Cast in Sorrow. Michelle Sagara
hall while you wear the blood of the green; your place after you have served your purpose will be decided by your behavior before the recitation.
She knew his True Name.
Yes.
Nightshade could—and did—intrude on her thoughts as he pleased; the Lord of the West March had never done so. It hadn’t even occurred to her that he could until he spoke.
This deepened his amusement.
You are unaccustomed to power, kyuthe. It is an advantage—to me. But you are not in the friendly and tolerant environs of the High Halls now.
She didn’t stumble by dint of will. His smile deepened; his eyes were a shade of green that was tinged with blue, but not saturated by it. She didn’t need to tell him that the High Halls did not define either friendly or tolerant in her books, but she had a feeling that if she survived this, it would. At least where Barrani were concerned.
The small dragon raised his head and brought it to the level of her cheek. His wings remained folded, although today they couldn’t do much damage to her hair; she was fairly certain she would never again be able to take it down. Men and women turned in their seats as his head swiveled from side to side.
The servants had almost entirely ignored his existence.
They did not. They were aware of him.
Will they make reports to whoever they work for?
Most assuredly. They are mine. They report to me.
You probably know everything I know already, she said, not bothering to hide the defensive note creeping into her thoughts.
No. I understand what a name means to you. You believe that the interest shown you is unwarranted; you assign it to the blood of the green. Were all else equal, you would be correct. Keep walking.
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