"He is my kin," the Lord of the West March replied. "I thought to save him from his choice. I failed."
"It's not—" She struggled with words. She always did when it was important. Her fingers were tingling; they told a story. Her hands were like eyes when they touched the living. She hadn't known it—not clearly—until this moment. When she healed, they watched. They observed. They spoke.
"His name."
The Lord of the West March touched her face gently. "What of his name, Kaylin?"
"Someone else holds it. Something else."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because he doesn't. Not… not the way you do. Not the way Teela does. Not—" and she turned to touch Andellen's face before he could move "—the way Andellen does. It's there, but it's not there."
"That is the definition of the undying," the Lord of the West March said with just a trace of condescension. It didn't even bother her.
"That's why he's trying to die. That's why he's trying to shed his name. It's not for power," she added. "It's not for the freedom from the tyranny of the name. It's for freedom from the man who holds it. Don't you understand? He's lost his name. He's trying to divest himself of it in the only way he can because of the leoswuld. He's doing it because he knows he can't be a vessel for anything if he's… undying. Whatever gift the Lord of the High Court gives, he won't give to the Lord of the Green."
The Lord of the Green looked at her. Only at her.
But he did not deny the truth of her words.
"He can't kill himself," she said quietly. "He doesn't have that much control anymore. I think he tried to make you kill him." She added, "I hold your name." Speaking to the younger brother, holding the gaze of the older.
The Lord of the West March stiffened; she'd almost forgotten Andellen was present. But this was important enough that it almost didn't matter.
"If you wanted to be free of that, how would you do it?"
"I would kill you."
"And that would work?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
"Then find the person who holds his name and kill him."
"That, kyuthe, is why you are here."
"What?"
"In truth I cannot think of the man who could hold my brother's name with any certainty. But there is one who must be able to," he added grimly. "And if I cannot free my brother, it will end here."
The words made no sense. On so many levels. She did her best to alleviate that by starting with the basics. "Your brother almost killed you."
"Yes."
"And not by his choice."
"No. We have argued much, but we have never descended to kinslaying. I did not suspect—I would not have known—but he must have retained just enough control of himself that I could escape."
She said, "But you have to give your names."
He said nothing.
Kaylin looked at his face. He hid nothing, either. For just a moment. She turned to the Lord of the Green. "I will do this," she said quietly. "I'll… free you."
And he looked at her… and nodded. His face twisted in spasm.
"It is time," the Lord of the West March said, "to leave." He spoke loud words that had the tone and texture of High Barrani. They were not Barrani in any form that Kaylin understood.
The liquid began to move in. The Lord of the Green was swept, slowly, into the depths that had hidden him from all sight.
"If he dies," she said, "you'll be the castelord."
"Yes. And perhaps, in time, I will be the castelord regardless. But not like this, Kaylin. Never like this." He bowed his head for a moment. When he lifted it, his eyes were blue. "I will take you to your rooms," he said softly.
"My—oh, right."
"I have made provision for you there. The rooms are adjacent to my personal quarters, as befits a kyuthe." He turned and began to walk out of the chamber.
She called him silently.
He stopped.
"How am I supposed to do what you can't?"
"I do not know," he replied. "But you woke me, you found me when I was lost."
"I can't do that for him. I don't think I could survive touching him—"
"No. You cannot. I do not think he could prevent himself from devouring you whole."
"Then how—"
His eyes were darker now. "Find a way, kyuthe. If you, who bear the marks of the Old Ones, cannot, no one can."
She was silent; she followed him out the door. But it occurred to her that the marks he spoke of were marks she had never mentioned to him. And she wondered what else she had left behind in his forest.
Her rooms were sparse and fine, and when she entered them, she paused to look at the west wall; it was glass, colored and divided by something too shiny to be lead. Some panes were clear enough that they looked like openings until they met her palm; the others were dark, like precious gems. If there was a pattern in them, she couldn't see it—but she wasn't concerned about her accommodations.
She was thinking; although she had been forbidden the Hawk, it still defined her. Her fingers had gone the numb that cold causes; it beat burning. But they were clumsy and awkward.
The dress made her feel clumsy and awkward, as well. It was just too pretty, too expensive, too—highborn. If she had dreamed of wearing a dress like this, if she had once dreamed of rescue, in the way children do, she'd grown beyond the dream. Or it had grown too small to contain her. It didn't matter.
If the Lord of the West March had not been standing by her side, she'd have stripped it off. Or tried. She hadn't forgotten about the damn buttons.
"You told me," she said quietly, as she pretended to notice the wall of windows, "that no one else knew about the Lord of the Green."
"It is known that he is at Court," the Lord of the West March replied. "And he has appeared in the company of the High Lords."
"Not as himself."
"He was fey," was the quiet reply.
"The castelord knows."
"The castelord is Lord of the High Halls. What passes here, he knows."
She frowned.
"Hawk," he whispered.
She turned to see his subtle smile. His eyes, however, were blue and dark. "Did you tell Teela?"
