought, on the other hand, annoyed him enough that his usual personality spilled out. Unlike a simple mortal, I respect and value the orders that I have been given. Nor do I need to be where she is now standing to see what she sees.
How in the hells did you let her go down there by herself? Kaylin wasn’t shouting, but had she opened her mouth, she would have been.
She is my lord, he replied, all ice. When she commands, I obey. She did not wish company.
Did you even know that she was going down there?
She is safe there. She has passed the Test of Name. What exists within the bowels of that place no longer has the ability to harm her.
And yet, the screaming, the weeping, the verbal pleas—those hurt. Kaylin knew it, because they hurt her. And she was not the guardian of the names—the guardian of Barrani life. Ynpharion was wrong.
She is not alone, he finally, and grudgingly, said.
But Kaylin could almost see that, now. There was very little light in this darkness, but not none. And the man she saw made her freeze in place for one long breath.
Do not even imagine, Ynpharion said, before she could gather up anything that resembled a coherent thought, that I have any control over the High Lord himself.
The High Lord was there, his profile as tense as his brother’s, half a continent away. What the Consort heard, the High Lord heard; that was the price of rulership. But the High Lord had almost failed the test. No, Kaylin thought, he had failed it. What had saved him—the only thing that had saved them all—was his name; it had been incomplete, unfinished, the weight of it too much for the previous Consort to bear.
If Kaylin had problems with the Consort being in this cavern, it was nothing compared to the issue she now had. She wanted to scream into the mirror. And because she did not know the High Lord’s name, because she did not hold it, she had no other choice.
“What are you doing there?” she demanded, shouldering his silent brother out of the way without conscious thought.
It was the Consort who answered, her voice cool with warning. “It is not the first time I have traversed this long, long hall. Nor, I fear, will it be the last.” She did not appear in the mirror; it was as if she was holding a portable one in her hand, and had it turned out and away.
“But—your brother—”
“No one, not a single Barrani, be they Lords of the High Court of long-standing, would ever consider telling the High Lord what he can, or cannot, do. He is not what he was—and you, of all people, should understand this.”
“Why are you there, then?”
“Consider it a patrol, Lord Kaylin.”
That was garbage. It was stinking garbage. Kaylin opened her mouth and shut it again, hard enough that the snap of her teeth made her jaw ache. “I...apologize...for interrupting you,” she said, in slightly stilted High Barrani. “I would not have—” what was the word? “—been so presumptuous, but I had extended an invitation to dine in my home, and I do not believe I am able to meet with you on the agreed upon date.”
“And why would that be? I must confess I looked forward to that dinner with some anticipation. It is not every day, after all, that I come face-to-face with Dragons outside of the Imperial Palace.”
“The Dragon is also unable to attend.”
Silence.
“She currently finds herself in the same situation I do.”
More silence. Kaylin could feel the sudden absence of Ynpharion, and whispered a mental coward at his retreating presence.
“And that situation?” The Consort’s High Barrani had developed an almost martial edge.
“We both appear to be guests of the Hallionne Orbaranne at the moment.” Kaylin resented having to say this out loud, since the Consort bloody well knew where Kaylin was. But...that was politics all over: a bunch of powerful people saying, diplomatically, what everyone at the table already knew. And then acting surprised. It seemed like a huge waste of time, and it didn’t seem to serve any functional purpose.
“Lord Bellusdeo...is a guest in the Hallionne.”
“Yes. She arrived with me. I apologize for not attempting to get the necessary permissions from the two courts; it was considered an emergency by the elemental water. The water did not confer with us; nor did she ask our permission. According to the Keeper, she was...agitated. He was right. She was agitated enough to pick us up in the Keeper’s Garden and drop us here.”
Another silence, this one less extended. “And the nature of that emergency?”
Kaylin wanted to scream. “It appears that compatriots of two of my personal guests chose to travel from the Hallionne Alsanis to the Hallionne Orbaranne. Something occurred while they were in transit, and they have been lost.”
Silence. So much silence, all of it weighted, all of it harsh.
“Lirienne,” the Consort said, and there was a definite edge in the name, “is this true?”
“I myself have only just been informed of the rumor,” he replied, his voice much softer and smoother than the Consort’s. “And I have not yet been able to ascertain the truth of it.”
“And you will do so?”
“I—”
“As the Consort requests,” the High Lord said. “If her voice is not yet enough, brother, let me add mine. I will not command you; the West March is, of course, yours, and I have seldom interfered in its politics; it has not historically been wise.” And Kaylin knew that he referred, subtly, to a previous High Lord and his interference with the regalia, in the heart of the green.
That interference had almost destroyed twelve Barrani children; they had survived through the intervention of Hallionne Alsanis. From any other man, this comment might have seemed or felt self-deprecating, but not even Kaylin was that naive. She could hear the fire and the ice that gave those words shape, and she knew they were not offered to the younger brother; they were aimed.
The Lord of the West March bowed his head. “You have not spoken at length with the Hallionne Alsanis, brother. I have. Where we rejoiced in the salvation of the eleven, we also understood that they were no longer completely as we are. We were, however, content to allow them to remain as guests; Alsanis himself insisted on it. His attachment to them has grown with the passage of time. We did not expect that they would attempt to leave so soon. The Hallionne is not cognizant of all of their abilities.”
“Annarion and Mandoran came with me when I went back,” Kaylin pointed out. Bellusdeo nudged her. Coming from a Dragon, it was a gentle, subtle gesture—but Kaylin wasn’t a Dragon; her ribs would probably be bruised.
“Yes, Lord Kaylin. And shortly after their arrival, the High Halls came under at
tack—and the attackers were ancient, dangerous. Were it not for the Dragons, the Halls might have fallen there.” Lirienne’s voice was dry, almost uninflected. But there was subtle accusation in the words, and it was aimed at people she now considered friends.
“Annarion and Mandoran didn’t attack the High Halls!”
“No; had they, we would not be having this conversation. But Alsanis felt that it was possible—perhaps probable—that their very presence woke the ancestors.”
Since this was more or less fact, Kaylin bit back further words until she once again had control over what fell out of her mouth. “The Emperor’s hoard is the empire.”
“Indeed.”
“He has not demanded their destruction; he has not made them criminal. They live in my house—”
“Your house is not a normal mortal dwelling; it is not even a normal Barrani dwelling.”
“Lirienne,” the Consort said, indicating that his conversation with Kaylin could wait. “I wish no harm to come to them. They were ill used once, or they would not now be as they are; they were abandoned by their kin. Were it not for the Chosen, their names would be lost to us forever.”
“They intended to travel to Elantra. To the High Halls.”
“Yes,” the Consort replied. The High Lord glanced at her, but did not speak.
“They intend to take the tower’s Test. They intend to—”
“Stand where we are now standing. Yes.”
“You knew this.”
“What other reason would they have for returning? I did not know, but I suspected.”
“The risk is too great.”
“To what? If you speak of the politics, of the small wars that are starting even as we speak, that is the nature of power and inheritance among our kin. They will either die, or they will triumph; that has long been the way of our people.” She fell silent. Kaylin thought she was done, but after a pause which neither of her brothers broke, she continued. “That has never been our way. We three did not choose to fight those wars, did not choose to target each other. You have been Lord of the West March, and you have been—at a distance—the strongest of supporters the High Lord has among our people.
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