Cast in Sorrow

“We are. You cannot comprehend Alsanis’s sorrow,” he told her softly. “Although he was Hallionne, the children confined within his walls killed all but a handful of the Barrani Lords who had traveled with him. He could not protect his guests; the minds of the lost children were too chaotic, too unordered. They thought all things simultaneously—and none. He offered what warning he could; he closed whole wings in an attempt to contain the lost.

“And he closed his doors entirely to the Wardens, and my line. Only through the dreams of Alsanis could we speak to him at all. He chose to sacrifice himself in order to prevent further deaths; he could not offer hospitality in safety to any.”

“Except the lost children.”

“He did not consider it hospitality—but he could not immediately destroy them. He tried,” he added softly. “They were anathema to the green.”

“They didn’t leave through the front doors,” Kaylin told him softly. “They left through the portal paths. When they attacked Orbaranne—and they were involved, I’d bet my eyes on it—the brunt of their attack was on the portal paths.”

“They fielded a large force on normal roads, as well—but I concur. They did not slip out through the literal front doors.”

She turned to the silent eagles. “Did Alsanis grant them permission to leave?”

“They did not leave,” the eagle on her arm replied gravely.

“They did—”

“They are not as you are. They did not leave the Hallionne.” He turned to the eagle that now rested upon the Warden’s arm, and they conferred in their lilting and entirely unintelligible language.

“Are they at war with Alsanis now?”

“No.”

“Are they at home?”

“Yes.”

The Lord of the West March raised one hand. “That is enough, Lord Kaylin. If you have come to offer aid to the Consort, we must not tarry.”

* * *

Not a word was spoken as they traversed the great halls, not even by the eagles. They might have been part of a funeral procession, given their expressions. What the eagles meant to Lord Barian, they clearly did not mean to Lord Lirienne, but the almost open suspicion with which they’d been greeted at the doors had been set aside.

No, kyuthe, it has not. Avonelle’s questions this eve were an open act of hostility available only because you are both mortal and foreign. Had Lord Barian’s brother succeeded in his test, it is likely he would now be Lord of the West March.

But—but that’s a hereditary title.

Heredity, like any other custom, is subject to the demands of power. If I could not hold the West March against her son, I would not deserve to rule it. Her son failed.

She frowned. You liked him, she said, in some surprise.

It is not relevant. Had he become a Lord of the High Court, one of the two of us would not have survived.

Lord Barian didn’t take the test.

No. His brother’s failure was vindication for his cowardice.

Kaylin frowned. I don’t think he’s a coward.

No?

No. I think he feels responsible for the West March. He can fulfill those responsibilities as Warden. He can’t, if he’s dead.

He is not like his brother; he looks inward, rather than out.

I don’t think the green cares.

“The green does care,” the eagle on her arm said.

Lord Barian’s brows rose slightly; Lord Lirienne’s expression did not change at all.

This is why you don’t care for the dreams of Alsanis. Kaylin grimaced.

The Lord of the West March laughed. It is one reason among many. At the moment, I am enraged by their existence.

To Kaylin’s surprise, this was true. He made no attempt to hide the depth of his fury; it opened up in front of her like a door.

I do not know what Barian told you, he continued when she failed to find words, but my sister cannot be woken. We have tried. Lord Nightshade and Lord Evarrim have been by her side since dinner. She does not respond to touch, to sound, or to the enchantments it is safe to cast. Barian allowed her to take the burden of his responsibility upon herself. If she fails to wake, I will kill him. I will not kill him quickly. I may be moved to allow his mother to live.

Kaylin glanced at Lord Barian. Swallowing, she said, I’ll wake her.

You are so certain you are capable of it?

She wasn’t, and he knew it.

* * *

To her surprise, Lord Evarrim and Nightshade were still in attendance when they at last arrived. The Consort lay between them; they stood watch. Evarrim noted Kaylin’s presence with a grim nod that all but screamed distaste; Nightshade offered her the nod that passes between equals. Neither man spoke, but as she approached the Consort, they stepped back to give her both room and their silent permission.

Evarrim seemed ill-pleased by the presence of both Barian and the eagle that rested, weightless, on her arm. As it was clear that the bird was there with the Lord of the West March’s permission, he said nothing.

Lord Barian seemed entirely unconcerned that an Outcaste wore the Teller’s crown.

Kaylin knew the Consort’s skin shouldn’t be the color it was. Barrani skin was generally flawless and pale— but this had a sallow, green tinge that looked worse than unhealthy. She stopped herself from checking for a pulse, and then realized it didn’t matter. The only person present she would have spared her sudden fear already knew what she was feeling.

She knelt by the Consort’s side, and very carefully touched her hand. It was cold. Morgue cold. “Lord Barian,” she said, in High Barrani, “if you have anything of import to tell me about the nightmares of the Hallionne, now is the time.”

“I can tell you less about the nightmares than our companions can,” he replied. “They are one.”

She resisted the urge to snap something rude in Leontine.

“He is not wrong,” the eagle on her arm said. She released the Consort’s hand and attempted to remove the bird; his weightless claws tightened. “Do not be foolish. We have accompanied you for a reason, Chosen. If you set us aside, how will you speak to the nightmares?”

“Probably the same way I’m speaking to you,” she replied. “But less politely.”

The bird spoke to its companion; their voices rose.

The Barrani found their discussion fascinating. Kaylin, hand once again touching the still iciness of the Consort’s, found it annoying. She closed her eyes and counted to ten; she made it to four, and not for the usual reason.

In the silence of watchful Barrani, in the darkness behind closed lids, she could hear the eagles speak, and the language that sounded so painfully familiar took on the tones and the range of sound she associated with song. There was a distinctive cadence to the words, a stretching and thinning of syllables that speech didn’t normally contain.

Music—even wordless music—had a feel to it. It evoked emotion. There was a simple harmony to the speech of these creatures, although she couldn’t quite place how—they seemed to take turns, to be singing different parts, and their voices were distinct. They didn’t overlap. But there was no point in expecting dreams in the shape of eagles to actually make sense.

“Lady.” Kaylin’s voice was rough and tuneless in comparison.

The Consort didn’t answer—no surprise there.