The statues that had impressed at a run were more impressive at a walk. She looked up to see carved and impassive faces. Perfect faces; she would have recognized them as Barrani no matter where they stood. But the color that graced the Barrani was absent, and in its place, a sharp, hard line of detail left nothing wanting.
She didn’t ask who they were, or who they had been. She had the distinct impression she was supposed to know. She passed them, lingering in their shadow, and entered through the right arch. She wondered, given that they both led to the same long hall, what the difference was—but Teela had chosen the right this time over the left, and Kaylin followed suit. The door was wide enough to allow four people passage while they walked abreast.
The Hall was almost empty. One or two Barrani Lords and Ladies traversed it, involved in their own conversations. They looked up, but they did not look long. Kaylin wondered if they could actually see her.
Teela led them quietly. She paused as Kaylin paused, and moved when Kaylin’s attention was once again in the present. She did not ask what had caught Kaylin’s eye. Sometimes it was the floor; the stones there had been laid out like a mosaic, or a series of mosaics. She almost hated to walk across them. She saw trees, birds, deer; she saw swords, armor, and crown; she saw caves and mountains. The rivers that passed down the mountains were real; fountains were set at intervals throughout the Hall, blending with the floor. So, too, were flowers, and these were at least as remarkable as the floor itself.
“It has been long since mortals walked these halls,” Teela told her not unkindly. “And they often tarry. It will be expected,” she added, “and lack of attention to detail might be seen as a slight.”
Given permission, Kaylin did tarry. The sunlight seemed endless, and the permutations of light through glass—for the walls were half glass, and all of it colored and composed like hard tapestry—blended with the stonework of the floor.
She tried to remember that death was waiting. But it was hard to see death in these things.
The hall came to an end, and the doors were not familiar; they had wandered in a different direction. Kaylin was certain she could find her way out—but not quickly; she was used to navigating by landmarks that were far more mundane.
Teela was kind again. She opened the doors. Then again, she was the only Barrani Lord present; Kaylin wasn’t certain what happened to someone who wasn’t if they tried the same thing. She didn’t much want to find out.
“Now,” Teela said softly as the doors began to open, “be wary.”
“‘Say nothing’ wary, or just wary?”
The brief frown was answer enough.
The doors opened into a garden. Or a forest. Or something that was so dense with living plants, it had no name. Kaylin tried not to gape. “Are we still inside?”
Teela’s smile was slightly brittle.
Right. Say nothing.
But Andellen said, “Yes.” And after a pause, he added, “The Barrani do not revere life. Do not think it. Do not make that mistake. They cultivate, and they claim, and they change what grows. They are masters. That is all.”
Kaylin looked at Andellen’s face. It was as impassive as it had been when he’d left the skiff. His eyes were the same shade of blue—given High Court, no surprise there—but his voice had been, for the space of those words, a different voice. “Did they ever love living things?”
He did not answer. But the weight of his silence acknowledged her question. She wondered briefly if this had been covered in Racial Relations classes, and for the space of a few seconds, actually managed to regret not paying attention.
Teela watched Andellen carefully, as if he had only just become worthy of notice. But she did not speak. Instead, she led them onto a small path. Like the stones in the outer hall, this path was composed of small works of art that often lay beneath leaves or blossoms.
Human minds, Kaylin thought with a grimace, could only hold so much beauty; it was like sugar, really. After a while, it was so overwhelming, you almost wanted its absence. Well, her mind, at any rate. She risked a glance at Severn. He looked almost Barrani in the artifice of sunlight and shade.
But no one drew weapons; everyone offered a polite and respectful silence, broken here and there by the clink of armor and the rustle of silk—or whatever it was the skirt was made of, damned if she knew—and the slight turning of leaf. They walked the path, hemmed in on all sides, as if the plants were, rooted, responsible for herding them.
Above, birds flew from branch to branch; they were colored so brightly, they caught her eye. Their voices were not the tiny, fluting voices of sparrows. They were raucous and squawking. She hoped they didn’t crap on her dress.
