Cast In Courtlight (22 page)

His gaze did not change; no shift of color, no change of perfect expression, marred him. But he set it down slowly. “Sanabalis,” he said softly, as if to himself. He looked at Kaylin. “We met, he and I, when we were both young, and the world was a vast place. Now it has grown small, I fear, for both of us.

“But come, you are mortal, and if I am any judge of mortality, you are considered young by your kind.”

“I’m an adult,” she said firmly.

His smile was indulgent. “Indeed, so you must be, if you are here. No child is called
kyuthe
. Not even among the Barrani, rare though children are. They have less inclination to interrupt their elders, however.” It was a warning. Gently given, but implacable. “You have been marked by one who was once my kin. You have been called
kyuthe
, and have in turn called a Barrani High Lord
kyuthe
in the manner of your kind. You bear the medallion of an ancient Dragon Lord. And – although you do not wear it now – you bear the Hawk of the Lords of Law. You serve the Dragon Emperor in the streets of his city.

“There is more,” he added softly. Too softly. “I would hear your tale, child. It will while away the time, and I think that even I will find much strange about it, who seldom find anything surprising.”

Kaylin looked at Teela. Teela did not meet her eyes.

This was the trap she’d been afraid of, except she’d been expecting, oh, exploding doors and daggers and poison and magic. She was aware that the silence of the Court had deepened while she endured the inspection of its Lord, and she wasn’t surprised to see that many of the Barrani had drawn closer.

Kaylin was an equal-opportunity worshipper; she failed, regularly, to pay her respects to any of the Elantran gods, although she did nod at passing priests. She had the very human custom, however, of praying in the vague hope that one of the deities she hadn’t managed to offend might be listening.

She prayed now.

And to her surprise, Andellen approached, without permission. He did not pass her. Indeed, he did not stand by her side; he stood behind her. And he
knelt
.

The castelord’s face did not change, but he grew remote as his gaze shifted, and the lingering facade of friendliness faded. “Exile,” he said in a cool voice.

Andellen did not rise.

“You are here on sufferance, who should not have passed the arches. Had I not extended my hospitality to your Lord’s
Erenne
, you would be dead. Have you chosen to repudiate the outcaste? Have you come to pledge your allegiance anew to the Lord of the High Court?”

“No, Lord,” he said. He did not look up; his hair framed and hid his face.

“The freedom of my Halls is not yours. You will be servant to the mortal while she remains. Leave her side, and you will be mine in a different way.”

Andellen lowered his head. Without thinking, Kaylin touched his shoulder; it was at the level of her hand, if she raised it slightly. His armor was cold and hard. But he did not shake her hand free. She wanted to send him home then. To spare him this humiliation.

Had anyone told her – even Severn – that she would
ever
feel pity or compassion for one of the fieflord’s guards, she would have spit. And then probably run away, really, really quickly.

He bought her time. He had discarded dignity
to
buy her time. She couldn’t even thank him because it would be too costly – for him. So she said nothing.

And rescue came from an unexpected quarter, a reminder that praying wasn’t always the wisest of recourses; the Elantran gods had a wicked sense of humor.

“Lord,” said a voice she recognized. She tried not to grimace. But she did look. Through the ranks of the gathered High Barrani, a familiar set of red robes sucked the color out of the circle. Lord Evarrim of the Arcanum made his entrance.

“Lord Evarrim,” the castelord said, inclining his head. He stepped back and resumed his seat, and the woman by his side straightened; she looked like a young and slender sapling. Until you saw her eyes, and Kaylin saw them as briefly as possible.

“The mortal is not Erenne.”

“She bears the mark.”

“She bears the mark,” Lord Evarrim said, his voice smooth and neutral, “but it is decorative facade. The outcaste has not claimed what he has marked.”

Andellen stood then. His hand was upon the hilt of his sword in the silence, but he did not otherwise move.

Teela, however, did. She came to stand beside Kaylin. Her fingers brushed Kaylin’s wrist; they were graceful and they did not linger. But the bruise damn well did. If Kaylin had never appreciated people who talked too damn much, she was beginning to resent people who didn’t talk at all.

