Michelle Sagara (28 page)

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 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.

Kaylin said nothing.

But I now understand that in serving you, I serve the Lady. I serve the Lord of the West March. I serve a sorcerer. I see legends walking—and flying. I see the twisted ruins of a Hallionne long lost to my distant kin. If disaster follows in your wake, it is not unmitigated.
He hesitated, and then added,
I remember what the transformed remember. Iberrienne would have drained the name that was released upon the death of my companion.

You preserved it.

You preserved it, and you wear it, but you do not destroy it in the wearing. The Consort believes that you will return that life to the Lake. And if you can, it means you have seen what she has seen, and you have survived. I know what she hopes to achieve. We all know. But if she fails, she believes that you might succeed. It is her highest duty. I will serve with what small grace I can muster. You live such a short time.

Chapter 23

What do you remember?
Kaylin asked Ynpharion.
What did you think you were fighting
for?

Freedom.

From the tyranny of name?

You understand.

No, I don’t. You still have a name or you wouldn’t be here. Was the name supposed to be transformed, somehow?

If we understood the form of our hidden selves, we could, with will and careful intent, revise it. If it became known, we could change it enough that knowledge was not a weapon that could be wielded against us. And we discovered that we could change more. The tyranny of
form
no longer bound us. We could walk the fixed lands—the world, as you call it. But we could walk the outlands, and we could walk the space between spaces. We could speak with the hidden and ancient things that live where the living cannot—creatures of which we had had no awareness before we were given the keys to unlock our cages.

He spit.

They were not cages.
Had he been speaking out loud, his voice would have trembled with the intensity of his anger
. They were the essence of what we
are
. The shadows bled the strength from the words, but they could not completely change them; they could change their meaning in the gray spaces where names do not exist.

Kaylin frowned. She turned to Barian, who walked by her side as they left his home. “When the Lords come to the West March to listen to the
regalia,
it is rumored that some are empowered by the experience.” She spoke in careful High Barrani.

His nod was cautious; it didn’t encourage discussion.

The advantage of belonging to a lesser race was the expectations it engendered; he had far fewer of her. “It is why the most promising of the young were chosen, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“How were the Lords changed?”

His eyes widened. They were blue; she didn’t expect their color to shift in any way. “I am not certain I understand the question.”

“How was change measured?”

He frowned.

“Lord Lirienne? Does it still happen?”

“Yes. It is not predictable, Lord Kaylin. It is not a dependable change, and there are no indicators prior to the recitation; men and women with great power are changed; men and women with almost no discernible power are changed.”

“Yes, but—how? The Barrani I know imply a lot of power but don’t demonstrate much of it. I’m certain I haven’t seen a tenth of what Evarrim can do.”

“That is a question that Lord Evarrim would be able to answer.”

“And not the Warden?”

“Very few of the Lords remain in the West March; it is rustic, and the Court of the Vale is less...active. Such changes would not necessarily be marked in a venue in which displays of power are less necessary.”

She thought of Lord Avonelle, and Lord Lirienne graced her with the slightest of smiles.

“Does the change involve elemental powers?”

“Elemental powers?”

“Does it strengthen the ability to summon?”

The Lord of the West March was silent.

“Does it give more insight into the between, the gray spaces, the outlands? Does it change the ability to draw wards and runes, to imbue them with power?”

The silence grew. At length, he said, “Yes. There are other abilities which are also strengthened. What do you now suspect, Chosen?”

What did she think? That something, somehow, was altering the base structure of a name? Nudging it, tweaking it, somehow pushing it into a very slightly different shape? The changes that occurred—where they occurred at all—didn’t destroy the person who received them. It didn’t do what had been done to the lost children, and what had been done, in turn, to the Barrani who had become Ferals.

Why?

A name was a name. It was given at birth. Did the Barrani somehow grow into it? Was it more rooted, stronger somehow, with age and experience? Were the children susceptible because they had not yet grown into the word that would define them? Were they altered because they had no way of protecting what they didn’t fully understand?

Or was Ynpharion altered not because of the shadows but because of the length and constancy of the exposure to the things that weren’t meant to live here? Did the recitation give a glimpse of that world to those who could retain it? Did it sensitize them without altering the nature of what life meant?

