23 #2
“Good. I don’t feel feverish. And if I’m hot, Nightshade should feel cooler to the touch, shouldn’t he?”
“Why are you expecting things to be remotely sensible right now? To both of us, Nightshade feels normal—for a person in a
coma. To you, he feels feverish. To us, you feel feverish, and you have important guests. And your cheek is bleeding.”
Mandoran cursed—he was like Terrano; he’d adopted the Hawks’ choice language. He usually avoided using it when Helen’s Avatar was in the room—but Helen could hear it all anyway. He definitely avoided cursing when Mrs. Erickson could hear him, and that was probably the most important thing to Helen.
“Things are never straightforward when you get involved.”
“Look—I didn’t ask for this stupid mark. Or these stupid Marks. Or even this dress. I didn’t ask for this heavy ring, either.
I’m not involved because I’m like Terrano—I’m not just tripping over things and picking them up and saying shiny.”
“I never said you were—but you are like Terrano. You just cause chaos wherever you go. It’s not always bad chaos. But it’s almost never predictable. If you’re asking—and you aren’t—the fact that you feel feverish to us and Nightshade
feels feverish to you while you’re wearing that dress—which you did choose, by the way—is significant. But none of us knows
how.
“Serralyn thinks the fact that you can’t stop the Erenne mark from bleeding is significant, and possibly in a good way—for
Nightshade, not you. But you’ve checked in on him, he isn’t waking up, and Yvonne is at the front door. Give me that towel.”
He held out a hand.
Kaylin dropped the towel across his palm.
He grimaced. “Your cheek isn’t bleeding at the moment—it is red. Just—hold on a second.” He ran off again, and came back with a smaller towel and a basin with water in it. His hands
were gentle as he carefully sponged blood off her face. “I wish you could do something about that mark.”
“Why? An’Tellarus has already seen it, and she didn’t ask about it or even comment on it. Yvonne’s seen it, as well.”
“I really wish we’d thought of concealing it before you went to visit the Consort.”
Mandoran was probably right, but it’s not like he’d told her to hide it, either. Then again, no one could have predicted Yvonne
and An’Tellarus.
“She doesn’t know Nightshade is here, does she?”
Annarion rolled his eyes. “That possibility only just occurred to you now? Go downstairs. I’ll be here, and Fallessian will join me after Mrs. Erickson says her hellos to the guests. Terrano will be
wherever Terrano wants to be, but in theory, he’s going to be in the room with you. Unseen,” he added, as if that were necessary.
“Sedarias and Teela will join you. If An’Tellarus has objections, they’re going to say—I’m sorry—that they’re your guardians.”
Kaylin almost forgot about her cheek as her jaw fell open. “I don’t need a guardian!”
“Neither does Yvonne.”
She snapped her jaw shut to stop any other words from escaping. “So . . . they’re going to be there to balance out An’Tellarus.”
“If it’s necessary, yes. Ummm, I should probably warn you: Teela will be carrying her sword.”
This day was not getting any better. “Just how terrifying is An’Tellarus, anyway?”
“She’s unpredictable, cunning, and spiteful. But when she chooses to do so, she can protect almost anyone. Sedarias would
like to be friendly with her; she could be useful to her cause. We know she supported An’Sennarin when he first took the seat.
It wasn’t bloodless. Had he not wrested control of Sennarin from its former lord, no one would have expected he could hold the seat. But she apparently did expect just that—and he’s still breathing.”
“He’s nothing like Sedarias.”
“No, probably not. Sedarias was born to power and raised to want it. The High Court is her natural element. The meeting may
not go well—but you’re not part of it, in theory. Speak to Yvonne. Learn what you need to learn. She won’t harm you, and I’m
certain you won’t hurt her. But . . . try to be a little less chaotic?
“Also: try not to strangle Terrano—if you want to, you’ll be standing in a long line, and it’s growing longer every time he opens his mouth.”
“Has the bleeding started again?”
Annarion and Mandoran exchanged a glance. It was Mandoran who answered. “For now, it seems to be okay—but the skin beneath
the Erenne mark is red and inflamed. I’m not sure it won’t start again.” He reached into a pocket and handed her a handkerchief.
“Just in case.”
Teela and Sedarias were waiting at the foot of the stairs when Kaylin reached them. Hope was fluttering in place by the open
door. Yvonne entered first, and Hope flew to her but didn’t land on her shoulder. When she lifted her arm, he squawked but
stayed in the air, moving backward as Yvonne stepped through the door.
An’Tellarus followed.