Severn’s lips compressed in a line that almost resembled a smile. She wondered if he’d had the same thought.
But the forest—or the trees—cleared, pulling away like a planted curtain, and the stones beneath their feet broadened in a large circle. Flowers were interspersed among those stones, and small fountains were laid along the circle’s edge.
If she had wondered where all the Barrani were, she now had an answer: they were congregated here, in this odd chamber, trees rising like columns, and hemming them in like walls. They sat upon the edges of fountains, and stood, as if on display, among the careful artistry of flowering plants. They spoke in groups of three and four, moving slowly and gracefully when they moved at all.
In the center of the huge circle—and it was huge, once it was entered—was a chair that was, like the others she had seen, a living symbol; it had branches that flowered with white blossoms and golden hearts. They rode above the seat like tines, and cast similar shadows, smaller than the ones that rose above, higher and higher, until it broke the line of trees that hemmed them in.
A Barrani Lord sat upon this throne, and it was a throne, even if it hadn’t yet been cut from the wood that formed it. He spoke with a woman who stood by the side of the chair, dressed in pale green and gold, her arms and shoulders bare, her pale hair bound in a braid that seemed to be composed of equal parts hair and blossom. She looked young, delicate, ethereal. Kaylin had to tighten her mouth to stop herself from gaping. She was the only Barrani Kaylin had seen whose hair was not black.
This was the castelord and his consort. Not even Kaylin could have mistaken them for anyone else. She hesitated, feeling so profoundly awkward she was suddenly certain a step in the wrong direction would crush flowers and crack stone. But Teela moved with a quiet confidence toward the throne, and if that was the last place Kaylin wanted to go, it was also the only place she would be allowed.
She knew it. And because she’d been in places far worse—although she had to force herself to remember them, they seemed so far away—she followed Teela, trying not to cling too hard to Severn’s arm. She was grateful for the presence of the two Barrani guards, simply because they were Barrani. They had their orders; they followed her like shadows cast by unseen light.
The castelord looked up from the gentle dalliance of conversation, and his lips creased in a smile. That the smile didn’t touch his eyes was no surprise. How could it? She wanted to cover her cheek. She wanted to fall to her knees. She wanted to be anywhere else.
“Anteela,” the castelord said, rising from his throne. “You grace us again with your presence.”
Teela’s bow was as low a bow as Kaylin had ever seen her offer; it was shorn of her usual insouciance and sarcasm. “Lord,” she said, rising at some invisible signal, “I bring you guests, at your command.”
His eyes passed beyond Teela, and settled upon Kaylin. She felt as if she were the only person in the circle. As if, in fact, she were the only living thing; the only thing that mattered. His gaze was equal parts green and blue; he was master here, and he weighed her worth in that glance.
It was hard to be found wanting. But she’d had a lot of experience with that.
“You are kyuthe to the Lord of the West March,” he said. “My son.”
She nodded awkwardly. Unfort
unately, she had tried to nod elegantly. Teela’s command to say nothing was superfluous; she couldn’t have spoken a word had she wanted to.
“And you bear the mark of Nightshade.”
Her hand slipped up to cover her cheek. But it paused an inch from her face, and she forced herself to lower it; it was harder than bench-pressing her own weight would have been. What had the Lord of the West March said? Ignorance excuses nothing.
“I bear the mark of Lord Nightshade,” she said quietly.
“Come into the light, child.”
For the first time in recent memory, the word child didn’t bother her. She stepped awkwardly around Teela, who had not moved. Severn came with her, but stopped just beside Teela. She walked past them both, and stopped three feet from the castelord of the Barrani.
He lifted a hand and touched her chin, raising it. This close, his eyes were flecked with gold and a hint of something that might be brown. He didn’t look at her eyes; he looked at the mark, as if by looking, he could will it away.
