“It’s going to get dirty—”
“It won’t. Trust the green. Wear it, as it was meant to be worn.”
She started to argue, but the small dragon sat up and squawked in her ear. “I swear, you bite me again and you’ll be walking home.”
She’d walked, as if she were part of a solemn procession. Her legs hurt, her arms felt so heavy she could barely lift them. What she wanted at this very moment was to crawl into her bed—the bed that was splinters and feathers—and sleep for three days.
But the Barrani of the Vale came, standing to either side of the procession of which she was only part. They were silent. Only two of them detached themselves from the crowd, but she recognized them: Gaedin and Serian. They quietly saw to the fall of her train, and they took up positions of honor at her back.
She wanted to tell them that they’d been instrumental in saving them all, because the shortcut had given her the knowledge necessary to save Teela. She even opened her mouth. But Serian’s warning glance caused her to shut it again. She wasn’t used to being the center of attention; she tried to enjoy it, and failed. But Diarmat’s many lectures served one useful purpose: they kept her moving. She held her head high. She didn’t fumble or even speak.
Not until the gates of Alsanis rolled open to welcome them all, because waiting for them in the long, grand hall, with its many lights and its many, many arches, was a Barrani man who was not, she was certain, Barrani at all.
“No, Lord Kaylin,” he said, and he bowed to her in full sight of the Vale. It was a low, graceful,
“You will find welcome, should you return, in the green.” He then turned and offered an equal bow—to the Consort. “Lady.”
She offered the Avatar of Alsanis her hand; he accepted it, bowed over it, and then placed it on his arm. “Come. Food is waiting, and water, and wine.” He turned, and then turned again. “Barian.”
The Warden bowed.
“In the long years of my exile, I have heard your voice, and yours alone of all your kin. Join us.”
Dinner was a loud and, for Barrani, raucous affair. Even Kaylin, sick to death of Barrani functions and politics, found herself laughing—in particular when Mandoran and Allaron decided to have an impromptu eating contest. A certain amount of decorum was present wherever the Consort generally was, but the cohort didn’t seem to be aware of it, and if she was offended in any way, the Consort kept it to herself.
But Kaylin suspected, given the green of the Consort’s eyes, that she wasn’t.
She wasn’t even upset when Kaylin, flagging to the point of nearly dropping her chin into dessert, excused herself from the table and the rest of the immortal merriment. Severn escorted her as far as her room—and in Hallionne parlance, it was a long walk. Nor did the Hallionne intend her to share, at least not with anyone who wasn’t a small shoulder ornament.
The last thing she remembered clearly was getting out of the dress and hanging it in a closet. Well, draping it over a hanger in a closet. She left the green boots beneath it. She expected both the closet and its contents to be gone in the morning.
She didn’t remember reaching the bed, but it was pretty hard to miss something this large. The small dragon sat up and warbled.
There was no noise in the room. But it wasn’t anything in the room that had woken her.
In the distance, Nightshade was angry.
She rose and dressed, and this time, she took clothing from the pack leaning at a tilt against the far wall. The closet was, of course, a nonentity in the room. She made her way to the door, and from it, into the halls; her eyes adjusted to the light slowly, but it didn’t matter. She had the strong feeling she could stumble through Alsanis wearing a blindfold and she’d fail to trip, fall, or injure herself in any way.
She made her way to Nightshade. Clearly, she was still half-asleep if an angry fieflord was an emergency to run toward and not away from.
“He is not angry with you,” Alsanis said. His Avatar had appeared beside her between one step and the next.
“What is he angry about?”
“Annarion.”
Which would make it the world’s shortest happy reunion. “What has Annarion done?”
“Sedarias feels it best that she and her friends remain here for some time. She does not feel it is wise to leave the Hallionne in a state of ignorance. The world has changed since they first left it, and to maneuver in what remains, they must have knowledge.”
Kaylin nodded because this made sense.
“Annarion will not be remaining.”
“Wouldn’t that make Sedarias angry?”
“Sedarias? Why would she be angered?”
“If she doesn’t feel it’s safe—”
“She understands Annarion’s reasoning, and she accepts it.”
“Nightshade doesn’t.”
“No. He wishes Annarion to remain here. He has...insisted? Commanded?”
And Annarion had refused. No wonder Nightshade was pissed.
“Calarnenne is Outcaste. It is not—or will not—be safe for him once he leaves the Hallionne. It would not, I think, be safe for Lord Iberrienne, either, but Lord Iberrienne will remain. The Consort has done what she can for him,” he added, his voice softening. “But he was much damaged by his interactions in the outlands. Will you tend him?”
But Kaylin shook her head. “No. He is—he will—recover.” She hoped. “But I don’t want him to be what he was.”
“You are afraid Lord Severn will kill him.”
“It’s not a fear—it’s a certainty. He can’t do it here; he won’t try. But Iberrienne as he is now is not a danger to anyone.”
“Eddorian will protect him.”
She thought it should work the other way around.
“Why? Eddorian was the elder of the two. Eddorian understands some of what was done; he cannot, however, heal the damage. He will ask you, I think.”
Kaylin said nothing. She approached an open door in a hallway full of closed ones.
“They are brothers,” Alsanis said softly. Kaylin realized that the term, brother, meant something to Alsanis that it probably didn’t mean to anyone else here. She didn’t argue. Instead, she stepped into the room.
It wasn’t a bedroom; it wasn’t a sitting room, either. It was a Barrani courtyard, open to a cool, gray sky, and artfully dusted with fallen leaves. Both of the men in its center stiffened and turned as she entered. She recognized them. One was Annarion, and the other, the fieflord of her childhood. The Teller’s tiara no longer graced his forehead.
Nightshade was not the only one who was angry; Annarion was pale with it, his hands in curved half fists by his side. The Barrani turned to face her.
“Leave,” Nightshade said.
She ignored him. “Don’t even think,” she added, “of using your mark against me. Not here. The Hallionne won’t allow it.”
“Oh?”
“I’m betting my life on it. Are you willing to bet yours?”
His brows rose, and a very tight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Turning to his brother, he said, “May I have the privilege of introducing Lord Kaylin?”
