Cast in Sorrow

“When you speak his name—if you are ever unwise enough to do so—you might scream it and none will hear the whole of the truth; it is not just the mouth that utters the name.”

“I could see the Dragon Outcaste’s name, once.”

“And you’ve never been suicidal enough to attempt to use it.”

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t hold it all in one place for long enough—it’s too big.”

Teela said nothing for a long moment. “I will need to bathe and change before I join the High Court in the dining hall. I would suggest you bathe, as well; the dress is, of course, without blemish—but your hair looks like it’s a nest of weeds.”

“Thanks.”

“This is your room,” Teela said.

“Where’s yours?”

“Closer to Corporal Handred’s. Don’t make that face. The Lord of the West March escorted your Corporal to his rooms; he is guaranteed to have arrived there in safety.”

“He’s not guaranteed to remain that way.”

“No—but then again, neither are the rest of us.” Teela smiled lazily. “Things are unlikely to be boring.”

“I don’t mind a little boredom, Teela.”

“That’s because you have less than a century worth of life in which to contain it. If you were actually immortal, you’d have a different attitude.”

Kaylin snorted. The door to her room was closed and warded. She lifted her left palm and placed it across the ward. What the door ward at the start of the wing had failed to do, this one did: it started to peal, like a series of badly formed, dissonant bells.

“I hate magic,” Kaylin said under her breath. She added a few choice Leontine words in the bargain as sword-wielding Barrani appeared around the corner. The small dragon leaped off her shoulders and headed toward them, which was infinitely worse. Kaylin ran after him in a panic. “Don’t!” she shouted. “I’m used to this kind of nonsense, and I can survive it. I probably can’t survive you turning them into puddles!”

“Puddles?” Teela drawled. She had moved—quickly and silently—to stand by Kaylin’s side, but hadn’t drawn her own sword.

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t, kitling.”

The men who clearly served the Lord of the West March slowed when confronted with a faceful of tiny dragon. Kaylin almost laughed. The small dragon was little and curmudgeonly—but he wasn’t harmless. It was too easy to forget that fact.

“Come back here right now.”

Fluttering, he spun to face her. He squawked.

She held out a hand, and added, “Please?”

Teela glared at them both as the small dragon landed. She said nothing, which told Kaylin that she disapproved of her handling of her companion, and she didn’t trust the guards enough to speak publicly.

The Lord of the West March appeared some fifteen minutes later. The door ward had fallen silent at the arrival of the guards, but the door hadn’t magically opened in the meantime, which left Kaylin cooling her heels in the hall, an annoyed Teela to her left.

“I am beginning to understand,” he said—in Elantran, which was almost shocking, “why you display such antipathy toward magical convenience.” To his men, he said—in the language of the Court, “Lord Kaylin is harmoniste; she does not pose a threat.” He glanced at the small dragon. “You vouch for your passenger?”

As the small dragon was once again lounging across her shoulders, Kaylin nodded.

Teela was not amused.

“Please activate the ward again.”

She did. Her arm was numb; her hand unfortunately wasn’t. The door made a lot of noise, and once again failed to open.

The Lord of the West March frowned. He caught Kaylin’s hand before she could drop it, glancing at her fingers. “Try the other hand,” he said. “Or transfer my ring to this one.”

He noticed her hesitance, but she managed not to let loose with a litany of complaints against door wards and magic in general. Barrani guards tended to take that kind of thing personally. She usually touched door wards with her left hand because she was right-handed, but didn’t feel the need to share; all the Barrani who worked in the Halls of Law appeared to be ambidextrous. She chose to move the ring; her hand was now numb.

But when she touched the door ward again, the door opened.

“Yes,” the Lord of the West March said to his assembled guard, “she wears my symbol. She is as kin in these halls.”

Given the way Barrani generally felt about their kin, this wasn’t saying much.

* * *

Kaylin was, until Bellusdeo’s arrival, used to having some privacy when she walked through her doors. The fact that these doors weren’t hers was driven home by the presence of two Barrani attendants. Teela, who insisted on a sweep of the rooms, didn’t blink; she did give curt instructions—to Kaylin.

