Michelle Sagara - Cast in Sorrow

The trees that had been the only constant during the overland trek were everywhere, but they grew in more ordered rows; they were at least as tall as the trees on the other side of the bridge. But there were no fallen branches, no hollow, standing trunks; here, the trees were like lampposts, without the lights.

In fact, the trees seemed to mark what passed for road here; they formed explicit boundaries in rows, opening up or ending, as if they were the walls of a maze. Mazes were the province of the monied. Warrens—like mazes made of buildings—were the province of the wretched, but Kaylin had no sense that she’d find slums in the West March.

The Lord of the West March glanced at her, the corners of his eyes and lips crinkling. She’d amused him again.

“It is seldom indeed that I see my own home from the vantage of a visitor entirely new to it. It is...engaging. We will follow this road, as you call it, and turn to the right; the trees—the type of trees—are indicators.”

“Of what?”

“Ah, forgive me. They would, in your parlance, be street names, I believe.”

It wasn’t a short walk. Kaylin, who had always known that Teela was physically strong, was more than impressed when they at last reached the home of the Lord of the West March. If stone wasn’t favored as a general building material, it wasn’t absent here. The building reminded Kaylin very much of the High Halls in Elantra—at least from the outside. The stairs that fronted it were flat and wide, the columns that held the roof almost the height of the trees that stood to the right and left of the building.

They were carved in the likeness of warriors, and words were engraved across the rounded base of each; Kaylin couldn’t read most of them, although she was certain they must be High Barrani. Then again, she couldn’t read most examples of High Barrani carved or written centuries ago; she was assured that the language was the same—but the style of the writing made the entire thing look like a mess of loops and crosses. It was aesthetic, but not practical.

She could make out individual letters at the beginnings of words.

“Can you read these?” she asked Severn. He had sheathed his swords when Nightshade and the Lord of the West March arrived.

“Not all of it, no. That one means weapon or sword, depending on the context.”

“Thanks. I was kind of hoping to feel less stupid.”

“Then you don’t want to be left behind,” he replied, grinning. “The Lord of the West March is opening his home to the High Court. We want to be there before he’s finished.”

“He’s not likely to close the doors in our face—for one, I don’t think there are any.” But she moved as she spoke.

“I suspect the ring you’re wearing would grant you entrance, regardless. It won’t, however, speak for me.”

She hesitated. “I couldn’t help but notice that the Barrani here don’t like your weapon much.”

“It’s not the weapon,” he replied as he cleared the stairs. “It’s the wielder. I suffer from mortality.”

“It’s a curse,” she agreed. “How much trouble are they going to cause?”

“I’m uncertain. The weapon was damaged in our melee with Iberrienne. There are only two places in which it might be repaired. The West March is the least hostile.”

“I don’t want to know where the other place is.”

He chuckled. “No, you really don’t.”

She did, of course. But she’d already said too much. The hardest thing about Barrani Courts was the amount of silence they demanded.

Learn, Kaylin. Learn quickly. When you last attended Court, you were considered an oddity, a distasteful necessity in a city infested with them. In the West March, that is not the case. The Emperor’s shadow does not reach the green—but the shadows of three wars mark it. When the Consort wakes, you will be called to give your report of the events that occurred when you went missing in the Outlands. The fact that the Hallionne Orbaranne is standing—and whole—is the only point in your favor.

Dress, remember?

Ah. You mistake me. There is not a Barrani here who will attempt to dispose of you while you wear that dress. But the moment the telling is done—if you survive it—you will not be wearing the dress.

She froze. You won’t be wearing the crown, either.

No.

And you’re Outcaste.

I believe I am aware of that. I understood the risk, Kaylin. It is my opinion that I will be in far less danger than you yourself will be. The Barrani are not Dragons; Outcaste is a political statement. It is only relevant if the Outcaste in question has no power—but it is rare indeed that those without power are made Outcaste. Think of what you will tell the Court of the Vale when they bid you to speak. Think of how you will handle their accusations.

They haven’t accused me of anything.

Not yet. But if you falter, they will. It is the nature of Courts.

It’s the nature of carrion creatures, she snapped.

He chuckled. But he entered the hall without comment from anyone, and Kaylin scurried after Teela and the Consort.

The interior of the building—the parts that were visible in a straight walk from the door to a large suite of rooms—was distinctly different from the High Halls. There was far less stone here, and the wood was warm and bright; the floors were pale, but hard, the frames and lintels of doors carved out of the same wood. There were small trees, small fonts, and—as Teela stepped through a wide set of open doors—a large, circular courtyard.

In the center of the courtyard was a fountain.

Kaylin stopped walking. The Barrani at her back didn’t run into her, but they did move pointedly to either side. Teela, however, stopped. The Lord of the West March, sensitive to his sister, returned from the head of the procession. Kaylin was aware of them both, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the fountain—and she wasn’t even certain why.

Fountains weren’t exactly common in Elantra, although they weren’t unknown. Where they existed in crowded, well-traveled, public areas, they accumulated dirt, dead leaves, small sticks, and an assortment of pebbles. They also generally sported small children who were likely to get their ears boxed in the immediate future.

The water here was clean. It was clear as new glass. It reminded Kaylin of the height of summer, not because there was anything about it that suggested seasons, but because it promised blessed relief from the heat. The only noise in the courtyard was the fall of water and the slight weight of footsteps. Barrani didn’t have thunderous, heavy steps unless they were making a point.

“What do you see?” The Lord of the West March asked.

“Water.” As answers went, it defined inadequate—it was a fountain. Of course it had water. She was aware of the basin into which the water fell; the fountain was not the heavy, worn stone she was accustomed to seeing. A layer of what she assumed was gold-leaf gilded the basin, and writing, again in gold, the base into which it was set.

“I see the bridge,” she said, after a long pause. “And mist or fog.”

The Lord of the West March nodded, eyes narrowed. “An’Teela?”

“I see a fountain,” she replied. “Water is, apparently, falling from a small rift in the air above the basin.”

“You don’t see a bridge.” Kaylin’s voice was both flat and resigned.

“No, kitling.”

“And I shouldn’t, either.”

“It is not a test,” the Lord of the West March said with a tight smile. “There is no correct answer.”

Kaylin glanced at Severn.

I see what Teela sees.