Ynpharion—

Yes, I understand the question. I do not remember being told a story.

Did you understand what Iberrienne was attempting to do when we—when we first met?

No.
He hadn’t finished, but was silent for a long moment.
Yes. I think I believed that he was trying to change the world. To make it freer. To rid it of the constraints and the limits placed upon us by our creators.

Was this his idea?

It was
our
idea; we believed it. We could see the world that he could see. We did not have the power to change it, but the power exists in the words left us. We could use those words. We could use them to alter reality.

The names.

She felt his revulsion. He didn’t bother to mention the Lake of Life; even the thought of it in this context revolted him. Yet it was what he had believed.

Do you have any idea of how that was supposed to work?

No.

And Iberrienne seems to have only half a brain left. Did you ever see his brother?

Brother?

She took this as a no, but said,
Iberrienne lost his brother to the recitation. He was one of the twelve; I think his name was Eddorian.

She felt Ynpharion almost freeze in place. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to answer.

Kaylin exhaled, turned, and caught Ynpharion’s arm, dragging him out of his momentary paralysis.

* * *

They spoke very little as they walked toward the Hallionne Alsanis. The green of grass and trees gave way to something that might have been stone or ash; it was roughly circular in shape, and the Hallionne stood at its heart. Nightshade, Iberrienne, and the Consort stood at its edge, waiting; the shadow cast by the enormous dragon in the sky above darkened the ground as he flew.

The Consort looked back as her brother approached; they exchanged brief, almost silent words—or at least almost silent to Kaylin. She then turned to Kaylin. “Lord Kaylin.”

Kaylin offered the Consort a perfect bow. She’d had enough sleep that she wasn’t tripping over her own feet. When she rose, the Lord of the West March had stepped aside to make room for her; it was a less than subtle hint. Kaylin took the vacated position by the Consort’s side.

“Can you hear him?”

“Yes.” The Consort glanced at Ynpharion as she spoke. She did not otherwise acknowledge him.

“Can he hear you?”

“I do not know, Lord Kaylin. I have never spoken to Alsanis as Consort.” She glanced at Iberrienne, and then said, her voice gentling, “Are you ready?” It occurred to Kaylin that Iberrienne was theoretically Outcaste, and unlike Nightshade, he didn’t have the protection of the Teller’s crown. Nor did it matter.

Iberrienne nodded. “Eddorian is calling.”

The dragon roared. Kaylin wanted to roar back. Instead, she began to walk.

* * *

Ten yards from the edge of the gray circle, she found the first of the fallen nightmares. It retained its shape, but the darkness of shadow had left it; it now seemed like an artist’s impression of a bird—a shape that implied flight, without any of its form. She glanced at the Consort for permission; the Consort nodded.

“None of us now understand what we will face. You are Chosen.” Kaylin opened her mouth; the Consort held out one graceful—and imperious—hand. “What you choose to risk, risk. We will accept it.”

Kaylin glanced at the Warden. Lord Barian’s gaze was fixed on the fallen nightmare. Kaylin had no cause to love those nightmares—but the eagles had emerged from them. Then again, she had no reason to love the eagles, either; they spoke more clearly, but they had taken the Consort from the Lord’s Hall into the heart of the green.

She felt the marks on her arm begin to warm. She touched the fallen nightmare; it felt like stone beneath her palm, rough and porous. At her back, Severn unwound his chain.

“Don’t,” she told him.

“It’s still a weapon,” he replied. “It doesn’t break spells, but it’s effective in every other way.”

“You can’t use it here—”

“But he can, Lord Kaylin,” Barian said. “If it is to become what it was, he must.”

Kaylin bit her lip as she attempted to lift what felt like stone. To her surprise, it was much lighter than it appeared. She turned to say something to Barian and stopped at the expression on the Warden’s face.

The nightmare rose. Its solid wings labored in the air a yard above Kaylin’s hands. The eagles that rested on Barian watched in silence. Kaylin held out both hands as the not-quite-stone, not-quite-bird failed to fly. It landed in her palms.

And then it spoke. Kaylin didn’t understand a word.