“They are here to see to your needs,” she told Kaylin when they departed to prepare the bath. “If harm befalls you while you are in their care, they—and their families—will suffer for it. If you send them away, they will also suffer, although the penalties will be less extreme.”

“Why will they suffer if I send them away?” Kaylin asked. She felt as if she’d stepped onto a bridge and discovered it was actually a tightrope.

“If you send them away, their service will be considered inadequate. It will reflect poorly upon the hospitality of the Lord of the West March.”

“I don’t have attendants in the High Halls,” Kaylin pointed out.

“You do. But they are responsible to me, and I am familiar enough with your idiosyncrasies that I do not choose to censure them. You are not in my domain now. What you do here will affect those who have been chosen—no doubt personally—by Lord Lirienne. You will therefore allow them to assist you. You will treat them as servants who are worthy of consideration and respect—but you will not find them intimidating. If you must feel self-conscious about their presence, do not share. Understood?”

Kaylin nodded.

“We will dine. After dinner, it is likely that the Lord of the West March will call a council meeting. You are a Lord of the High Court; you are not a Lord of the West March. There is some overlap, but it is not one hundred percent. I expect you to be called to that meeting, although I consider it unwise.”

“Can I refuse to go?”

“I have considered the matter with some care. The Lady is not yet awake—and, kitling, I am at least as concerned as you are. Believe that Lord Lirienne is likewise worried. If she were present, I would feel less conflicted—but she won’t be. It is my hope that the council will be delayed until she is awake. The Warden of the West March is unlikely to fulfill that hope.”

Kaylin waited until she was certain Teela had finished. “That wasn’t a yes or a no.”

Teela smiled grimly. “Exactly. The ring you wear grants you a measure of freedom; it also constrains you. Any insult you offer, you offer in the name of the Lord of the West March. Lirienne is, in case you have not carefully followed our history, the direct descendent of the High Lord who caused so much damage to the green. As such, his position is precarious. He is, however, also his mother’s son. He is held in cautious regard.

“He cannot therefore afford political difficulty.”

“Teela, I’m already a political difficulty. I’m mortal, and I’m wearing this dress.” She reached for the heavy gold chain around her neck, adding, “And a Dragon’s symbol.”

“You understand. You have impressed the Warden.”

“Then why are your eyes blue?”

“Kitling, honestly, I am thinking of demanding that you live in the High Halls for a few of your mortal months. This is not a question you should be capable of asking, at this point.”

“I’m beginning to think I’ve done Diarmat an injustice,” Kaylin said.

“Oh?”

“I can safely loath him when he condescends me. Which is pretty much every time he draws breath.”

Teela laughed, her eyes shading to green. “Bathe.”

* * *

Barrani baths were pretty much small, warm pools. Kaylin’s idea of a bath—in her old apartment—generally involved a lot of cold water in a rush. But she had some experience with baths like this one; she’d spent time with Teela in the High Halls. It wasn’t that she hated the Barrani. She wasn’t usually smart enough to fear them, except when their eyes went midnight-blue—and any sane person did that.

They just made her feel self-conscious. They were probably centuries old, but they looked like women—and men—in the prime of a perfect youth. They had no obvious blemishes. They didn’t get fat—or thin. They weren’t short or gangly. They never had pimples.

During a normal day at the office, none of this mattered. Most of the crimes the Halls of Law dealt with involved other people. Other mortals. They were crimes the Barrani considered so trivial it was a wonder any Barrani served the Halls of Law at all.

They’d been part of the department before Kaylin’s arrival; she wasn’t certain how they’d come to serve Marcus. But Marcus was Leontine; the Leontines could go one-on-one with Barrani and expect to come out even. In a frenzy, they could expect to come out on top, in Kaylin’s opinion.

Humans? Not so much.

So she was being served by people who were taller, smarter, stronger, and infinitely more graceful. She was being served by people who probably knew more languages than Kaylin had fingers. She was being waited on—perfectly—by people who, in their youth, probably considered humans to be annoying or endearing pets.

