people in the West March don’t take the test of name?
Yes. That would be a safe assumption.
And that you’re ruling as Lord of the West March precisely because you have?
A glimmer of amusement touched Lord Lirienne’s inner voice. Indeed.
And last, that the Warden is qualified in all other ways to be Lord, except this one?
Very good.
Is she his wife?
He laughed, although his expression was all graven sobriety. No. She is his mother.
Kaylin felt a moment of discomfort as she readjusted her frame of reference. But...none of the Barrani ever looked like a mother, to Kaylin. She couldn’t, when it came right down to it, imagine that they could be. She’d never been asked to attend a Barrani birth and wondered idly if they carved their babies out of stone and hauled them to the High Halls only when they felt they could protect their artistry. Birth—of either the Dragons or the Barrani—was not one of the things covered in racial integration classes.
Is there a reason that he’s never taken the test of name?
You will have to ask him, although I do not advise it.
What exactly does the Warden of the West March do?
Centuries past, he replied softly, he spoke with, and tended to, the Hallionne. Lord Barian’s father, and his grandfather before him, absorbed the nightmares of the Hallionne. It is Lord Barian’s duty now.
Your sister is not Lord Barian.
No.
Then why did she—
Do you not understand? She knows the burden borne by the West March, and she knows why they must bear it. She is fully capable of doing what the sons of the West March have done.
And anyone else?
No, Kaylin. It is why they die.
And it’s why they can’t afford to lose him.
Perhaps. But the dreams of the West March fly above this citadel. While they last, they will speak with the Warden.
And not with you.
He did not reply.
* * *
If dinner had ended there, Kaylin would have considered it a win.
The blue-eyed mother of the Warden fell silent. Not to be undone, another Barrani spoke. He was, again, unfamiliar. “I cannot imagine how novel it would be to have a mortal living in the West March. Tell me, Lord Kaylin, how does your experience in the High Halls differ?”
“I’m not a Lord of the Court of the Vale,” she replied evenly. She had pretty much lost her appetite. That wouldn’t stop her from eating.
“No, of course not.”
Now this? This was exactly what she expected from the Barrani. It was, if she was being truthful, what she expected from the Human Caste Court and the moneyed class of her own species.
“There’s no convenient—and impartial—test of fitness,” Kaylin replied evenly. “Although I’m certain just being a citizen of the West March is qualification enough.”
His smile, which was lovely and grating at the same time, froze on his perfect face.
Lord Barian surprised her. He rose. He instantly had the attention of the room, which confirmed Kaylin’s sour suspicion that the pathetic mortal was the evening’s entertainment. “Enough, Avanel. Lord Kaylin is an honored guest. She has touched the dreams of the Hallionne, which is test enough for the Warden’s seat. It is an act of singular grace—and in gratitude, we bid her welcome.”
It was a welcome already extended by the reigning Lord of the West March; he did not, in any way, demur. But he watched the Warden; the Warden’s glance stopped, briefly, at his, as he surveyed the gathered dignitaries of both Courts.
Avanel didn’t apologize. Nor did Kaylin expect an apology; she imagined that the humiliation of being forced to do so would make her an enemy for life. Dinner was served; wine was offered. A silence broken by the muted syllables of distant conversation ensued, like an armistice.
The next jab at the mere mortal wasn’t aimed at Kaylin; the Warden’s word appeared to be law. No, the next question came one table over, where Severn was seated.
“Lord Severn.”
She turned to see who was speaking and caught the back of a head. The voice was male; the clothing marked the wearer as West March. More than that, she couldn’t tell, and she turned back to her food.
“Lord Tanniase.”
“It has been some time since a mortal has chosen to visit the West March.”
Severn appeared to be eating; he wasn’t doing a lot of speaking.
“In fact, I believe the last time one visited, he was not a member of the High Court. His circumstances were, however, highly unusual. Perhaps you recall them?”
“Mortal memory is imperfect, Lord Tanniase.”
“Yet you remember me.”
Severn failed to reply.
“Perhaps you interact with many of our distant kin in your fabled city. The journey to the West March is not one to be undertaken lightly, yet you chose to make it.”
“I did. I believe my sponsor of the time obtained all requisite permissions, and the Hallionne did not refuse me their hospitality.”
“The Hallionne do not decide.”
“No. I believe the Lord of the West March did.”
“In exchange for the warmth of our welcome, you killed a man and took an heirloom with you when you departed.”
Kaylin concentrated on her food, which was hard. She wanted to push her chair back from the table, get up, and move to stand by Severn’s chair. But he wouldn’t appreciate it, and neither would anyone else in the room. She’d never appreciated the visceral nature of Leontine culture quite so much.
“Your memory is harsher than mine,” Severn replied. “I was given the heirloom in question because I defeated a Barrani Lord in single combat. I appreciate the concern you feel on behalf of your kin, but believe it misplaced in this case; the weapon was not, and would never have become, yours.”
Eat, Kaylin. If you are concerned for Lord Severn, your concern is misplaced.
Is it true? Did he come here to kill a Barrani Lord?
He came, and a man died. Had he, as implied, attempted to steal the weapon he now carries, it would have destroyed him. While he lives, he wields it. It was damaged in the outlands, and there are craftsmen here who might see to its repair. They may well refuse, he added. But I think it unlikely. He is mortal. The weapon will return to our kin in a brief handful of years.
Why did you give him permission to travel here? When?
I am not at liberty to tell you if you do not already know. He is, in many ways, yours—but he is a man, not a child. He does not require your permission; nor does he require your knowledge.
“Perhaps we will test your knowledge of our artifacts,” Lord Tanniase replied. His voice implied eyes of midnight-blue.
“You propose a challenge?” Severn’s voice was softer. Colder.
Who brought him here?
The Lord of the West March failed to answer.
To Kaylin’s lasting surprise, Lord Evarrim spoke. “Lord Tanniase.”
“Lord Evarrim.”
“I would, of course, enjoy the spectacle of a Lord of any Barrani Court issuing a challenge to one merely mortal; I am certain it would afford us all some amusement.