“It is not as
Erenne
that she is an honored guest of the Court,” Teela said quietly. “But as
kyuthe
to the Lord of the West March. Will you question his claim as well?”

“I would,” he said.

The hush was profound.

“She is here at the behest of the Lords of Law,” Lord Evarrim added. “And stands beside her compatriot, even now.”

Kaylin was confused, and looked up at Teela, her eyes at throat level. Teela whispered Severn’s name and touched Kaylin’s wrist again. The urge to kick Teela passed, but it took effort.

Severn separated himself from them somehow, moving almost as carefully, and as quietly, as the Barrani. He approached the throne of the castelord, and he held out a piece of paper. Paper, in a court this fine, seemed a currency of beggars, and this was plain in the way it was taken from Severn’s hand.

But it was read. The castelord’s eyes were now bluer, although green still remained at their depths. Kaylin wondered if anything actually annoyed him. “I see,” he said quietly.

“During the Festival season,” Severn said in smooth, flawless High Barrani, “the Lords of Law are involved in many investigations of a delicate nature. I am sent alone, in order that any investigation deemed necessary be both quiet and diplomatic. If it pleases the castelord, I will be both guest and observer in his Court.”

“And if it does not please the castelord?”

“It pleases the Emperor,” Severn replied. He did not flinch, or bend.

“And the
kyuthe
of my younger son?”

“She has been given a leave of absence, castelord. She is not required to aid me in any way. She does not fly under the Hawk, nor is she beholden to Lord Grammayre while she resides here. Her actions are her own.”

“Lord Evarrim?”

The Arcanist was silent. His gaze could have melted metal, which Severn was wearing in abundance. “Perhaps I have been hasty,” he said at last, “in my care for the sanctity of the High Court. It is unpleasant to me to see the mark of Nightshade upon any countenance that approaches yours, Lord.”

“No more than I find it myself, but I
have
countenanced her presence, and I will not have it said that the High Court is lacking in hospitality it has extended.” His eyes narrowed. “And the Lord of the West March, Lord Evarrim?”

The Arcanist stood taller. The ruby he bore across his brow was not the color of fire; it was the color of blood, and it seemed to be moving.

Even this the castelord accepted without any sign of irritation. “It has not been said that my younger son bears any great love for mortals.”

“No, Lord.”

“And the acknowledgment of a
kyuthe
is likewise rare.”

Lord Evarrim nodded.

“Would you gainsay his claim?”

Blue eyes met Kaylin’s. They were very dark. “She is a danger,” he said at last. “To the Lord of the West March. And to the High Court.”

Kaylin didn’t close her eyes. It would have been a sign of weakness.

But Teela’s laugh was like the ripple of small, musical bells. “Lord Evarrim,” she said, hints of amusement playing the syllables as if they were instruments, and she was a master, “has the Arcanum been so weakened that it sees a threat in one mortal who is barely adult in the eyes of the Emperor?”

Lord Evarrim frowned. This spoke volumes; had he been Leontine, he would have been a mass of standing fur and exposed fangs and claws. “Anteela, how pleasant to see you, cousin. No doubt your time in the Hawks has exposed you to mortals of all stripe and race.

“In fact, given your exposure, I find it odd that you stand before your Lord and mine, beside a mortal who has garnered the interest of the outcaste, the Lord of the West March and Lord Sanabalis. Do you claim that this level of interest in one merely mortal is a common occurrence?”

“In the history of the High Court, mortals have often been of interest,” Teela replied, a delicate shrug punctuating her words. “At this time, and in this place, it does not strike me as odd… it strikes me as somehow fitting.”

Kaylin had followed the verbal sparring up to that point; she lost its meaning entirely as she wrestled with Teela’s words.

“And I would say, Lord Evarrim, that she has also gained the interest of the Arcanum, if you speak so forcefully.”

“I do not speak for her presence.”

“No, indeed, but you speak as if her presence could possibly be a threat to our Lord. And if you speak from a position of knowledge, I am sure it would please the Court to hear what you have to say.”

Kaylin caught the strands again. But she had missed something important, and knew it.

The Lord of the High Court waited.