And yes, she felt guilty about it.

So she found their perfect silence oppressive. She found it uncomfortable. Teela’s instructions made it clear that this was Kaylin’s problem—not theirs. The small dragon seemed to agree—but he didn’t apparently care for the silence, either, given the squawking that started up when Kaylin slid quickly into the bath.

The Barrani might have waited on humans day in, day out. They did not, however, wait on small, translucent dragons. When he first set up squawking—at them, apparently—they stiffened, turning immediately to face him as he hovered in front of their faces.

“If you are going to keep that up,” Kaylin said, glaring up the five feet that separated them, “I’m packing you in a small crate and sending you back home.”

Squawk.

“I mean it. They are here to help me bathe and dress. They are not here to drown me. They aren’t here to drown you, either. Cut it out.”

The attendants exchanged a glance.

The small dragon landed on Kaylin’s shoulder and bit her ear. She pulled him off and held him out in front of her face. “I’ve had a pretty crappy day, and I do not need this right now!” Her hands stiffened as she finally noticed the marks on her arms. They were glowing faintly, more bronze than gold. A very Leontine curse followed; Kaylin lifted herself out of the bath, sloshing water on a floor that, when slippery, probably killed people, or at least people who weren’t Barrani.

The small dragon squawked in a quieter way. He looked smug.

Kaylin looked very wet. “The water in this bath,” she said, modulating her voice and forcing it into High Barrani, which was so not the language she wanted at the moment, “where does it come from?”

The two attendants exchanged another glance. Kaylin did her best not to take it personally, and mostly succeeded. “There is a spring; this hall is built around it. The water for the baths within the personal rooms of the Lord of the West March comes from that spring.”

Kaylin frowned. “The fountain in the courtyard—is it connected to the springs in some way, as well?”

“It is.”

She turned immediately to the small dragon and dropped into Elantran; while the Barrani in the city could be expected to know Kaylin’s mother tongue, the Barrani of the West March might not. She considered Aerian, but her Aerian wasn’t as fluent. “It doesn’t matter if the water’s elemental, idiot. It’s safe.”

The small dragon wasn’t having any of it. She had no idea why he reacted so poorly to the water; he hadn’t reacted that way to fire, and fire was, in Kaylin’s opinion, vastly more dangerous.

Or, given he was a miniature dragon, maybe not. The small amount of dignity she did possess was unlikely to hold up in the face of an argument with a pet—and given the reaction of the servants, they seemed to see it as a pet and not a mythical, sorcerous creature. Wilting because she was hungry, she turned to her attendants. “Could we do this bath the old-fashioned way?”

* * *

The Barrani were not, apparently, accustomed to the human version of bathing, since it mostly involved nothing but buckets. It also involved hot water, which was a blessing. They didn’t complain; they asked a few brief questions, their tone neutral enough it couldn’t be called curt. Kaylin toweled her own hair dry, but allowed the Barrani to set it. They combed it to within an inch of Kaylin’s life; she was surprised there was any hair left when they’d finished. She’d picked up an annoying assortment of plant bits on the walk between Orbaranne and the West March; the Barrani obligingly dislodged all of it.

They even brought jewelry. Kaylin politely refused. Her ears weren’t pierced; holes were what other people put into you against your will. She already had one necklace. They didn’t approve, obviously—but also, silently. If Kaylin hadn’t been so certain Teela would rat her out to Sanabalis, she would have left the damn medallion in her room.

And if it is lost?

Losing something significant that belonged to a Dragon was not high on Kaylin’s list of acceptably painless suicides. I’m wearing it, aren’t I?

Yes, you are. You are perhaps unaware that you are the only person in this Hall who could wear it and expect to survive the week?

She hadn’t really considered that at all. It doesn’t mean it won’t upset people.

Nightshade was highly amused. If it upset no one, there would be little point in it. You do not belong in any Barrani Court, but you are here; you wear the blood of the green; your companion is of note to even the most powerful among our kin. Word has almost certainly traveled, Kaylin; the Lord of the West March may find his hall rather more crowded than even he anticipated.

Damn Barrani and their boredom.