"Teela? Ah, Anteela. My cousin."
"Yes."
He said nothing for a moment. Then he walked past the windows, to a cabinet that rested in the curve of the wall. He opened it, and brought out a decanter that was probably as heavy as most babies she delivered; it was certainly more solid. "Will you drink?"
"Not on duty."
"You are not on duty."
She hesitated. "I don't generally drink in the company of strangers."
"But I am not a stranger, kyuthe. You have my name."
And what did that mean? She could call him; he would hear her. But the syllables that had shattered foreign sky didn't tell her anything at all about the man. The Barrani weren't human. They weren't mortal. She had always been aware of it, but she'd never truly known it. Not like this. "I'll… drink."
He poured. She watched his hands move, aware that he honored her. She turned. "Andellen," she said quietly.
Andellen nodded.
"I wish to speak privately with the Lord of the West March."
"I do not counsel it," Andellen replied, surprising her.
Surprising the Lord of the West March, as well. "He is yours," the High Lord said. "And he knows what you know. I see no harm in his presence."
"Samaran, however, will wait outside," Andellen added.
Samaran bowed. It was like a little ritual that was beyond her understanding.
The door closed on Samaran's back. They stood in the room, Andellen, the Lord of the West March, and Kaylin Neya.
She said, "As far as the Court knows, the Lord of the Green is well."
"He is meditating, in preparation for the gifting."
She nodded. "So… his attempt… to divest himself of his name—that must have been recent. As far as the L
ords know, he's fine. In that case, what effect would your death have?"
"It would grieve the High Lord."
"But it would change nothing, in their eyes."
"You have some understanding of the Barrani, Kaylin. It would change little. Perhaps, at a different time, it would mute the Festival, would quiet the song and the story of the High Court. But this is the time of the leoswuld, and even the death of kin does not compare in import."
"I was summoned, in haste, to heal you," she said bluntly. Although Teela was right; it was hard to be blunt in High Barrani.
"Ah?"
"And I was told—as was my Lord—that were I to fail, there would be war."
He nodded, his fingers around the stem of a glass that seemed too delicate to hold air, never mind gold liquid.
"But if I understand correctly, Lord of the West March, war would only occur if both of the sons of the castelord were beyond him."
The Lord of the West March was silent.
"You have a sister."
"We have."
"But she can't carry the life of the castelord."
"No. It would doom both she and our people in ways that I will not explain."
"Therefore, it must be either you or your brother who accepts the gift of the High Lord."
He nodded.
Frustrated, Kaylin slid into Elantran; it was like a second skin, and a damn sight more comfortable than the awkward one she'd been wearing. "Look, I'm not stupid. If you're both dead, there's no one to take the gift. Either the castelord does not pass on—or he passes his life to someone else. Deciding who that 'someone else' would be would cause a lot of bloodshed. I'm guessing that it would be whoever was left standing. Tell me when I'm wrong, okay?"
The Lord of the West March looked to Andellen. "Is she always this difficult?" he asked, in High Barrani.
"I have only recently been assigned to guard her, but I would say, given the brief experience, that she is usually more difficult."
Kaylin, not a big fan of arrogance, found it hard not to bristle. She did try. She'd come that far. "What I'm trying to say is that Teela knew. About the Lord of the Green."
"He understood the implication," Andellen told her gently.
"And the castelord knew."
The Lord of the West March handed her a glass. She half expected it to snap in her hands. It didn't.
"Do you think that Anteela could have left the High Court without his knowledge? Do you think that you—with your outcaste Lord—could have passed between the statues without his knowledge?"
"Well, yes, if you must know."
"Then you fail to understand the castelord. And you fail to understand your compatriot. She serves the castelord, Kaylin."
"She serves the Hawklord."
"Even that service is at the whim of the Lord of the High Court. I am not aware of all that passed while I was lost," he added quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. "But I am aware that she must have approached him. I am aware that she must have told him far more of your history than you were willing to surrender at his command. You are not kin," he added. "And any claim she might make on your behalf—and she made a very deep one, for our kind—was tenuous at best. But she went, and in haste. She returned, in haste. She will not speak to me of what occurred, and this is wise.
"She will not answer my questions, however, and this is not." His frown was delicate. It was also lovely. "But Anteela could not have been aware of what transpired between the Lord of the Green and I when we last spoke."
"Who found you?"
He said nothing.
"It must have been Teela. You were with her men." She set the glass down, untouched. "Who would stand to gain by your deaths?"
"Many, if power is the object."
"You're Barrani," she said.
His smile was slightly bitter. "I am aware of what I am," he told her quietly.
"How many of the High Lords are old enough, and powerful enough, to hold a name like this?"
"None."
"It can't be none. It demonstrably can't be."
"As you say." He too set his glass down. "We will take dinner in the Lord's Circle this eve."
"Dinner?"
"I believe that is the word. An evening meal."
"Now?"
"No. In perhaps three hours."
"You know what I mean."