To Kaylin’s surprise, her hair was not pinned and sculpted in place; it fell in a straight, perfect line from the crown of
her head down her back in a glossy black cape. She wore no adornment on her head, no crown but that hair. Her eyes were blue—of
course they were blue—but her expression was less dismissive.
When she bowed her head, Kaylin found herself holding her breath, because the bow she offered, she offered to Helen. Helen,
in her nonintrusive, normal clothing.
Something about Helen’s posture implied that the gesture wasn’t out of place. To make matters more awkward, An’Tellarus held
that bow until Helen bade her rise, as if Helen were the reigning noble, the reigning monarch.
“Cediela, rise. It has been a long, long time since we last met. I bid you welcome. You have met Lord Kaylin; she is my master,
now, and she does not follow the customs of the High Court and your powerful kin.”
Kaylin wished she was part of the cohort group mind, because she desperately wanted to tell them all that this particular surprise wasn’t her fault.
But Helen’s eyes, when she turned toward Kaylin, weren’t her normal brown.
They were black, obsidian, the color of An’Tellarus’s hair.
Flecks of light, opalescent and shining, could be clearly seen from where Kaylin was standing.
Helen’s eyes only looked like this when she had slid into defensive mode—but she hadn’t exchanged clothing for armor.
Kaylin hastily stepped forward, passing Helen to take up position squarely in front of the Avatar. “Yvonne. An’Tellarus. I
bid you welcome to my house.”
An’Tellarus had to look at Kaylin, because Kaylin was now standing directly between her and Helen’s Avatar. But her eyes shifted
into an almost draconic gold: the Barrani color of surprise. They remained that way for several long breaths.
When she found words again, An’Tellarus said, “What are you wearing?” As if she didn’t recognize the dress, or as if she couldn’t
believe that it was on Kaylin.
Kaylin, not one of nature’s liars, said, “It’s the dress given me by the green.”
“There is no regalia this year, or none intended. How did you come by the dress?”
“I’ve worn it before, as harmoniste.” She could almost feel Teela’s gaze drilling into the space between her shoulder blades.
“And now?”
“It was in my closet.”
Gold gave way to blue. Kaylin recovered and turned to Yvonne, but Yvonne’s eyes were also gold; they were, however, unblinking.
She opened her mouth and failed to speak, staring at her host. Or staring at her host’s dress.
Yvonne was born in the West March; Yvonne recognized the dress. She recognized when the dress should be worn, probably even
understood the role of the person who wore it.
“You were chosen to wear that dress?” she asked, finally finding her voice.
“Is it that strange?”
“Well, you’re human.”
Squawk.
“But you’re also Chosen.”
Kaylin nodded. “Please, come in. We have refreshments, and if you’d like, I can introduce you to the kindest member of my household.” She put emphasis on that word, speaking in High Barrani.
“I would,” Yvonne replied, the gold in her eyes receding far less quickly than it had in An’Tellarus’s. Green joined gold,
but flecks of that gold persisted. It was really a lovely color.
Helen saw An’Tellarus, Sedarias, and Teela into the parlor; she subtly cut off Yvonne from her guardian, and her guardian
allowed it with a single backward glance at Kaylin. It was all smiling daggers, really—a nonverbal threat—but Kaylin had no
intention of harming Yvonne, or allowing her to be harmed.
Kaylin, in her ridiculous dress with her ridiculous ring and hair that was practically starched, then led Yvonne to the kitchen,
which was Mrs. Erickson’s territory. The smell of baking wafted into the hall practically before Kaylin opened the door. Something
savory, but something sweet. Mrs. Erickson’s back, apron knots around neck and waist, could be seen as she bustled around
the kitchen.
Fallessian’s face could be seen more clearly; his eyes were blue. He said nothing, made no attempt to interrupt Mrs. Erickson;
she hadn’t heard the door.
But Yvonne seemed unaware of this. Unaware of Fallessian’s stiff, expressionless face, unaware of the fact that kitchens weren’t meant for lords—and certainly not people who wore the dress Kaylin wore.
And the ring. Her eyes were caught—and held—by the slow, humming bustle of the kitchen’s master: Mrs. Erickson.
Yvonne herself was dressed as a Barrani servant. An’Tellarus was dressed for the type of war that occurred when Lords of the
High Court convened in genteel settings, although her hair fell straight down her back. So did Yvonne’s. Yvonne’s clothing
would be considered expensive and noteworthy outside the High Halls but would blend into the background within them—as servants
were meant to do.
Maybe that was a way of keeping her hidden, keeping her safe. If it was, Kaylin understood it viscerally. Safety, in the fiefs
of her childhood, had relied on being unnoticed, beneath notice. It was a habit that was hard to break.