You understand.

Chapter 5

In the Halls of Law, the mess hall could get crowded. Unless it was deserted, it was never quiet. There were scores in the wood of old tables and benches, some of which commemorated old war stories, and some of which were part of them. Kaylin didn’t know everyone who worked in the Halls on a first name basis, but she came close.

She was reminded that Barrani weren’t human when she entered the dining hall. Instead of one long table, it boasted three, but each of the three was immaculate. If the tables were wooden, she couldn’t tell; they were covered in pale cloth. The cloth itself was of no fixed color; hues changed as she walked. There were chairs, not benches; instead of candles, there were globes of what looked like hanging water.

Kaylin knew people did this with glass—but glass didn’t ripple and surge like a liquid. She found it disturbing.

It was far less disturbing than the silence that enveloped a relatively quiet hall as she entered. Nightshade hadn’t been wrong; the hall was crowded. The tables were longer than any single table she’d seen, and wider than most of the ones in the mess hall. The chairs were filled. A sharp, rising panic made her dare a sweep of the room to find Teela or Severn; she found Severn first.

“Lord Kaylin.”

At the head of the middle table—a table that was slightly taller than the two that bracketed it—stood the Lord of the West March. He didn’t rise; he hadn’t apparently taken his seat. Which meant, in Dragon etiquette terms, that no one could start to eat. Because she was late.

Being late had never filled her with so much horror.

A glimmer of a smile touched the eyes of the Lord of the West March; he’d clearly chosen to be amused. This set the tone for the rest of the meal—or it should have. For elegant, graceful, stately people, the ones gathered here watched like eagles. Or vultures.

Not vultures, surely, a voice that was not Nightshade’s said.

Her eyes rounded and she had the grace to flush.

Walk, Kaylin. Do not scurry, but do not dally. As you suspect, all eyes—or ears—are upon you. You have a place of honor in this hall while you wear the blood of the green; your place after you have served your purpose will be decided by your behavior before the recitation.

She knew his True Name.

Yes.

Nightshade could—and did—intrude on her thoughts as he pleased; the Lord of the West March had never done so. It hadn’t even occurred to her that he could until he spoke.

This deepened his amusement.

You are unaccustomed to power, kyuthe. It is an advantage—to me. But you are not in the friendly and tolerant environs of the High Halls now.

She didn’t stumble by dint of will. His smile deepened; his eyes were a shade of green that was tinged with blue, but not saturated by it. She didn’t need to tell him that the High Halls did not define either friendly or tolerant in her books, but she had a feeling that if she survived this, it would. At least where Barrani were concerned.

The small dragon raised his head and brought it to the level of her cheek. His wings remained folded, although today they couldn’t do much damage to her hair; she was fairly certain she would never again be able to take it down. Men and women turned in their seats as his head swiveled from side to side.

The servants had almost entirely ignored his existence.

They did not. They were aware of him.

Will they make reports to whoever they work for?

Most assuredly. They are mine. They report to me.

You probably know everything I know already, she said, not bothering to hide the defensive note creeping into her thoughts.

No. I understand what a name means to you. You believe that the interest shown you is unwarranted; you assign it to the blood of the green. Were all else equal, you would be correct. Keep walking.

She did. But she kept her gaze firmly on the Lord of the West March; she glanced once, briefly, at Severn, but looked away.

All else is not equal. You are Chosen; you bear the marks. It is the only reason the blood of the green has not started a minor—and brief—interracial war. You carry a creature on your shoulder that is capable of killing the transformed. My kin do not know what role you played in the liberation of Orbaranne, but they suspect the truth.

The...truth.

That it was not by my hand alone that she was saved.

She had reached the head of the table; the Lord of the West March held out a hand. She slid her right hand into his and he led her to the seat she was meant to occupy; it was to the right of his, across from Nightshade.

All of these things make you a threat. But you spoke to the nightmares of the Hallionne, and woke his dreams. The Barrani of the High Halls, saving only the Consort, lend this little weight in comparison to the rest of the things I have pointed out—but to the West March, it is your single, saving grace. Do not hide it; do nothing—at all—to lessen its impact.

