Cast in Sorrow

the Consort’s gaze. “I will not leave, Lord Kaylin.”

“It’s not the leaving I’m worried about,” Kaylin lied.

The Consort frowned; Kaylin closed her eyes again. Her skin was uncomfortably hot; her legs ached, and the back of her neck felt as if it had been rubbed raw. But her arms didn’t hurt. They felt blessedly cool.

She’d forgotten the small dragon. He hadn’t forgotten her.

“If you don’t stop biting me, I’ll bite you back.”

Squawk.

Her arms felt heavy; she struggled to keep them raised. She wasn’t going to win.

Squawk.

“Yes, we understand.”

She opened her eyes. She was carrying two eagles. She could see tendrils of shadow drifting away from wings as the eagles pushed themselves into the air. One more.

One. Kaylin raised her arms again, and she caught the final shadow. And it was a shadow; it weighed nothing, and implied the flight of a bird she couldn’t see overhead. She called the bird, and the bird emerged, cracking shadow as if it were shell.

This fifth eagle, this final bird, turned its head toward the Consort, tilting it to one side. His voice was rich and resonant, his words unintelligible.

“Close your eyes, Lord Kaylin,” the Consort said.

Kaylin was tired enough to obey.

“You don’t understand dreams of Alsanis.”

“No. But it feels like I should, which makes me feel stupid. More stupid,” she added. “I can’t pin it down. It has the vowels and consonants of High Barrani, but it feels more fluid.” She hesitated. “When I was brought to the High Halls for the first time, I was asked to heal your brother.”

“Yes. I remember.”

“He was willing to be healed, and I understand why most Barrani aren’t, because I healed him. But—”

“You wonder if the cost to either of us will be the same.”

Kaylin nodded. “I couldn’t wake him unless—”

“He chose to withdraw into himself, to survive. What you saw was a reflection of that. What you see here is not entirely a reflection of me.”

Kaylin frowned. She was certain her face was going to get stuck that way. “I don’t see how it’s a reflection of you at all.”

The small dragon squawked.

She felt the Consort take her hand. “Keep your eyes closed, Private Neya.” She had switched into spoken Elantran. The musicality of her voice made Kaylin’s mother tongue seem rich and textured and nuanced. “What did you see?”

“Eleven ghosts,” Kaylin replied. And she realized, as she did, that she could no longer hear raised Barrani voices. She couldn’t hear the eagles, either.

“Ghosts.”

“It’s what I called them. They first appeared as glass statues, but they followed me. I came to find you,” Kaylin added, “because you wouldn’t wake up.”

“I imagine the Lord of the West March has been concerned.”

Barrani understatement.

“These ghosts—”

“I’m certain they’re meant to be the lost children. I don’t understand why they were made of glass—but I’m certain.” She hesitated. “What did you see?”

“Nothing as clear as that. The Hallionne is...not dead.”

“What—what did you see at the end? When I—when we—put the words into the fountain?”

She heard—of all unexpected things—laughter. “Fountain? You saw a fountain?”

Kaylin felt herself reddening. “It was like the fountain in Lord Lirienne’s courtyard. Sort of. But it was—it was almost out of water. You were—it looked like you were singing to it.” And as the words left her mouth, she froze. Because it did remind her of that fountain. And because she had touched the water in the real world and she knew that it wasn’t ordinary, city water. “What did you see?”

“Water,” the Consort replied. “But not as you saw it. Water, land, a vessel. I stood in one of our ancient boats. It was damaged and sinking.”

“Are you there now?”

“No, Lord Kaylin. Neither of us is there now.”

“And I don’t need to know your name. I don’t need to call you.”

“No. I am not my brother. I feel that I can trust you—but I have learned not to trust my own instincts where the living are concerned. And it is not necessary now.”

“Did you—did you see Teela?”

Silence. Kaylin felt cool—blessedly cool—palms against the sides of her face. “Do not speak of that, Kaylin. Do not speak of that to anyone but me.”

“And the eleven ghosts?”

“I did not see them, either. It is...safer to speak of them; they are already lost. An’Teela is not.”

“I should never have come to the West March. If I hadn’t, Teela wouldn’t be here.”

“I understand why you feel that way,” the Consort said softly. “But I see the dreams of Alsanis, and they see us. I won’t pretend to understand what it means, but it has been so long. My mother could speak with Alsanis; the eagles once flew to the heart of the High Halls to converse with her. I was a child then, and I listened; it was not considered wise to interrupt my mother. Now they speak with me.” Her voice dipped at the end.

“Would you have—would you have woken if I’d minded my own business?”

The Consort laughed again; it was a clear, high sound, and it had no edges. Kaylin leaned into it, and into the hands that still cupped her face. It was so easy to see Barrani women as young: they always looked youthful. But she realized that the Consort was far older than her mother had been when she died, and she took comfort from that; she wasn’t sure why.

“No.”

“What did the words do?”

“Do you not know? No, of course you don’t. You chose two. Why?”

“Because I couldn’t just choose one.”

“Why those two?”

“Could you read them?”

“In a fashion, and only here.”

“I can’t—you know I can’t—read the words on my skin. I don’t even feel like they’re mine. But I had to choose, this time.”

“You chose well, I think. Were I to choose, I’m not sure I would have made the same choice—but I am not Chosen. One of the two words was heavy; it was hard for you to carry, hard for you to bring here. The other weighed nothing. It is my belief that the heavier word speaks to the heart of Alsanis. It tells him that you understand some essential part of his plight. You are not Alsanis; you will never be Alsanis. At best, you might, in happier times, have been a guest.

“He has no guests now.”

“He has the lost children.”

“They are not guests. They might have been, once—but they have far outstayed even the most generous definition of hospitality.”

“The other word?”

“It, too, speaks to Alsanis—both words did. He could barely hear my voice. But yours—through the words —was clear. It is hope, Kaylin.” She had slid from Elantran into Barrani, and Kaylin had followed the seamless transition so easily she couldn’t recall when the switch had happened. “I do not know if it is his hope or yours, but I believe he found hope in it.

“It is scant hope,” she added softly. “And perhaps it will cause pain; hope oft does when it remains forever