Cast In Courtlight (31 page)

Kaylin didn’t play chicken. “It’s not a Barrani test,” Severn said, his voice in her ear a relief from the buzzing that was growing in volume.

She bit her lip; tasted blood. Thought after. Blood was a bad idea.

Very bad.

Blood was the liquid of the living. Blood was the water of life. Blood was the ink in which old words – ancient words – were writ.

She knew this, as her blood touched her tongue. It was a trickle; she’d bit her lip harder just jumping down the stairs. Admittedly, she’d had three armed thugs on her tail at the time. Here she had a quiet room and a table that wouldn’t let go of her hands. She’d had no reason to bite. Except vanity; she really didn’t like screaming.

Teela would have hit her.

Severn was silent. If he even understood what had happened, he made
no
sign, gave no word. But she felt him by her side, like a shadow.

The surface of the table was no longer shiny, it was shining. The light was pale, diffuse, and ringed with a halo of pale blue.

The words – and they were words – had crawled up her arms, settling against her skin, matching, curve for curve and line for line, the words that were already there. They didn’t speak to her, but the buzzing was loud. They were seeking some answer from her skin, some kinship, something – an answer came to her slowly, like the straggling result of a difficult numbers question.

They wanted a vessel.

A living vessel.

Blood, and bone, and flesh.

She remembered Castle Nightshade. She remembered the Long Hall; the silent Barrani who moved at the scent of blood as it passed them, as if they were
almost
dead, but could be stirred by the memory of, the desire for, life.

This was different. The Barrani had been housed in their own flesh, gone pale and slack with the passage of time and their endless inactivity, their guardianship of the doors that opened only at the whim of the fieflord.

The words? They were unleashed, uncontained. Almost frenzied.

And she felt them huddle against her, seeking sustenance. Or entrance. But they did not speak, and this frustrated her, although she wasn’t sure why: Words were
spoken;
they didn’t have a voice of their own.

And yet…

They were more than words.

Just as some names were more than words. They weren’t her names. Hers, she could speak; she could hear without compulsion; she could ignore. But the names of the Barrani? They were
more
. And the names of the Dragons.

Their names were forever.

Old names, she thought. Old words.

What stories had she heard? What legends had she grasped from her time in Nightshade? Half-remembered – which is the way, in the end, almost all things were in her life – she thought of stone casements, the small windows sculpted into statues that would one day wake, and see through them as if they were eyes. Tall and elegant, large and ferocious, the daydreams of ancient gods; they had been carved and molded by Lords of Law and Lords of Chaos. And they had been given words of power so that they might live. Words that had meaning in her life in only the most superficial of ways; those words
were
these words.

She understood it, and was silent; in the face of words such as these, what power did her own have?

She whispered a name. Human name.
Severn
.

And he was there; she felt his hands upon her shoulders, the steadying strength of his silence. Was this power? Not as the words understood it.

Not as the words could be understood.

But she wasn’t clay. She wasn’t nameless. She wasn’t – “No,” she whispered softly.

“Kaylin?”

“I asked him,” she told Severn.

“Asked who?”

Calarnenne
. She did not speak the name; her lips formed it, but it formed base sound, no more. She did not
think
it, although thought was present. The name that came to her was primal, primitive, visceral – something deeper than thought. It was the true name of the Lord who ruled the fief that bore his name: Nightshade.

And she heard his voice over the buzz of these words, although she couldn’t see him.

Kaylin
.

You told me –

What did I tell you?

Nothing, of course. Nothing of value. The scant force of air over the shape of tongue, teeth and lip said nothing at all. Noise. Buzzing.

The children
, she told him, concentrating.The silence was almost complete; he would have withdrawn had she not called him again, forcing his attention to focus upon her. She felt his surprise, his hesitance, and yes, his anger. But she wanted none of those things.

How are the Barrani children named?

A pause. A swell of resistance. And then, beneath that, amusement and… pity.
Midwife
, he called her with mockery.
You are in the High Halls
.

I’m in the damn High Halls
, she snapped, clenching her hands. Words slid through, crushed but not destroyed.
And there are names here, waiting for life
.

You… see much.

And hear less. Answer the question.

Silence.

Please.

The Lord of the High Court has a daughter
, he said at last,
and she will be Consort. To her will come all who are born. They sleep; they will not wake until she takes them along the paths that are open
only
for her. She is appointed
.

Kaylin swallowed. She knew where the Consort would bring those children. But – she’s –

Yes. She will be wife to one of her brothers; the Lord of the Green or the Lord of the West March. I told you, Kaylin, that her role was ordained.

They’re not born alive?

They are, but life is flimsy, fragile; it passes fleetingly. They will not wake until they know the whole of who they will be; they are not given their name; they are taken by it.

And do they remember the taking?

Silence. Profound silence.

She didn’t ask again. Instead, she watched the writing swirl and shift. The light was intense. The pain was worse.

They want to name me
, she told him.

And the silence changed in texture; it was dark here. The only warmth in the room – if you didn’t count the burning along her arms – came from Severn’s hands.

You cannot be given a name.

Why?

You are mortal.

She understood that. And told him so, but not in words. I
already have the words
, she began, looking at them; they glowed brightly enough that her sleeves couldn’t hide them.

They are yours, hut they are not you. If this is the gift the High Halls offers, refuse it.

But they –

Kaylin, did you offer
the
altar your blood?

Ummm
. Would
it make a difference?

