Michelle Sagara – Cast in Sorrow (страница 14)

She did. But she kept her gaze firmly on the Lord of the West March; she glanced once, briefly, at Severn, but looked away.

All else is not equal. You are Chosen; you bear the marks. It is the only reason the blood of the green has not started a minor—and brief—interracial war. You carry a creature on your shoulder that is capable of killing the transformed. My kin do not know what role you played in the liberation of Orbaranne, but they suspect the truth.

The...truth.

That it was not by my hand alone that she was saved.

She had reached the head of the table; the Lord of the West March held out a hand. She slid her right hand into his and he led her to the seat she was meant to occupy; it was to the right of his, across from Nightshade.

All of these things make you a threat. But you spoke to the nightmares of the Hallionne, and woke his dreams. The Barrani of the High Halls, saving only the Consort, lend this little weight in comparison to the rest of the things I have pointed out—but to the West March, it is your single, saving grace. Do not hide it; do nothing—at all—to lessen its impact.

She sat. Her mouth was dry. She was certain that dying animals felt this way when the shadows of vultures passed over them. Before—and after—the bath, she’d been hungry; she was not hungry now. Now, anxiety shoved hunger to one side. The marks on her arms, legs and back were normally hidden; the marks that had, over the course of the year, crept up the back of her neck, were not. Nor was the rune that squatted high in the middle of her forehead.

She’d gotten used to the dress over the past couple of weeks. It was both comfortable and practical; even the long, draping sleeves had more in common with Barrani hair than mortal cloth: they caught on nothing. She could, with a perfectly straight face, make an argument for the dress as a uniform in the Halls—that’s how practical it was.

But the attention the dress now received made it alien and uncomfortable again.

The small dragon nudged her cheek, rubbing his snout against newly clean skin. He warbled.

If she were being honest, it wasn’t the dress. It wasn’t the marks of the Chosen; not even the new one, which, unless she spent time in front of a mirror, she couldn’t see. It was the weight of expectation. It was the certain sense that she’d just punched in above her pay grade, and now had to act as if she worked here.

She’d spent a lot of time in her fourteenth year seething with outrage because no one took her seriously; she could remember it, and it embarrassed her to think about it now. But she’d never understood—even when under Diarmat’s blistering condescension—how much safety there was in that. When no one took you seriously, there wasn’t a lot you could do to screw things up. Nothing you said or did really counted; people expected you to fall flat on your butt.

She’d wanted to be taken seriously. She’d yearned to be treated as an equal. Evanton had once said, Be careful what you wish for, the wizened little bastard. She had a heaping plateful of what she’d wished for, and swallowing even a mouthful was proving difficult.

And why was that?

She remembered eating in the mess hall for the first time. She’d been so proud. That had lasted right up until someone told her that she was the official mascot. She hadn’t reacted well. But—and she realized this now—she’d had the luxury of her very poor reaction. She expected people to look down on her. She looked for signs of it in everything. She bristled with anger at her certainty that everyone was.

She needed some of that anger now, but it was gone.

She was certain everyone at this table looked down on her; Severn was seated at the table to the left, near the foot of the table; Teela had chosen the seat to his right. She couldn’t see them unless she swiveled in her chair, and she knew better.

Where had her anger gone? What had it even been? Oh. Right. She’d been enraged that the Hawks thought they could judge her when they’d had such easy lives. They hadn’t grown up in the shadow of Castle Nightshade. They’d had food, and a place to live, and families that were mostly still alive. They thought she was stupid and naive; they thought she was hapless and ignorant.

She’d wanted to see them survive Nightshade, and then they could sneer at her.

Looking around the table—which she could politely do—she realized that she’d lost that anger. Somehow, when she wasn’t looking, it had frayed, and she’d done nothing to stitch it back together to keep it going. She was no longer certain that the people around her had had easy lives. Yes, they lived forever if left to their own devices, and yes, they were, to a man, stunningly gorgeous and graceful.

