Cast in Sorrow. Michelle Sagara

I, may follow. I leave the decision in your hands. But I offer this: I will protect her with my life. I play no games. I little care for the politics of the High Court in this single instance. While Lord Kaylin is within the West March, I will offer her the full protection of my line.”

      “No one will harm me while I’m in this dress,” Kaylin said.

      “You are almost entirely correct,” Lord Barian replied gravely.

      “It’s considered almost treason to hurt this dress.”

      “Ah, no. That is your interpretation, and it is not entirely correct. It is considered treason in the West March to act against either the harmoniste or the Teller. It is considered treason,” he continued, “to subject children to the regalia. I invite you to consider why.”

      “Because it was tried, and it was an unmitigated disaster.”

      “Indeed. We are a practical people, Lord Kaylin. I understand that you consider our manners complicated to an extreme, but there are reasons for the laws we hand down.”

      * * *

      Kaylin was exhausted, but she was good at working through exhaustion; if she hadn’t been, her work at the Guild of Midwives would have killed her. The thought of the midwives and their infrequent emergencies made her throat tighten. She’d had time to inform them that she’d be traveling outside of the city for at least six weeks. She’d also seen the look on Marya’s face as she received the news.

      Marya wasn’t above using guilt as a lever when things were desperate—and things could get desperate, as the midwives guild itself was not a high-powered guild with golden pockets. But if Kaylin didn’t pay dues to practice under the auspices of the guild—and she didn’t, as she couldn’t afford them—she didn’t charge for her services. Being called at all hours of the day or night seemed a small price to pay for the opportunity to save the lives of women and their newborns.

      She was aware that the midwives guild did charge for some of the services she provided, but she’d made absolutely clear that there was to be a sliding scale—with zero on the poor end of the scale. Deadly emergencies weren’t particularly snobbish; they came to people in all walks in life. The people who couldn’t afford her services were Kaylin’s chief concern.

      On the other hand, her presence in the guild had done much to increase the money coming in. She considered charging a fee, but she was beyond lousy at negotiating on her own behalf: she would have to put a price on her services, and to do that she would have to evaluate them objectively. There were doctors in Elantra, some of whom Kaylin privately considered to be quacks, but none of them had Kaylin’s talent.

      None of them had Kaylin’s marks.

      The marks had been the indirect cause of deaths across the city. Deaths of children who had the misfortune to be about the same age as Kaylin had been at the time, and who had also had the misfortune to be poor and unprotected. She hadn’t killed them. But if these marks hadn’t existed on her skin, they wouldn’t have died.

      Doing volunteer work at the midwives guild was an act of atonement. She couldn’t go back in time to prevent deaths from happening—no matter how desperately those deaths scarred her. Death was death. But she could be there at the start of a life; she could be there to stop death from arriving. The marks themselves implied a power that she had never fully understood, but she’d come to understand one thing well: she could heal. She couldn’t bring the dead back to life, for which she was grateful; if she could, she would have had to move out of the city—in secret—change her name, and go into hiding. The requests from the bereaved would never, ever stop.

      If her ability was an open secret in the upper echelons of the Halls of Law, it wasn’t taken completely seriously by those on the ground floor; most of the old guard saw her as the angry thirteen-year-old she’d been when she’d first walked through the doors. They’d never seen her power at work, and couldn’t believe that it wasn’t somehow an exaggeration. And she’d learned—over time—to appreciate that.

      The Barrani had never doubted her ability.

      But only the Barrani had seen her use it to kill. Even Marcus had only seen the end result, not the death itself. The Barrani considered murder to be an extreme form of politics, rather than a gross miscarriage of justice. Flamboyant murders—such as those that involved the Arcane arts—were considered variations on a theme. If you could kill, the implements didn’t matter. The information about methods used was useful as a counter, no more.

      It was really hard to outrage the Barrani when it came to big things; they’d seen it all. Healing, which would be considered a blessing by most, was an act of aggression and intrusion; squashing a bloodsucking insect was clearly so outrageous that an entire war band could fall completely silent while staring daggers at any part of her body that wasn’t covered in dress.

      She was reminded of the fact that the Barrani could be outraged—coldly—by the most unpredictable things when the Lord of the West March appeared at the head of eight armed and armored men shortly after she arrived at his hall with the Warden in tow. The eagles chose to land before the doors were slammed in their faces.