Cast in Sorrow

Lord.”

Nightshade, what in the hells are you doing?

We approach the Hallionne, Kaylin. Can you not hear it?

No.

You asked me which of the lost was mine.

She wasn’t particularly proud of the question.

You will have your answer. Come. I understand the shape of the story I am meant to tell, but it does not begin here, and if it ends here, it will end in one of two ways. I cannot do what you must do, although I would have taken the blood of the green over the Teller’s crown.

It didn’t do Teela any good, was Kaylin’s surprisingly bitter reply.

No. And in the end, it is unlikely that I would have succeeded where she failed.

Kaylin closed her eyes. She opened them, squaring her shoulders, and turned to face the Lord of the West March. “Will you order your people to remain behind?”

“It is not our way to strip ourselves of strength when we walk into the unknown.”

“Lord Barian?”

“The Court of the Vale has far less to prove than the Lords of the High Court—but no, Lord Kaylin. I will order none to remain behind who wish to accompany us.”

“And you’ll go?”

His smile was very odd. “It has been centuries since I have entered Alsanis. My childhood and all of the duties of my line lie there. I am not Teller, I am Warden, but if the doors open, I will enter them. We had intended to let you sleep; you are mortal. But the green has its own seasons, and the Hallionne, their own rules.

“If I understand the eagles, you are summoned, Lord Kaylin.”

* * *

The Lord of the West March took his leave almost before they’d finished speaking; Evarrim lingered. It was to Evarrim that Kaylin went. She offered him a stiff, formal bow. He lifted a black brow in response.

“I will not venture into Alsanis,” Evarrim said.

She thought it a small wonder that he had remained on his feet, but kept this to herself. “What do familiars want?” she asked, voice soft. Since she was among Barrani, soft words would carry almost as far as louder ones.

“There are very few extant records of such creatures. They are legend. It is hard to abstract history from legend, and it is my suspicion that it would be irrelevant.”

“Why?”

“Because no two of our legendary sorcerers were alike, Lord Kaylin. They amassed power in different ways, and used it to different purposes. We make assumptions based on our own observations of those who have power, but they are not sound assumptions. Power affects the powerful in different ways.”

“But the familiars—”

“They are not creatures of this world. Even you must understand that. In legend, they were able to shape the world. The creature as he appeared for most of the journey was not significant, but he was not insignificant; his abilities belied his size. You think of him as a mortal pet.”

She didn’t deny it.

“He is not. But even you must realize this now.”

Kaylin nodded. “He’s like an elemental. A summoned elemental. Except I didn’t summon him.”

“No. That may tell in your favor; I cannot say. In the three stories of which I am personally aware, the familiars were sought. They were not stumbled over as a byproduct of a world-threatening event; the world- threatening event was created to draw them into the world. In that way, they are unlike elementals. We know the name of the fire,” he said, his gaze intent, his eyes narrowed. “And perhaps, if we knew the name of the wilderness from which the familiars are drawn and of which they are part, we would be able to summon them in the way we call fire, water, earth, and air. Such studies have been made; none have been successful.

“The fire spoke to you in the outlands. I summoned it; it was my power that kept it leashed and present. But it spoke to you, Lord Kaylin, and without considerable expenditure of power on my part, it was you to whom it answered. I do not know what power summoned the familiar; nor do I know what its intent is. But, Lord Kaylin, absent your presence or my control, I know what fire wants.”

So did Kaylin. “The will of the fire,” she said quietly, “isn’t all one thing or the other. It’s complicated.”

“So, too, the familiar. But there are currents in the fire’s will. Were I at the peak of my power, I might contest your claim; I admit that it has been much in my mind. But I would not do it at this recitation, and I believe if you cannot control what you have been all but guardian to, there will be no recitation. The Teller, the Lord of the West March, and you yourself, will be lost. If we are very lucky, we will not face a similar fate.”

“How lucky do you think you’ll be?”

“The Barrani seldom believe in luck that we do not make with our own hands.” He turned to the Warden. “She must join the Teller.”

“Understood.”

* * *

The Lord of the West March spoke with the gathered members of the High Court; the conversation—if there was one—was short. They had come to hear the recitation, setting out—in some cases—after news of the presence of a harmoniste reached the High Halls. But they understood what had occurred when Teela was a child, and they saw, as they filed out of the Warden’s Perch, what remained in the wake of that disaster.

Lirienne did not demand that they accompany him; he made clear that the Consort intended to enter Alsanis, but he also made clear that the gathered might of High Court and Vale had done nothing to retrieve her on either of the two occasions she had almost been lost. Lord Kaylin, he reminded them, had been solely responsible for her survival on both occasions.

“Lord Kaylin,” Ynpharion said, “did not preserve her life on the forest paths.”

“No,” was the grave reply. “And Lord Kaylin did not protect her when the Lord’s hall was attacked. But Lord Ynpharion, neither did we. I will not command. I will not demand. Lord Iberrienne will accompany us, at the Lady’s request.”

Kaylin didn’t understand Ynpharion. He had, over the course of a day—or two, depending—accepted what he had spent weeks raging against: she held his name. She had a power over him that even the High Lord didn’t have. His anger, his sense of self-loathing, was still present, but so vastly diminished Kaylin thought there was an actual chance she might be able to ignore it one day.

You saved the Lady, not once, but twice. She was angry, Lord Kaylin. She was angry with you; she is not angered now. I do not understand mortals, and I have lived far longer than you have within the confines of Elantra. But I understand my people.

You hold my name. But mine is not the only name you hold.

She said nothing, aware that her own ability to hide her thoughts was going to cause so much trouble in the future.

You do not command the dragon because you do not understand the truth of command. You only barely commanded me, and in so doing, returned me to myself. So I will tell you what I know of the transformed: they are not Barrani. They remember; in that, they are Immortal. But how they respond to what they remember, what they desire because of it—it is not what we desire.

And my desires changed, Lord Kaylin. I would call it subtle—but it was not. When you spoke my name, when you burned away the taint that it fed, I was instantly awake, and instantly what I had been before I acceded to Iberrienne’s offer. Yes, he added, before she could ask. I wanted power. You already understand why.

She did.

But the power he gave was not the power I wanted. I understood only yesterday that Iberrienne himself faced the same change, and I have seen what it has done to him. You hold his name, and you are afraid to even speak to him because you are afraid he will shatter. There was contempt in this last thought— for her—but also a very strong confusion.

I serve you because I have no choice.