He did not release her chin, but raised his free hand. It hovered beside her cheek, and she thought—for a moment—he might slap her. She tensed; she couldn’t help that. But she didn’t move.
“Brave child, to come into this den,” he said softly. “And foolish, but that is the way of your kind. You are perpetual in your youth. Even age does not relieve you of its burden.
“The Lord of the Green has spoken on your behalf. Is that not strange?”
She said nothing. There was nothing at all she could say to this man.
“You have not met him. Had you, I would know. But you bear the symbol of my younger son.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And you bear, as well, the sign of the Imperial Order of Mages.” His hand fell away from her chin.
Her eyes widened in sudden horror as he reached for the medallion. “Don’t touch it—”
His smile was cool but genuine; he did not hesitate, but he did stop for a minute. “I know the name of fire,” he whispered. “And I see it, writ there. It will not burn my hand.” And he lifted the medallion Lord Sanabalis had placed around her neck.
His gaze did not change; no shift of color, no change of perfect expression, marred him. But he set it down slowly. “Sanabalis,” he said softly, as if to himself. He looked at Kaylin. “We met, he and I, when we were both young, and the world was a vast place. Now it has grown small, I fear, for both of us.
“But come, you are mortal, and if I am any judge of mortality, you are considered young by your kind.”
“I’m an adult,” she said firmly.
His smile was indulgent. “Indeed, so you must be, if you are here. No child is called kyuthe. Not even among the Barrani, rare though children are. They have less inclination to interrupt their elders, however.” It was a warning. Gently given, but implacable. “You have been marked by one who was once my kin. You have been called kyuthe, and have in turn called a Barrani High Lord kyuthe in the manner of your kind. You bear the medallion of an ancient Dragon Lord. And—although you do not wear it now—you bear the Hawk of the Lords of Law. You serve the Dragon Emperor in the streets of his city.
“There is more,” he added softly. Too softly. “I would hear your tale, child. It will while away the time, and I think that even I will find much strange about it, who seldom find anything surprising.”
Kaylin looked at Teela. Teela did not meet her eyes.
This was the trap she’d been afraid of, except she’d been expecting, oh, exploding doors and daggers and poison and magic. She was aware that the silence of the Court had deepened while she endured the inspection of its Lord, and she wasn’t surprised to see that many of the Barrani had drawn closer.
Kaylin was an equal-opportunity worshipper; she failed, regularly, to pay her respects to any of the Elantran gods, although she did nod at passing priests. She had the very human custom, however, of praying in the vague hope that one of the deities she hadn’t managed to offend might be listening.
She prayed now.
And to her surprise, Andellen approached, without permission. He did not pass her. Indeed, he did not stand by her side; he stood behind her. And he knelt.
The castelord’s face did not change, but he grew remote as his gaze shifted, and the lingering facade of friendliness faded. “Exile,” he said in a cool voice.
Andellen did not rise.
“You are here on sufferance, who should not have passed the arches. Had I not extended my hospitality to your Lord’s Erenne, you would be dead. Have you chosen to repudiate the outcaste? Have you come to pledge your allegiance anew to the Lord of the High Court?”
“No, Lord,” he said. He did not look up; his hair framed and hid his face.
“The freedom of my Halls is not yours. You will be servant to the mortal while she remains. Leave her side, and you will be mine in a different way.”
Andellen lowered his head. Without thinking, Kaylin touched his shoulder; it was at the level of her hand, if she raised it slightly. His armor was cold and hard. But he did not shake her hand free. She wanted to send him home then. To spare him this humiliation.
Had anyone told her—even Severn—that she would ever feel pity or compassion for one of the fieflord’s guards, she would have spit. And then probably run away, really, really quickly.
He bought her time. He had discarded dignity to buy her time. She couldn’t even thank him because it would be too costly—for him. So she said nothing.
And rescue came from an unexpected quarter, a reminder that praying wasn’t always the wisest of recourses; the Elantran gods had a wicked sense of humor.
