He waited.
Birds sang. From within the group, birds apparently answered. Kaylin felt less relieved about the sound than she had moments ago. The arrows that studded the path in rapid succession didn’t help. Or it didn’t help her; the Barrani surrounded her and didn’t even blink; clearly this was the Barrani version of a gate check. Two of the Lords of the High Court lifted bows of their own; after a moment two arrows arched into the air, landing with audible thunks in the trees high above where the Consort stood.
The Consort raised an arm; moonlight touched her fingers and her hands, silvering her skin in a way Kaylin found disturbing. It wasn’t magic—it wasn’t the magic that caused Kaylin’s skin to ache until it felt raw. But it wasn’t natural; the moonlight touched nothing else here. Kaylin couldn’t see the moon for the trees. Arrows flew again. Three, this time.
Kaylin took a step back, or tried; the Consort had not released her arm. She opened—and closed—her mouth. The Consort’s eyes were midnight-blue. They were standing in the home of the Lord of the West March, the seat of his power. This was supposed to be safe ground. But Kaylin knew the Barrani, and there was no mistaking that eye color as the rest of the Consort’s skin began, like her raised hand, to shine.
Silver had never seemed so wrong. Pale skin had never seemed so threatening. It was not a color Kaylin associated with life. She was afraid. She was afraid for the Consort. The fear of her hatred, her anger, and her endless disapproval was swallowed by it.
Kaylin, what is wrong?
She didn’t have the words for it.
Kaylin!
Look, she told him, whispering although no one else in the world could hear. Look through my eyes. She felt his presence for a moment.
Tell me what’s happened. Quickly, Kaylin.
She didn’t use words; she didn’t have to use them. He saw what she had seen. Tell me I don’t have to worry, she thought.
You will not believe it. Not when we speak like this.
The Consort moved her hand, opening her palm and turning it up toward the sky. Three arrows flew. To Kaylin’s surprise, they didn’t hit anything; they were struck—in almost perfect unison, by three arrows traveling in the opposite direction. The Consort watched the arrows fall, her chin slowly lowering as she did.
Her hair was bound, like Kaylin’s; unlike Kaylin’s, the run hadn’t dislodged any of it. Teela approached—without any signal from the Consort—and released the Consort’s hair. It fell down her back in a cascade of silver as Teela once again retreated. The Consort’s lips lost color.
Ask the Lord of the West March—ask him what’s wrong—ask him what I should do.
Do nothing unless she releases you. She has taken the risk. Respect it.
It would be a helluvalot easier to respect it if I understood it.
He laughed. He laughed, but the laughter died abruptly as the first of the birds came to land in the Consort’s upturned palm.
Except it wasn’t a bird. It had the shape, but none of the movement; although it had what looked like wings, they never flapped; they were rigid and extended, a dark plane of shadow, and as the creature alighted in the Consort’s open palm, she saw that it had claws. But it had no face, no head; the whole of its body appeared to be...wings. Those wings wrapped themselves around the Consort’s hand, obscuring both it and the light it shed.
She grimaced. She didn’t lose color—in Kaylin’s opinion there was none left to lose. What she lost was illumination. Some of the disturbing light was leeched out of her exposed skin. No one drew audible breath in the clearing; no one but the Consort. Her breath was even, steady, voiceless.
Kaylin wanted to scream. She opened her mouth and the small dragon bit her ear. She turned to glare at him, which was a relief; he met her furrowed brow with wide, opal eyes. Opal, shining eyes. He also yawned, exposing almost solid teeth.
For a long moment, the shadow remained perched in the Consort’s palm, and then it began to sink, vanishing into her skin as if absorbed. Light faded, then. The Consort’s grip on Kaylin’s arm loosened. As if that were permission, Kaylin pulled her numb arm free and slid an arm around the Consort’s shoulders. She didn’t ask any of the questions she desperately wanted to ask. Instead, she let the Consort lean heavily against her.
“Lord Evarrim,” the Consort said. “Lord Haverel.”
Both men bowed in silence; they asked no questions. The archers who had fired the first three arrows failed to materialize; the path failed to widen; the West March—if that didn’t refer to this entire godsforsaken forest—continued pretty much as it had begun.
No, Nightshade said, voice soft and tinged with something unfamiliar. It is not. Be cautious. You are almost upon the green.
Nightshade, what was that?
A messenger, he replied. Unless she forced the issue, he wasn’t going to tell her more. She suspected he didn’t actually have the answer, and felt his keen amusement. You are learning, he said.
The two lords so named stepped forward. “Lady?” Lord Haverel bowed. His glance strayed briefly to Kaylin—who apparently had the ignorant effrontery to touch the Lady while trying to bear the greater part of her weight.
“The way is clear,” she said. “Gather. We will continue to—” Her blue eyes rounded as the second bird appeared and began its gliding descent; it was joined, seconds later, by a third, a fourth, a fifth.
Kaylin didn’t need to speak to Nightshade to know this was bad. She wasn’t certain what this disturbing ceremony was supposed to be or do. “Lady—”
The Consort lifted an arm, lifting chin and exposing the long, white line of her throat. She pulled herself free of Kaylin, planting her feet as the two lords—Evarrim and Haverel—stepped aside. As the sleek, black forms continued to glide above her in a slowly decreasing circle, she lifted both of her arms, exposing her palms.
Both arms raised, she looked as if she were inviting embrace—but her expression was fixed; her arms were shaking. “If I falter,” she said, to Kaylin’s surprise, “you have permission to heal me.” She spoke in formal High Barrani, her words surprisingly distinct. Kaylin waited for the disturbing glow to once again grace the Consort’s pale skin. It didn’t.
“You can’t do this,” she said, in Elantran. In High Barrani it would have sounded too much like a command. In her mother tongue, it sounded like the plea it was.
“They cannot be allowed to fly,” was her soft response.
“They clearly flew here.”
“They will not stop here, if they are given no harbor.” The Consort closed her eyes. Two of the shadows alighted almost delicately, their stiff wings folding around her open hands, encasing them. Like the first such creature, they had claws, and like the first, they seemed to sink into her hands, into her skin. But this time her hands, the length of her arms, became a shade of very unhealthy gray-green as they vanished. Her shaking arms fell, as if they weighed too much to be lifted. But they stopped at the height of her heart, palms open again, and waiting.
Kaylin had seen corpses that color in Red’s morgue. The Consort trembled for one immobile moment before she steadied herself and opened her eyes. Her eyes were Barrani-blue. Her arms were trembling, but she held them before her, palms once again empty and open.