His eyes were green. Just green.
"I didn't know that he would mark me," she added quietly. "And I didn't know what it would mean." She straightened her shoulders. "But I understand that ignorance isn't an excuse."
At that, he did smile. She loved his smile. She loved it the way she had instantly loved Clint's Aerian laughter, its low tones resonant with a deep affection, no matter how it was offered. But Clint was mortal, and a Hawk. The Lord of the West March was neither.
"He did not explain?"
"He said it was for my protection."
"It is poor protection indeed in this Court."
"I'd noticed that."
"Lord Nightshade was not a man known for his patience. Nor was he known for his tolerance."
"You remember him?"
"I remember him. And Kaylin, I speak his name. Lord Andellen will understand the significance, even if you do not."
She turned to Andellen. "Lord?" She whispered.
"One of three who left the Court in the service of Nightshade," the Lord of the West March replied. "It is why he is here as your guardian."
"How do you know that?"
"If I valued you enough to risk the wrath of the Emperor by placing my mark upon you, it is what I would have done." He turned. "I waste your time," he said softly, "and you have little of it. It has long made communication between our kind difficult.
"I had not expected you to bear the medallion of Sanabalis. He is almost legend to us. You have friends," he added quietly. "But they are beyond you here.
"Come, Kaylin. There is a man I wish you to meet."
"Another High Lord?"
He nodded. "He is called the Lord of the Green."
"Your brother."
"My brother." His eyes had shaded into blue, but it was a pale blue. A color that she couldn't yet read.
And yet, unable to read it, she felt it. Regret.
"Yes," he said quietly. "You are strong. Strong enough to wear the medallion of the Dragon Sanabalis without being consigned to the fire." He paused, and then added, "I do not know if that is the strength that is required. But I know that the strength required is beyond me."
He led, and she followed, and for just that moment, caught in melancholy and regret that was not her own, she would have followed him anywhere.
Chapter Eleven
There was a subtle change in Andellen. Kaylin noticed it but couldn't say how; nothing about him was different. Not his stance, not his silence, not his expression or the color of his eyes. He walked just behind her, and by his side, Samaran. Their steps fell in perfect unison.
He did not defer to the Lord of the West March; the Lord of the West March did not seem to require or even expect it of him. But something had changed.
She would have asked, had he been mortal. Hell, she probably would have asked had he been a Dragon. But his demeanor, as always, discouraged questions. So instead, she turned her attention to the Lord of the West March. It was a mouthful, that title. Teela was called Anteela at Court; Lord Evarrim had something that could pass for a Barrani name—where name meant something that other people could use without sounding officious or pretentious. So far, no one had used anything but the long title.
And Kaylin, who could have, didn't dare. She couldn't even think of the syllables.
"The High Halls," the Lord of the West March said, "are the oldest standing structure known to the Barrani. There are ruins across the blasted plain to the south that are older still, but no one will cross the plains to reclaim them. Shadows grow there, and little else." He looked at her.
She looked at her feet. Finally, she said, "I don't know what the blasted plains are." She put a different emphasis on the geographical name.
"They are a reminder," he said quietly. "And more, they are our history. The history of the Dragons and the Barrani." He slowed his step to match hers. "You are not a student of history?"
"I'm not much of a student of anything," she confessed.
"Ah. Let us turn, then, to personal history."
Let's not. But she didn't say it. There was nothing intrusive in his tone.
"There are always incidents in our past which we would rather avoid speaking of. Those, much like the history of the plains to the immortals, are common in the broader scope of time. But there are junctures in a life. A single life. Events which can shatter it completely." His eyes were still an odd shade of blue. She thought he must know about the fiefs, about the deaths of Steffi and Jade.
He did not speak their names. How could he?
"In some individuals," he continued after the pause of her thoughts, "those events serve as catalysts. They define the direction and shape of the future, but the future is not bound to them, not beholden to them."
She nodded.
"We speak, at times, of the Dragons and their ancient war," he told her. The hall was long, and mirrors caught and reflected those who passed by, bouncing images back and forth until there was no end to what they captured.
"But we seldom speak of what followed. Dragons are primal, Kaylin. They know the names of elements. Like fire," he added softly, staring a moment at the medallion across her chest. "They know much. Their wars destroyed whole forests, killing everything that gained sustenance there. They were without mercy, and without kin.
"But a Dragon Emperor rules Ala'an. He sits upon a throne of gold, and from it he issues the laws upon which the mortals depend. He has, among his councilors, Dragons older by far than he, and he does not waver in the course he set for them when he killed half their number.
"It was the last war," he added softly, "that the Dragons fought. Perhaps it will not be the last war they fight. History speaks of the past, but it does not prevent the future."
She wondered where this was going; she was a Hawk, and saw for a moment as Hawks see. It was going somewhere.
"There are those among the Barrani who have witnessed the winds of that slow change. Some are not pleased by it. There has been a long rivalry between our kind that is unequalled among mortals.