And the gods turned again. The Lord of the West March appeared at the periphery of a circle that also contained Lord Evarrim. The look that passed between the two was not – could not remotely be construed as – friendly. It was, however, gilded with all outward show of deference and respect.

“My apologies,” the Lord of the West March said. “I was occupied, High Lord, and was unaware that my
kyuthe
had arrived.”

“Lord Evarrim has cast some doubt upon your claim,” the castelord said evenly. It was a challenge. Even Kaylin recognized that. But there was no anger in it.

“It is to be expected,” the Lord of the West March replied gravely. “I have never been fond of mortals. Nor, however, have I made my personal business a matter for the High Court. I considered the matter of negligible consequence.” He approached. Although the Barrani did not rush to get out of his way, they cleared a path for him. Kaylin couldn’t see how, and she’d spent a lot of time on crowd patrols, especially during the Festival season.

“Kaylin Neya,” the Lord of the West March said as he approached her, “you honor us with your presence.” He bowed. The bow was not as low as Teela’s bow to his father had been, but it was
not
perfunctory. “Forgive me my lack of hospitality.”

She hesitated. To speak after him would be like croaking, but worse. He didn’t seem to notice. Then again, he hadn’t noticed the very dead body of a guard left to watch over him, either, so that didn’t offer as much comfort as it might have.

“She is
kyuthe
,” the Lord of the West March said, speaking to the castelord, and only the castelord. “And I would not have it said that I have offered lie to you, Lord, in pursuit of any agenda that is not yours.”

The castelord nodded.

Teela stepped back.

And the Lord of the West March approached her. He smiled. She hated her knees.

“Come,
kyuthe
.” He held out a hand, and she stared at it. And then she held out hers; left hand. It bore his ring. But he shook his head. “The right hand,” he told her quietly. “It is unadorned.”

Andellen stepped forward, and the Lord of the West March met his eyes; the stare lasted a minute. Or an hour. It was kind of hard to tell. But Andellen did not move when the Lord of the West March again raised his hand.

Lifting her right hand, she placed it across his palm.

Light flared between their hands, spreading up their arms. It was golden, and it moved and danced, taking a shape and form that she had seen only once: in the forest, beneath the bower of an impossible tree. Feathers. Flight feathers. And around these, dancing the autumnal drift of fall, other colors, red and yellow, green and brown, silver and white.

She did not want to let go of his hand.

But when he withdrew, she had no choice. “Is the High Court satisfied?” the Lord of the West March asked. But he spoke to the castelord, and only the castelord.

The castelord’s smile was the equal of his son’s. “It is satisfied,” he replied. “Welcome, Kaylin Neya, to the Court of the Barrani.”

She bowed.

“If you will it, High Lord, I will show my
kyuthe
the High Halls. She is mortal, her memory will last decades, no more, but stories will arise from what she has seen that will bewitch those who will never approach it.”

“Let it be done,” the castelord said quietly. “But return with your
kyuthe
for the twilight gathering. We will sup then, and perhaps we will talk.”

The Lord of the West March bowed. He offered Kaylin his arm, and she forced herself to take it as readily as she would Severn’s. It was hard.

“Anteela,” the High Lord said when Teela moved to follow, “remain with me. Your time with these mortals might be of interest. Entertain us.”

Teela bowed again, and turned to face him. She did not look at Kaylin again.

“And with your leave,” the castelord said to Severn, “I would also have your company. There is a shadow upon you that interests me.”

Severn’s bow was almost as good as Teela’s. And he, too, failed to watch her leave.

“The Corporal is competent,” the Lord of the West March said when they were well clear of the forest and the doors that enclosed it. Kaylin saw that they were not in the entrance hall. She had no idea where they’d come out. she wasn’t about to question him; she was almost giddy with relief. She bit her tongue. Pain had a habit of driving giddiness someplace less inconvenient.

“Oh, he’s competent,” Kaylin said. “I don’t think he’s ever failed at anything he’s tried.”

“And how much has he tried?”

She frowned.

“Ambition is the measure of many a man.”

“Oh.”

“And woman. What is yours, Kaylin Neya?”

“I’d like to survive this,” she replied in Elantran, without thinking. Andellen’s frown was like a mirror. But it was brief.