Cast In Courtlight. Michelle Sagara

were only two ways to go: down the cliff or into the trees. The cliff didn’t look all that promising.

      She chose the forest instead. It wasn’t the kind of forest that had a footpath; it wasn’t the kind of forest that had any path at all.

      It was just a lot of very ancient trees. And the shadows they cast. All right, Lord of the West March, you’d better bloody well be in there.

      She started to walk. In that heavy, stamping way of children everywhere.

      Shadows gave way to light in places, dappled edges of leaves giving shape to what lay across the ground. She got used to them because they were everywhere, and she’d walked everywhere, touching the occasional tree just to feel bark.

      If time passed, it passed slowly.

      Her feet—her boots still scuffed and clumsy—didn’t break any branches. They didn’t, in fact, leave any impression in what seemed to be damp soil. Rich soil, and old, the scent mixed with bark and undergrowth. She could plant something here and watch it grow.

      Her brow furrowed. Or at least she thought it did. Aside from the forest itself, everything—even Kaylin—seemed slightly unreal.

      She reached into her pockets, and stopped.

      Her arms were bare, and in the odd light of the forest, she could see the markings that had defined all of her life, all action, all inaction, all cost.

      She held them out; the marks were dark and perfect. It had been a while since she’d looked at them in anything that wasn’t the mirror of records. She touched them and froze; they were raised against her skin. They had never had any texture before.

      Lifting a hand, she touched the back of her neck; it, too, was textured. She thought she might peel something off, and even began to try.

      “Kaylin.”

      She stopped. The voice was familiar. It was distant, but not in the way that Severn’s words had been distant.

      “Hello?”

      “Do not touch those marks in this place.”

      It was Nightshade. Lord Nightshade. She turned, looked, saw an endless series of living columns. There was no movement, no sign of him.

      “They’re—I think they might come off.”

      “Do not,” he said again, his voice fading. “I am far from you, and you are far from yourself. Leave, if you can.”

      She shrugged. “There doesn’t seem to be a convenient door.”

      “Unfortunate.”

      “Where are you?”

      “I am both close and far, as you are close and far. You have my name,” he added softly. “Remember it.”

      “I … do.” Even in sleep. “But I … don’t think it’s a good idea to speak it here.”

      CHAPTER 6

      His laughter was a surprise to her; it was almost youthful. “You are a strange child,” he said when it had trailed into silence. “What do you do, Kaylin Neya?”