The silence was one of astonishment. And not the good kind.

It was an accident
, she began defensively. But he was concentrating, and she fell silent. She could feel his presence grow as she waited. She couldn’t see him. But he was drawing nearer, along the length of the only thing that bound them: his name.

The name he had surrendered to her. You
are not alone
.

Severn’s here.

Good.

You shed blood.

Not on the table.

Again the silence. She was a bit tired of it. Her teeth, however, were clenched about as tightly as they could possibly be, and she didn’t feel like swearing. Barrani didn’t have truly useful curse words.

Why did you touch it?

I – it seemed like the right thing to do.

Given how often your right is wrong, I would suggest you ignore your instincts in future. If
, he added darkly,
you have one.
Silence returned, and in it, he observed her from a distance. Not, she realized, a safe distance; she could almost see where, in Castle Nightshade, he was standing, and she’d walked that floor before. It had almost devoured her.

You are almost safe
, he said at last.
The words find no purchase in you
.

They’re… on me.

Yes. I can see that.

I, um, my hands are hind of stuck
. In two fists. She tried to pull them free, purely as a demonstration, and they did not come; they were anchored there, in a sea of Old words. Anchored by them.

He frowned. She didn’t see it, and was grateful for the distance, but the feeling lingered anyway.
You will pay a price for this
, he told her softly.
You cannot now withdraw your hands unless you take what is offered
. She had a little quibble with his use of the word
offered
, but then again, he
was
speaking in the essence of High Barrani.

What does the Consort do?

She chooses a name.

But that means she can
read
them.

No, Kaylin, it doesn’t. These are not mortal words, to be read and picked over; they are the gift and price of the Old Ones. They are the force of our lives. And you have your hands in them.

Look, it’s not like I can pollute the damn things. They’re all the hell over me!

You have to choose
, he said softly.
And the wisdom to make that choice wisely will not be yours for centuries yet
.

Dust doesn’t make many choices.

He didn’t seem to appreciate the humor.

She uncurled her hands; the fists had been tight, and shaking. She couldn’t see them clearly for the words, but she could feel the pain in her palms.

Ummm.

And feel, as well, the raised curve of one of the fieflord’s brows.

If I bleed at all in the table – or the altar, whatever it is – is that worse?

His answer was silent; it contained no words. Barrani, as she had noted earlier, wasn’t an aid to swearing. But she wasn’t dead. And the tingling was less painful. And the words moved more slowly. None of this was cause for comfort. She ignored him then, and began to trace what had seemed like wood grain, searching it for meaning. Searching it for something that
might
have meaning. And it occurred to her, as she did, that the act itself was futile.

That almost all acts were, in the end.

She would die; nothing could prevent that. The march of these disembodied words would go on beyond her, as if she were inconsequential.

She understood two things then. That if this was not exactly a testing ground for the Barrani, it had
never
been designed for mortals. And that, mortal, she was here, in its heart; that she had been given a choice.

Choice…

Calarnenne.

Kaylin.

You dared the High Halls.

I am Lord, yes.

And you succeeded.

Yes.

How many fail?

Numbers beyond your ability to count.

She nodded.

When you came to the tower, what did you see?

Stairs
, he said, but there was a caution in the words that flagged them. He did not lie to her; she didn’t think it was possible. But he didn’t tell her the whole of the truth, either.

Did you see a word?

Yes.

What was it?

His silence was the silence of resistance. And she held his name. But the temptation to use it was vanishingly small. If he held answers – and he did – he would not part with them willingly. Maybe it was a Barrani thing. Kaylin wasn’t Barrani.

I saw a single rune
, she told him, offering the same vulnerability she asked of him, and first.
I asked Andellen what it meant. He could see it
.

He would; he was tested, and he passed.

He told me it was a symbol that meant choice. That’s not what you saw, was it?

No, Kaylin
.

So this is –

Yes. Do not surrender this information to another. It is
safe
to do so with
me;
you hold my name
.

She nodded, but it was an absent nod; a gesture of habit or the type of acknowledgment that breezes above actual understanding.

Andellen saw –

He was your guide
.

She would have spit had she been anywhere else. She didn’t. Her hands were glowing, and they were the pale green of Barrani eyes – children’s eyes. She’d never seen a Barrani baby; they were rare. But she
knew
it for fact. Both of her hands. She opened them both. Saw nail crescents – three each – that had bitten their way through her skin. She’d had worse paper cuts in her life, but not here. Context was – as her very irritated history master used to tell her – everything.

She closed her eyes slowly. She could still feel her hands, but without vision to guide them, she could no longer see the runic words. Sight wouldn’t help her; it kept trying to make the shapes into something they weren’t: language. And comprehensible.

She felt the tingling in her arms lessen; felt the frenetic crawl of desperate shapes slow. Her skin was hers; it was dry and hot, as if all moisture had been absorbed. Or as if she were fevered. She was certainly dizzy – she let those go – they weren’t for her. Or of her. What she held in her hands, what passed over her open palms like the shallow current of a brook, might be. And she had to choose.

Not one, but two. She understood this because the symbol itself had responded to both of her hands; the single hand had done nothing.

What if I don’t choose?

A choice will be made for you; not choosing
is
a choice
.

No good, then. Eyes still closed, she felt shapes. And the shapes gained weight, and differing textures, as the dark minutes passed. Her right hand closed upon something round and hard; it was neither too hot nor too cool, but it was heavy. Almost too heavy to hold.