The eagles, however, did; they replied, in the same tongue. The creature in her hands shook at the sound of their voices. It had no mouth; it had a crevice that implied beak and emitted syllables. After a sentence or two—judging only by intonation and pauses, it shivered again, and this time, it pulled a head out of the porous mass of its body. It was an eagle’s head. Nothing about its body changed, but Kaylin’s eyes rounded.

“Lord Kaylin?”

“This is—I think this is—”

The eagles leaped from Barian’s arms to Kaylin’s shoulders. Their claws didn’t pierce skin, but it was close.

“What are you?” the creature transforming itself in her hands asked. He asked in Elantran, or what passed for Elantran; Kaylin’s suspicions hardened.

“I’m mortal,” she replied. “Human, even.”

“What is that?”

“I’m not Barrani.”

“You are not one of the children, then.”

“No.”

“Why are you here?”

“Apparently,” she replied softly, “I’m here to wake you. You are Alasanis’s brother, aren’t you?”

“Alsanis is here? Where?”

The eagles answered, screeching. Kaylin couldn’t understand a word they were saying. She glanced at the Consort, who was frowning.

“You could understand it?”

“It sounds like it’s speaking Elantran to me,” Kaylin replied. “And I guess that means it’s not.”

The gray eagle face was joined by wings, and legs. The legs were a little off, possibly because they were of uneven lengths. She watched as he adjusted them. “I don’t like this shape. It is too small.”

“If you’re going to get bigger, don’t do it in my hands.”

“Oh?” He looked at her hands, and she noted, as he did, that his eyes were like black opals. “Will it harm them?”

She set him on the ground. “He’s like Wilson,” she told the Consort. To the bird that was slowly changing and expanding his shape, she added, “How many of you are there?”

He blinked. It was disturbing because he had grown a third eye. “How many?” He turned to the eagles and asked them a question she couldn’t understand; the eagles replied, and whatever they said caused the creature to laugh. “How
many
are you?”

Kaylin started to count, and one of the eagles tightened his claws. “There is only one of you.”

“Don’t tell me that—tell him.”

“We have. He does not understand the concept. We will fly,” the eagle added. “We will search.”

The dragon roared, and the stone eagle, which was doing a good job of becoming a standing puddle, froze. It looked up—well, the head did; the wings had kind of dispersed into something disturbingly liquid—and its face changed shape. It roared back.

Kaylin was once again reminded of Bellusdeo and Diarmat, minus the outrage on either side. She covered her ears with her hands and rose. But she looked up at the dragon, and felt momentarily happy. Yes, he was larger, and yes, he had changed. But the gift he had given Bertolle, he had attempted to give to Alsanis.

“It is not safe,” the stone said, its shape at last settling into an almost-familiar one. No, not almost. She heard Nightshade’s breath stop—funny, that that was a sound. She recognized the Barrani who now stood before her with his opal eyes, although she had only seen him once. He was Allaron.

* * *

But the statue that now began to take on the texture—and color—of flesh shook his head; black hair gleamed in a drape down his back. “We are not. We are the brothers of Alsanis.”

“Why do you look like Allaron?”

“Do I?” He frowned. “Is it upsetting?”

“No,” Kaylin said quickly. “We’re fine with it. You don’t have to change your shape again.”

“It is small and confining, but—small and confined as you are, it is appropriate.” He frowned. “Alsanis is waking. The children are crying. Come.” He paused, and then bowed to the Consort. He appeared content to ignore everyone else. “Lady.”

The Consort inclined her head; her eyes were an odd shade of blue. “Will he hear me?”

“Yes, Lady—but they will hear you, as well. They are troublesome. They occupy us, they exhort us, they demand. Alsanis is...” He frowned. It was not a Barrani expression; it was too quick and too open. Turning, he lifted his arms; light bled from his fingertips like slow lightning. He chased it with the thunder of his voice.

The dragon roared.

The awakened brother roared back, and then turned, his eyes round with outrage. “You have not named him.”

“No.”

“Why? How can he be here without a name?”

“I don’t know his name.”

The brother—Kaylin considered calling him Roger—frowned. “Of course not. You could not contain his name; it would devour you. Did you not impress a name upon him when you summoned him?”

“No.” She wasn’t going to explain that she hadn’t summoned him. On the other hand, it appeared that the dragon was, and loudly.

One of the Hallionne’s distant walls cracked in response, the fault line spreading like fractures in glass.