"But there those who, seeing what has been built, understand that change is possible." He came to a door. "The understanding is imperfect," he added, lifting a hand to touch the door-ward in its center. "And it is costly. Where the Dragons have warred, the Barrani have warred, and if the war is different, the end is not—there are fewer Barrani. Were it not for the power the Dragon Emperor wields, the Barrani would not have acceded to his rule. Understand," he added, his palm hovering above the ward, "that his rule is tenuous at best, among our kind."
"You aren't killing each other in our streets," she said, mustering some defiance.
"But we are," he replied. "And in the marches, there has been war. In the mountains, there is rumbling."
"I don't understand."
"No. You don't. Change for the changeless is costly, Kaylin. Change—in your life—was no less costly. But what were your choices?"
He did know. She was certain of it. "I didn't have a choice," she said bitterly.
"Did you not? Do you not now bear the Hawk in the service of the Emperor?"
"No. I bear it in the service of the people." She said it baldly, because it was the truth, and because she knew she couldn't lie to him. Nor, to her surprise, did she want to.
"You could have chosen death," he told her. His hand still hovered.
"I almost did," she said flatly.
"Almost is not the same," was his soft reply. "It starts now." And he placed his palm on the ward.
The door swung open.
Kaylin wasn't certain what she had expected. Certainly not forest, and forest was nowhere in evidence. What had the brother been called? The Lord of the Green? But the room, the huge room, was not green. It was stone, and the smooth, carved walls, rose up in a rounded peak, like an artistic interpretation of great caverns.
One still pond lay in the center of the room; no statues stood in its center; the water was motionless, and seemed almost dull. Pocked stones surrounded and
circled it, and tall standing torches rested around the circumference in eight, evenly spaced places.
Her breath echoed. Only hers. No one else seemed to need to breathe.
"Where is he?" she said, and again, the words echoed.
"He is here," the Lord of the West March said.
He walked toward the still water.
Kaylin followed, and as she did, her feet—in shoes with soles so thin she could feel the rough texture of stone push against leather—passed above engraved words. She paused.
"Be a Hawk, Kaylin," the Lord of the West March told her softly. "Be what you are, kyuthe."
She knelt, freed by his command. Unfortunately, his command didn't change the shape of her dress or the folds of the skirts or the tightness of the sleeves that must have been designed to hide the whole of her arms no matter how she moved. The trailing bits were a pain, and she thought about cutting them off.
Reached for her daggers, and remembered that she didn't have them. Gods, she hated politics.
But she let the hate go; the words were waiting. "These are… High Barrani?"
He said nothing. They were, she thought, recognizing some of the old forms. But not all of them. Some of the writing was wrong, its shape too full, and too round. Her eyes widened, sliding to the green sleeves of concealment she wore. "How old did you say the High Halls were?"
"Old," he replied.
"And this… room?"
"It is, as you guess, the oldest room in the Halls."
"This… this word—" she trailed the shape with her fingers "—this is High Barrani. It's… it means blood."
"Very good."
"And this, this one—it means life."
His face was utterly still. He offered her nothing.
She crept across the floor on her knees. Tracing. Touching. "This is death," she said. "And this is growth."
"The latter, I know. And you are correct."
She looked up. Met his eyes. "This is containment," she told him. Her fingers read the word; her eyes were his.
"It is."
She stood, and made her way to the torches. What had seemed like water upon first sight seemed thicker and darker on second. "This is why you summoned me," she said, her voice flat.
"I am sorry," he replied. "I could not speak of it without the castelord's leave."
"But you brought me here."
"With his leave."
"Am I going to be able to walk out?"
He said nothing. It was too much nothing.
She walked along the stones that formed the edge of the pool. There were words there. She began to speak them, almost unconsciously. Halfway around, she realized her lips hadn't moved. She looked up, almost in a panic, and met Andellen's eyes.
Saw knowledge in them. And a glimmer of approval, a brown at the edge of blue; he was either angry or worried. For most Barrani, the difference wasn't obvious.
She resumed her walk. And when her foot touched the last stone and passed over it, when she spoke the last word, all of the symbols began to glow green.
The Lord of the West March said, "So."
"You could have done this."
"Yes. I and perhaps one other."
"Why did you—"
"It is a test, Kaylin Neya. And it is not a kind one. But if you have served with Barrani, you will understand that kindness is not in our nature. Stand there," he added softly.
"Another test?"
"No. If you move, you might fall in."
Which was suddenly a very, very bad idea. She could swim; all of the Hawks could. But she swam in water.
The thick liquid that wasn't liquid parted slowly, as if four lines had crossed the circle and divided it. As if it were pie made of slugs.
The liquid peeled back in sections. It didn't flow, and it didn't drip. It didn't really surge. It just… peeled away, as if it were viscous skin.
And rising from its widening center was a man. He was as tall as the Lord of the West March, and as perfect; he was as regal as the castelord. She couldn't say afterward what he wore; it seemed to be moving light, something that mimicked clothing without descending to it. He surveyed them all, this man beneath the liquid, ringed by torches that seemed frail enough to gutter.
