Cast in Sorrow

the difference in their stride. She recognized where he was leading her, although it was a lot more crowded than the last time she’d seen it—he headed straight for the giant trunk around which stairs were wound. He took them two at a time; the lack of rails on the side that faced an increasingly grim drop didn’t bother him at all.

“Did they have their council meeting?”

“No. The Consort called a recess, given the current situation. Lord Avonelle might have argued, but she’s now occupied with the wards in the green.”

“The ones that don’t work?”

“Yes.”

Two small mercies.

Sleep had done Kaylin good. Lack of food hadn’t. She reached the top of the viewing platform thinking about bread. And cheese. And meat. They were petty concerns, given Severn’s news, which is probably why she clung to them. Ynpharion was on the viewing platform.

So was a very pale Evarrim.

Severn—why is he even standing?

The Consort asked for his presence; he acquiesced. You are not, of course, to notice any weakness or injury he doesn’t speak of himself.

He looks like crap.

Yes. Iberrienne is, however, not in a state to provide information at this point in time. Nightshade spent hours closeted with Iberrienne. The Consort joined Nightshade when she returned.

What happened?

I don’t know. Iberrienne is not considered well enough to attend, and Evarrim is considered the only other High Court expert in residence. He is therefore here.

So was the Lord of the West March and the Warden; both men were blue-eyed and grim. The eagles sat on the railing, facing outward; they might have been carved of stone. Beyond them, in the clear, midnight sky, Kaylin saw a cloud that was moving at great speed in an otherwise still sky.

“Chosen,” the eagles said, although neither moved.

She glanced at her arms; the marks were glowing a pale, faint blue. She was surprised when the Lord of the West March handed her a large drape of cloth. It was a jacket, sort of. It had sleeves very similar to the sleeves that had once been part of the dress she wore, but it was heavier and warmer. She doubted it was immune to water, fire, or dirt, but was grateful to have it anyway; she was cold.

“How long has he been out there?”

“He has been in our skies since you returned.” It was Lord Barian who answered. “What is he doing?”

Since that was more or less her next question, she swallowed it. She had no idea, but felt bald acceptance of her own ignorance was a career-limiting move. She walked over to the rails and took up a position between the two eagles. They both turned their heads—only their heads—to face her.

The not-so-small dragon was circling, in a desultory way. His flight path at this distance seemed very constricted; she squinted, cursing her vision.

Ynpharion—what’s in the sky beside the dragon?

The nightmares, Ynpharion replied, of Alsanis.

Are they flying in a pattern around him?

Yes.

Are they...attacking him?

“They are, Chosen,” the eagles said in unison.

She watched as the dragon roared; his voice probably blanketed the entire West March. It wasn’t as bad as the breath that followed. It clipped one small shadow. She watched as the shadow’s gliding path faltered. The shadows looked exactly like that, to Kaylin—they implied eagle.

What had she done? She’d caught the shadows, intercepted their flight, and pulled the eagles out of their insubstantial darkness. The dragon’s breath didn’t have the same effect—and why would it? The shadows gained weight, plummeting from the sky. They did not—at this distance—change shape; no birds emerged, and nothing less threatening took to the sky in their place.

Kaylin drew the jacket more tightly around her shoulders.

“Can you command your familiar?” Evarrim said. Kaylin had come, grudgingly, to understand that among the Barrani, Evarrim was considered blunt and to the point. And he was. His machinations, his desires, and his power, were always on display; it was hard to assume that he was in any way friendly.

Kaylin was silent for a long moment. “I’ve never tried,” she finally said.

Evarrim’s brow furrowed. Kaylin decided, at this point, that ignorance was less useful than dignity.

“What do you think he is trying to do?”

She was watching the nightmares as they fell from the sky. The dragon’s breath seemed almost silver at this distance, seen in moonlight and night sky. “I’m not certain. The building he’s flying around—it is a building, isn’t it?” It was, to Kaylin’s eye, a shadowy apparition.

Silence. Barian finally said, “Yes.”

“I don’t remember seeing it before.”

“No, Chosen. It is the Hallionne Alsanis. It has lain under protective wards for centuries. No visitors to the West March have seen it as you see it now.”

“Have you?”

“No. I remember Alsanis. I remember the form Alsanis chose to take.”

“Let me guess. It wasn’t an edifice of crystal shadow.”

“You are correct.”

“Did the dragon—”

“The wards are down. Lord Avonelle has ordered an evacuation of the buildings closest to the Hallionne.”

Kaylin watched for a few more minutes because the building was taking shape with the passage of time. It was not—yet—the height of the Warden’s perch; it was, however, taller than the towers of the Lord’s hall. Nor did it seem to be shrinking.

“Lord Barian, with your permission, I would like to approach the Hallionne.”

She felt Lirienne’s surprise; it was colored with strong disapproval. He did not, however, say no. He observed correct form.

“The recitation will take place in two days,” Lord Barian replied. As replies went, it seemed to have missed the question. Kaylin waited.

“It will take place,” the eagles said, “sooner.”

There was a lot of silence then. Kaylin, who was aware that the Warden was in theory responsible for the recitation, looked at the eagles. “How much sooner?”

“Can you not hear it begin, Chosen? Can you not hear the words?”

“Most of the words I can hear come from me, and I’m having a hard time keeping them on the inside of my mouth.” She said this in sharp Elantran.

“The Teller is leaving the domicile,” the eagle to the right said.

“He has the Consort and Lord Iberrienne with him,” the eagle to the left said.

“I’d like about two days more sleep before I do the job the dress chose me for.”

The eagles craned forward so they could look at each other. They then turned their heads toward the Lord of the West March, who was now standing rigidly near the exit. “Lord of the West March. Warden. You cannot reach the greenheart now.”

“It is not the appointed time,” Barian said.

“There is now only one path to the greenheart,” they replied. “And time does not pass predictably. If you can walk the path at all, you will need Teller and harmoniste.”

Silence.

“And Lord of the West March, you must choose. The Lady will travel with you.”

“I will not take that risk.”

“She is the Consort, Lord of the West March. Her duties are not to you; they are not even to the High