She sat. Her mouth was dry. She was certain that dying animals felt this way when the shadows of vultures passed over them. Before—and after—the bath, she’d been hungry; she was not hungry now. Now, anxiety shoved hunger to one side. The marks on her arms, legs and back were normally hidden; the marks that had, over the course of the year, crept up the back of her neck, were not. Nor was the rune that squatted high in the middle of her forehead.

She’d gotten used to the dress over the past couple of weeks. It was both comfortable and practical; even the long, draping sleeves had more in common with Barrani hair than mortal cloth: they caught on nothing. She could, with a perfectly straight face, make an argument for the dress as a uniform in the Halls—that’s how practical it was.

But the attention the dress now received made it alien and uncomfortable again.

The small dragon nudged her cheek, rubbing his snout against newly clean skin. He warbled.

If she were being honest, it wasn’t the dress. It wasn’t the marks of the Chosen; not even the new one, which, unless she spent time in front of a mirror, she couldn’t see. It was the weight of expectation. It was the certain sense that she’d just punched in above her pay grade, and now had to act as if she worked here.

She’d spent a lot of time in her fourteenth year seething with outrage because no one took her seriously; she could remember it, and it embarrassed her to think about it now. But she’d never understood—even when under Diarmat’s blistering condescension—how much safety there was in that. When no one took you seriously, there wasn’t a lot you could do to screw things up. Nothing you said or did really counted; people expected you to fall flat on your butt.

She’d wanted to be taken seriously. She’d yearned to be treated as an equal. Evanton had once said, Be careful what you wish for, the wizened little bastard. She had a heaping plateful of what she’d wished for, and swallowing even a mouthful was proving difficult.

And why was that?

She remembered eating in the mess hall for the first time. She’d been so proud. That had lasted right up until someone told her that she was the official mascot. She hadn’t reacted well. But—and she realized this now—she’d had the luxury of her very poor reaction. She expected people to look down on her. She looked for signs of it in everything. She bristled with anger at her certainty that everyone was.

She needed some of that anger now, but it was gone.

She was certain everyone at this table looked down on her; Severn was seated at the table to the left, near the foot of the table; Teela had chosen the seat to his right. She couldn’t see them unless she swiveled in her chair, and she knew better.

Where had her anger gone? What had it even been? Oh. Right. She’d been enraged that the Hawks thought they could judge her when they’d had such easy lives. They hadn’t grown up in the shadow of Castle Nightshade. They’d had food, and a place to live, and families that were mostly still alive. They thought she was stupid and naive; they thought she was hapless and ignorant.

She’d wanted to see them survive Nightshade, and then they could sneer at her.

Looking around the table—which she could politely do—she realized that she’d lost that anger. Somehow, when she wasn’t looking, it had frayed, and she’d done nothing to stitch it back together to keep it going. She was no longer certain that the people around her had had easy lives. Yes, they lived forever if left to their own devices, and yes, they were, to a man, stunningly gorgeous and graceful.

But given the chance, Kaylin would live none of their lives. True, she daydreamed about being born Aerian. But Barrani or Dragon? Never. War and death defined the Immortals; they lost eternity to it. If they had friends, they didn’t claim them in public; friendship, affection, even love appeared to be the ugly stepchildren of their races.

“Lord Kaylin,” someone said, and she blinked. It was Lord Barian, the Warden of the West March. His eyes were blue. The eyes of everyone at this table, with the exception of Nightshade, were now blue. She had a sinking suspicion she’d missed something.

No, Kaylin. But you must pay attention now, the Lord of the West March said.

What’s his title?

You may address him as either Warden or Lord Barian. Neither will give offense.

“Lord Barian.” She inclined her head. Her hair felt like a helmet.

“You have joined the High Court only recently.”

“Yes.”

“I am curious. To become Lord of that Court, one must take the test of name; when one does not possess such a name, how is one tested?”

She found the embers of her anger then. “You have no doubt journeyed to the High Halls to take that test yourself, Lord Barian.”

Careful, kyuthe.