She almost forgot to stand still.
Andellen was by her side in an instant, his hands upon her arms, his chest at her back. There was no warmth in him, but there was strength. He held her up, when her knees suddenly started to fold.
When she whispered something that wasn't even a word.
"Lord of the Green," the Lord of the West March said, and then, in a voice that was resonant with fury and pain, "brother."
But the Lord of the Green was staring at Kaylin, and Kaylin could not look away. His eyes were almost green, but where Barrani eyes were clear, his were murky; there was blue in them, but it, too, was murky. Yet he wasn't blind.
He was also the only Barrani High Lord to look at her who did not first notice the mark that adorned her cheek.
Something about him felt familiar. Not his face, and certainly not his clothing; not his stance, not his movements—because he hadn't. Moved. Something hovered on the edge of her awareness, and had she not been a Hawk, it might have eluded her.
She wished, when she caught it, that she was a Sword or a Wolf instead.
She turned to the Lord of the West March in something that could be called panic, if she were prone to understatement. It had never been one of her failings. "He's—"
"Yes?"
She swallowed. The single word was sharp, as much of a threat as he had yet offered. She would have looked at Andellen, but he was behind her.
Caution. Caution was crucial here. Because she wanted to survive. That had been her ambition, and by many standards, it wasn't a remarkable one. But in this Court, it might just have been rendered impossible.
"He's… dying," she said at last.
"I was dying when you were brought to my side."
She shook her head. "Not—not like this."
"Go on, Kaylin."
Shut up, Kaylin. She swallowed. "Lord of the West March. Kyuthe," she added, "answer a question."
"Perhaps. Ask it."
"What is leoswuld?"
The silence was, as they often said, deafening.
But the Barrani with milky, colored eyes, heard the word, as well.
"It is the life of the Barrani," the Lord of the West March replied.
"But it means something else here."
"Yes. The High Lord convened Court in a manner that has been done only a handful of times in our history. He means to pass on."
She frowned.
"It is not death as you understand it," he added quietly. "But the giving of life. What he passes on, he passes to the next Lord of the High Court." He paused, and then added, "My brother."
She shook her head. The wrongness of the words—even if she didn't fully understand their significance—made breathing an art. "He's… dying."
And the Barrani known as the Lord of the Green said, "Yes."
The Lord of the West March came to stand beside Kaylin at the edge of the circle. He took no trouble to hide pain or longing, although the word had not been intended for his ears.
"You know of the undead," he said to Kaylin. It might have been talk about the weather, for all its intensity. That was reserved for his brother, and it could not be moved.
But she nodded. Because that's what she could almost see in the Lord of the Green. Almost.
"And you know, then, of the folly behind the choice of the undying." Not immortal, but undying.
She swallowed. "The names," she whispered.
"Yes. Names have power. And those who hold our names have power over us." He looked at her then. She said nothing. "If," he added as a concession, "their will is the greater will, and their power, the greater power."
"He's trying to give over his name—" She stopped.
Straightened up again, her knees finding strength. She shook herself fr
ee of Andellen, and he let her go. "It's not to be free of the name," she said quietly. "That's not why he's doing it."
"Is it not?"
She wanted to hit the Lord of the West March. Hard. She bit her lip instead, because she had no doubt that he would return the blow, and she wouldn't be the winner in that exchange.
The Lord of the Green watched her.
And then he lifted his hands, palms up. His brother looked away. It didn't help; she could sense the hunger there. But there was something beyond hunger.
She lifted her own hand; the Lord of the Green did not move. Shaking, she reached out, and her sleeves trailed above the liquid that had been his prison. Or his safety.
Their fingers met.
She had touched Barrani before. Hell, she'd had to shove Teela off her bed half a dozen times when the drinking had ended and memory blurred. She'd touched Tain, mostly to annoy him. She'd touched Nightshade. She'd touched the Lord of the West March.
None of them prepared her for this.
Because in touching him, she saw not his life, not his injuries, not anything of him. She saw herself instead. Felt her life, felt memories fade in and out of existence, as if she were Records, and he was dredging them. She saw the marks on her arms with horror and fear, as new things; she saw the marks on the dead as intimations of her own mortality. She saw her mother's slack face, pallid skin, recoiled at the smell of her death. Saw Severn, as she had seen him then, waiting in silence, his eyes mirroring her loss, his words promising that he would protect her from any other loss.
Saw blood—heard
Screaming.
Hers. All hers.
The Lord of the West March caught her hand and pulled it back, breaking the contact; her throat was raw.
But not so raw that she would not speak here.
"He wants my name," she whispered.
"Yes. And mortals have no name. They have life. They are the sum of what they experience."
The Lord of the Green said, "Elianne."
She closed her eyes. "That's not who I am," she whispered. But she was lying. Her fingers burned. Where she had touched the Lord of the Green, they burned.
"It was him, wasn't it?" she asked the Lord of the West March. "It was because of him that you lay—"