But given the chance, Kaylin would live none of their lives. True, she daydreamed about being born Aerian. But Barrani or Dragon? Never. War and death defined the Immortals; they lost eternity to it. If they had friends, they didn’t claim them in public; friendship, affection, even love appeared to be the ugly stepchildren of their races.

“Lord Kaylin,” someone said, and she blinked. It was Lord Barian, the Warden of the West March. His eyes were blue. The eyes of everyone at this table, with the exception of Nightshade, were now blue. She had a sinking suspicion she’d missed something.

No, Kaylin. But you must pay attention now, the Lord of the West March said.

What’s his title?

You may address him as either Warden or Lord Barian. Neither will give offense.

“Lord Barian.” She inclined her head. Her hair felt like a helmet.

“You have joined the High Court only recently.”

“Yes.”

“I am curious. To become Lord of that Court, one must take the test of name; when one does not possess such a name, how is one tested?”

She found the embers of her anger then. “You have no doubt journeyed to the High Halls to take that test yourself, Lord Barian.”

Careful, kyuthe.

Lord Barian met, and held, her gaze. He did not answer.

“The Barrani seldom speak of the particulars of their test. They don’t announce its results. Either they survive, or they do not. I am not, as I’m certain you’re aware, Barrani. My test did not involve any customary ritual; I was given no preparation. Nor was I told not to speak of the experience.” Or at least, not all of it. “But I assume the Lords of the Court hold their silence with cause.

“If you have seen the Tower, you know what waits there. To become a Lord of the Court, in the case of the two mortals who bear the title, all that matters is survival.”

“Will you speak of what you saw?” Another Barrani, farther down the table, said. The woman spoke softly, but clearly, and as silence seemed to have descended on both of the other tables, the room’s acoustics easily carried her words.

Kaylin glanced at the Lord of the West March; he watched her, his eyes slightly narrowed. She looked to Nightshade, whose eyes were emerald; they were probably the only green eyes in the building at the moment.

“Yes.”

If she’d thought the room quiet before, she discovered how wrong she was.

“Mortal memory is not, as you’re all well aware, reliable. It’s not perfect. Elements of what I witnessed have faded. If any who have seen what I saw wish to correct me, I will take no offense.” She thought she heard Teela snort. “I wasn’t raised in the High Halls. I was a visitor there, but the building is immense. I was searching for the courtyard, and I found the Tower instead.

“There was a word on the Tower wall. I could see it. The Barrani who had passed the Tower’s test could see it; the others couldn’t.”

“You...could see the word.”

She nodded. “And I understood that it was both an invitation and a command.”

Nightshade said, “It was an invitation. None can be commanded—not even by the Tower—to take that test. But those who choose to abide untested will never gain a place in the High Lord’s Court.”

Is this your story, or mine?

It depends. If you ask your Corporal, he will assuredly claim that I had some greater hand in its writing.

“I chose to enter the Tower. Lord Severn chose to accompany me.”

“The Tower allowed this?” The woman’s eyes rounded slightly.

“Yes.”

“At the base of the Tower—and arriving at that base was not a simple matter of descending stairs—was a hall that was much rougher hewn than any of the halls I’d seen in the High Halls. At the end of that hall was a cavern.” She fell silent for a long moment, considering her possible words with care.

“The Hallionne were built for a reason,” she finally said. “The Towers in the fiefs of Elantra were built for a reason. The High Halls exist—in the heart of an Empire ruled by a Dragon—” she paused to allow ice to seep into the silence, but did so without apologies; it was true “—for a reason. I met that reason. The test of name is purely a test of resolve, and if you fail your name is lost to the Lake of Life; it is lost until the moment that the creature in the cavernous basement is destroyed.

“What he takes, he holds. I—” She stopped.

The woman who had spoken seemed paler now. “How?”

“Pardon?”

“How does he take what he holds?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”