Michelle Sagara Read Free

downward spiral of ugliness.
    She wasn’t spared his descent.
    Kaylin had no trouble finding hidden depths of self-loathing and disgust on bad days. She didn’t really need to bear the brunt of Ynpharion’s, as well. At the midpoint of day two she’d given serious consideration to walking him off the nearest cliff. Sadly, the forest path didn’t seem to lead to a conveniently high cliff.
    The only refuge Kaylin had found was in silent complaint. And, damn it, pain. The soft, supple shoes she’d taken from Hallionne Sylvanne were proof against normal wear, but they didn’t provide much protection when foot connected at the toe with gnarled roots.
    Teela caught her before she could fall. “Lord of the West March,” she said, above Kaylin’s head.
    He turned, glanced at Kaylin, and nodded. “We will call a brief halt.”
    * * *
    The two mortals were not the only people present to benefit from the break. Lord Evarrim joined them. He barely acknowledged Kaylin’s existence. That was normal. He didn’t spare a glance for the small dragon perched like a bad shawl around her neck, which wasn’t. His lower jaw sported some of the same bruising that Severn’s eye did, but it was less obvious on the Barrani face.
    On the other hand, he was Barrani; any obvious injury was unsettling.
    Evarrim was no longer wearing the tiara that Kaylin had once considered so pretentious. Nor was he dressed in Court robes; he wore an unadorned chain shirt and plate greaves. “Cousin,” he said.
    Teela’s eyes narrowed.
    “Are you determined to remain for the recitation?”
    Even the insects fell silent.
    “I am determined, cousin, to escort the Consort and the harmoniste to the green.”
    Evarrim was apparently immune to the glacial cold of Teela’s voice. It was impressive; most of the office—or at least the mortal parts—would have been under their desks or scurrying for a convenient just-remembered meeting. “And not the Teller? Interesting.”
    The Teller was Nightshade.
    Kaylin’s gaze bounced between the two Barrani. Teela’s eyes were a shade darker; Evarrim’s were as close to green as they’d been all day. The bastard was enjoying himself. “Your concern is noted,” she finally replied. “It is irrelevant, but noted.”
    He rose. “Very well. The Consort and the Lord of the West March have expressed a similar concern; they are, of course, more guarded.” He bowed, stiffly. He actually walked stiffly. But he walked away.
    “Teela—”
    “Don’t even think it.” Teela rose, as well. She didn’t march into the forest, but she left Kaylin and Severn alone with their lunch, hovering ten yards away, sword in hand.
    “What was that about?” Kaylin asked—quietly. Teela was far enough away that whispers shouldn’t carry, but they might; Barrani hearing was in all ways superior to human hearing.
    He exhaled. “What did Teela tell you?”
    Kaylin grimaced. “What makes you think she told me anything?”
    “You’re fidgeting.”
    Kaylin shot a guilty glance at Teela’s back. “She hasn’t told me much that we don’t already know. We know the recitation involves True Words; it’s like the story Sanabalis told the Leontines. We know that the story isn’t chosen by the Lord of the West March, the Teller, or the lowly harmoniste; the heart of the green decides.”
    “Did she explain what the heart of the green is? ” When Kaylin failed to answer, he asked, more pointedly, “Did you ask?”
    Teela had been talking about the death of her mother. So no, Kaylin hadn’t really asked.
    She feinted. “It has something to do with the Hallionne. I’m not sure the Barrani understand it fully.” She removed the small dragon’s wing when he stretched and covered half her face. “The recitation of the regalia has an effect—a lasting effect—on those who listen to the telling. It’s the biggest reason the Barrani make the pilgrimage to this insect-plagued, weed-covered, Feral-infested—” She stopped as