“Lord,” said a voice she recognized. She tried not to grimace. But she did look. Through the ranks of the gathered High Barrani, a familiar set of red robes sucked the color out of the circle. Lord Evarrim of the Arcanum made his entrance.
“Lord Evarrim,” the castelord said, inclining his head. He stepped back and resumed his seat, and the woman by his side straightened; she looked like a young and slender sapling. Until you saw her eyes, and Kaylin saw them as briefly as possible.
“The mortal is not Erenne.”
“She bears the mark.”
“She bears the mark,” Lord Evarrim said, his voice smooth and neutral, “but it is decorative facade. The outcaste has not claimed what he has marked.”
Andellen stood then. His hand was upon the hilt of his sword in the silence, but he did not otherwise move.
Teela, however, did. She came to stand beside Kaylin. Her fingers brushed Kaylin’s wrist; they were graceful and they did not linger. But the bruise damn well did. If Kaylin had never appreciated people who talked too damn much, she was beginning to resent people who didn’t talk at all.
“It is not as Erenne that she is an honored guest of the Court,” Teela said quietly. “But as kyuthe to the Lord of the West March. Will you question his claim as well?”
“I would,” he said.
The hush was profound.
“She is here at the behest of the Lords of Law,” Lord Evarrim added. “And stands beside her compatriot, even now.”
Kaylin was confused, and looked up at Teela, her eyes at throat level. Teela whispered Severn’s name and touched Kaylin’s wrist again. The urge to kick Teela passed, but it took effort.
Severn separated himself from them somehow, moving almost as carefully, and as quietly, as the Barrani. He approached the throne of the castelord, and he held out a piece of paper. Paper, in a court this fine, seemed a currency of beggars, and this was plain in the way it was taken from Severn’s hand.
But it was read. The castelord’s eyes were now bluer, although green still remained at their depths. Kaylin wondered if anything actually annoyed him. “I see,” he said quietly.
“During the Festival season,” Severn said in smooth, flawless High Barrani, “the Lords of Law are involved in many investigations of a delicate nature. I am sent alone, in order that any investigation deemed necessary be both quiet and diplomatic. If it pleases
the castelord, I will be both guest and observer in his Court.”
“And if it does not please the castelord?”
“It pleases the Emperor,” Severn replied. He did not flinch, or bend.
“And the kyuthe of my younger son?”
“She has been given a leave of absence, castelord. She is not required to aid me in any way. She does not fly under the Hawk, nor is she beholden to Lord Grammayre while she resides here. Her actions are her own.”
“Lord Evarrim?”
The Arcanist was silent. His gaze could have melted metal, which Severn was wearing in abundance. “Perhaps I have been hasty,” he said at last, “in my care for the sanctity of the High Court. It is unpleasant to me to see the mark of Nightshade upon any countenance that approaches yours, Lord.”
“No more than I find it myself, but I have countenanced her presence, and I will not have it said that the High Court is lacking in hospitality it has extended.” His eyes narrowed. “And the Lord of the West March, Lord Evarrim?”
The Arcanist stood taller. The ruby he bore across his brow was not the color of fire; it was the color of blood, and it seemed to be moving.
Even this the castelord accepted without any sign of irritation. “It has not been said that my younger son bears any great love for mortals.”
“No, Lord.”
“And the acknowledgment of a kyuthe is likewise rare.”
Lord Evarrim nodded.
“Would you gainsay his claim?”
Blue eyes met Kaylin’s. They were very dark. “She is a danger,” he said at last. “To the Lord of the West March. And to the High Court.”
Kaylin didn’t close her eyes. It would have been a sign of weakness.
But Teela’s laugh was like the ripple of small, musical bells. “Lord Evarrim,” she said, hints of amusement playing the syllables as if they were instruments, and she was a master, “has the Arcanum been so weakened that it sees a threat in one mortal who is barely adult in the eyes of the Emperor?”