Cast in Sorrow

“Understand your own question, Lord Kaylin.”

Kaylin said nothing.

“Success is not yours alone; nor is failure. But if you fail, the green will succumb. The names of the lost will be lost. Teela’s name will be lost in a like fashion. But perhaps, in the end, she will be at peace. This is where she must be if there is any hope of success. And you, Chosen, must be at the heart of the green—in our world. The story you tell, the story you hear, the truth and the lies—they will be evident nowhere else. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“The heart of the green exists in our world. It is not easily reached because it is a window into the worlds that exist beyond our reach. We cannot see as the green sees. We cannot feel as it feels. We cannot speak as it speaks; that was never to be our gift. But we can touch the green, and the green can—in that moment, at that time, touch us in a fashion. It listens, Kaylin.

“Our names were created for our world. True Words were created for our world. While we bear them, we might traverse the wilderness, but they cannot exist without flesh; we keep them safe. We are their roots and their connection to their origins.”

The dragon roared.

Kaylin said, without thought, “He has no name.”

“No. And I cannot understand him. But the eldest does. The green does. He is not of our world. Nor can he be, as he is. I do not know if he will be able to leave the green, but if he can, I am not certain he will not be more of a threat, in the end, than your Devourer.” She sounded oddly unconcerned as she held out both of her hands and took Kaylin’s. “I am sorry, Lord Kaylin. We cannot wait. They know what has happened, and they come now.”

“How—how do you know that?”

“I hear the green.” She lifted her face, raised her perfectly, clear voice, and spoke three words.

* * *

The world hardened instantly around them; the ground cracked and dried beneath their feet. They stood by the small basin of an empty fountain.

Except the fountain wasn’t empty; the basin was full, the water rippling as water from above trickled into it.

“Lady!”

Kaylin turned, her hands numb the Consort was holding them so tightly. The Lord of the West March practically knocked Kaylin over in his rush to his sister’s side. He felt her outrage, and ignored it, the rage and the worry and the fear of hope overwhelming anything as small as her offense. He caught his sister in his arms, lifted her off her feet, and half dragged Kaylin with her, because the Consort still had a death grip on the Hawk’s hands.

He saw the color of the Consort’s eyes, and the sharp pitch of relief banked. He glanced at the water, at the miracle of water in this place, and then, as the Consort did, he raised his eyes to the sky.

Hovering above them and casting the outline of shadow over the whole of the clearing was the small dragon. Except, of course, he wasn’t small now.

It was Severn who said, Where is Teela? He was the only one who asked, and he didn’t ask out loud.

Kaylin yanked her hands free of the Consort’s, and the Consort allowed it. She turned, almost blindly, toward Severn because she knew where he was: by her side. As close to her as the Lord of the West March was. He didn’t hug her; he didn’t pull her off her feet. She wasn’t the Consort, in the end.

But when she met his expression, he did lift an arm, and she tucked herself beneath it, turning her face toward his chest. He said nothing. He asked no further questions. Not about the dragon that had captured the attention of every Barrani present; not about the Consort, whose rescue was the one thing that brought joy and relief to them all, no matter their rank or political affiliations; not about the water.

The eagles of Alsanis were sitting on their dead-tree perches.

“It is not the time,” they said in unison. “Lord of the West March, Warden, we will lead your people out of the green. We will return three days hence; the Teller and the harmoniste must come to the green.”

“And the rest of us?” the Lord of the West March all but demanded.

“Those who will take the risk, bear witness. Understand that the risk is as great as it has ever been for your kind. Only four must venture into the greenheart at the appointed hour: the Teller, the harmoniste, the Lord of the West March, and the Warden.”

The dragon roared, and the eagles cocked their heads toward the sky. Birds couldn’t frown; their beaks were fixed and hard. But the eagle on Kaylin’s right said, “You should not be here.”

The dragon roared again; Kaylin lifted a free hand to cover her ear. The other, she pressed farther into Severn’s chest. She didn’t close her eyes, and because she didn’t, she saw the heads of the eagles swivel in her direction.

“So be it,” they said. They didn’t sound happy. “Three days, Chosen.”

Chapter 22

It was well past dawn when the eagles and their nausea-inducing method of travel deposited the pilgrims at the edge of the green, where a thunderous, midnight-blue-eyed Lord Avonelle waited. She wore the armor of the war band; she wore the sword. She had no less than a dozen similarly armed attendants.

The color of her eyes lightened when she caught sight of Barian; they did not, however, shade to green. “Where is Lord An’Teela?”

Lord Barian glanced, not at Kaylin, but at the Consort.

The Consort said, in a clear, resonant voice, “Lord Teela chose to remain in the green as the price of my release.” Her eyes were a lighter blue, but they were tinged with a hint of purple.

Lord Avonelle was not satisfied with the answer, but she couldn’t accuse the Consort of lying without offending the rest of the Court.

“We have been commanded by the dreams of Alsanis,” the Lord of the West March now added, “to return at the appointed hour of the recitation. It was suggested that we number only four.”

The lightening of Lord Avonelle’s eyes reversed in a spectacular dive back into the near-black range. She was bristling with rage.

“Guardian,” Lord Barian said, stepping directly in front of the Lord of the West March and the Consort whose weight he now supported. “It was suggested by the dreams of Alsanis. They feel that it is more of a risk than even the tale told to the lost. The Lord of the West March offers no disrespect to our line or your guardianship. The wards could not be activated. The propicients could not invoke them. Were it not for the dreams of Alsanis, we would never have reached the heart of the green.”

She said a very tight-lipped nothing. Kaylin wondered, not for the first time, what the relationship between this Barrani mother and her son was like. Teela’s mother was dead. Kaylin’s mother, dead. Maybe the Consort’s mother was right: those who survived had to be harsh and cold.

Lord Barian now turned to the Lord of the West March. “My domicile is not as fine as the Lord’s hall, but the Lord’s hall is compromised. It would be my honor to offer you, and your people, the hospitality of the Warden’s perch.”

The Lord of the West March bowed. It was not a perfunctory gesture. “It would be my honor to accept your generous offer.” He glanced at his sister. She was, to Kaylin’s eye, much paler than usual.

She offered the Warden a smile, but no other courtesy; judging from the color of his eyes, the smile was enough. He bowed to her and rose.

To Kaylin’s surprise, the eagles landed on his shoulders. They were broad, Barrani shoulders, but the eagles were not small, and the Warden raised both of his arms, elbows bent, to offer them a less crowded perch.

Kaylin said nothing. She hid behind Severn. She didn’t want to speak with Avonelle. She didn’t want to speak with anyone. She couldn’t. What she wanted to do was to go back to the heart of the green, throw herself into the