"Yes, Kaylin. I am surprised that the walls do not evince their comprehension." He bowed. It was curt, but even so, graceful. "I will return for you at that time. Should you desire it, you have the freedom of the Halls—but you will take your guards with you if you choose to avail yourself of that freedom."
She did not understand the Barrani.
But she hurled the glass at the door he closed as he left.
Andellen waited for the space of a few minutes, staring at the golden liquid that seeped into the flat carpets. The carpets were a dark burgundy, but they were, as she watched the liquid, composed of strands of different material that made a textured surface. That hinted at writing.
"Kaylin Neya," the Barrani guard said when the room was silent, "that was poorly done."
She was mutinous. And apologies were superfluous anyway; the Lord of the West March had left her. "He can't be serious. The Festival begins in two damn days!"
"He knows."
"And his brother—"
"He knows, Kaylin. But he is the Lord of the West March, he has his duties."
"And one of them is eating? At a gathering of useless—"
"Of the powerful," Andellen said quietly. "Of the Lords of the High Court." He looked to the doors. "You are his kyuthe. Upon you falls the burden of understanding his responsibilities. You are an outsider here. You cannot—ever—understand them fully.
"That is your strength, if it is also your weakness. All of your misadventures will accrue to the Lord of the West March, but because of your nature, they will be lesser crimes. You are merely mortal."
"You're saying I can—"
"You can go where he cannot." Andellen closed his eyes. "You will be watched because you are Lord Nightshade's. But after the display in the Lord's Circle, none will vouchsafe Nightshade's as the greater claim. He was not, while a Lord of this Court, equal in rank to the Lord of the West March."
Kaylin barely heard him. She was thinking.
She didn't understand magic. She accepted the ignorance as the flaw that it was—hers, entirely. She had thought its study impractical and stultifying; she had thought the tomes and treatises presented in bored—and boring—Barrani, beneath her. Separate from her chosen duties.
But if she was ignorant, she wasn't without resources.
"Where's Severn?"
Chapter Twelve
Severn was captivated by the damn windows. She wanted to throw something at his head, but with her luck, it would miss, and shattered glass in these rooms wasn't something she could afford. She had to hoard offenses, in case of need. A bit of a temper wasn't, even by Kaylin's loose definition, "need."
Andellen was part of the wall. Severn noticed him, but ignored him, inasmuch as you could ever ignore the armed Barrani at your back. She waited while Severn moved across the display of cut-and-colored glass, touching its surface in something like wonder. The color that filtered light offered changed the features of his face, the color of his uniform, the visual nature of gold; it did not touch his silence.
She counted to ten. And then did it again. After the third time, it had lost what little staying power it had. "Enough of the glass," she snapped.
He turned instantly.
And she regretted the words. His face was pale, and his mouth was tight with suppressed pain. She walked quickly to him, annoyance evaporating. "Are you hurt?"
He lifted a hand, mirror to her movement, and caught her wrist. The bruised wrist. "I'm not injured," he told her. "Let it be."
"What did the castelord do?"
"Nothing, Kaylin."
"But—"
"Nothing. You wanted to talk.
Talk."
"Actually, I wanted you to talk."
He raised a brow.
She swallowed. "About Barrani magic."
"You might have asked your guard."
"Or the wall… it would have been more helpful."
The glimmer of a familiar smile touched his eyes, driving some of the tightness from his face. But the hollows were still there, like geography, a landmark that she could almost recognize but could not touch. "The Barrani are particular about proper form. If you want to get around the forms, you have to learn them. Gods know," he added, "they make a life of it. They'd be considered honest, otherwise." He paused. "They are never entirely truthful. Try to remember that."
"There's too much I don't understand," she told Severn, as if he hadn't spoken.
He nodded. He knew her well enough to know that she wasn't speaking about the Barrani, even if the statement was also applicable.
"And there's too much I can't explain. As in, not and live."
"That would be the Barrani code."
"Code?"
"They like secrets. In general, they preserve them by killing those who know them. I would guess that you're considered of value." His voice was light. Nothing about that tone reached his face. "What can you tell me?"
"There's something about the Arcanum."
Severn shrugged. "Where magic of a particular type is involved, there usually is."
"Why hasn't the Emperor just destroyed it?"
"The Wolflord has often wondered that."
"You've—you've hunted Arcanists?"
He shrugged. "I've hunted many things."
"How did you survive?"
"Luck."
"Does it rub off?"
He shook his head, the smile creeping up the corners of his mouth. She'd always been able to force a smile out of him.
Her arms were aching. She lowered them, wondering what she'd lifted. His frown was more felt than seen. His question was utterly silent. She shook her head.
"Do you suspect the Arcanum, in whatever investigation you aren't involved in?"
She snorted. "I'd suspect Lord Evarrim of anything illegal that I could remember offhand—and anything I had to lookup, too."
"He is not the Arcanum."
"No. He's a damn Barrani High Lord, and he's here. And," she added softly, "he doesn't want me here."