the position of Consort?”
“No. But there are some similarities.”
“Can anyone become Lord of the West March?”
“It is a hereditary title—but yes; the green does not privilege the politics of either Court. The Lord rules, but the Warden serves. It is therefore the position of Warden that the green husbands.”
“Teela—what is the green?”
Teela smiled. “I do not know. Perhaps if I knew, I would understand why I alone, of the twelve gathered here, was spared.” She hesitated, and then added, “Avonelle was my mother’s sister.”
* * *
The Consort had not wakened; nor had she moved in her sleep. She was a color that Kaylin associated with death. “Is she—is she breathing?” she asked.
Lord Lirienne inclined his head, his expression grave.
“Should I try to wake her?”
“I am not my sister.” It was stated as if it were a reply.
Kaylin understood that this man was the Lord of the West March; that he had power and rank; that he was immortal. But she couldn’t find the fear that would have forced her to be cautious. “Can I pretend I asked that question again?” She spoke Elantran.
He raised a brow. “To wake her, you will attempt to heal her.”
“Not necessarily. I can’t heal her if there’s nothing physically wrong with her.”
“And how would you determine that?” When Kaylin failed to answer, he said, “I will keep watch tonight. If there is any deterioration, I will summon you.” He placed his palm over his sister’s hand.
* * *
Avonelle was not waiting when Kaylin returned to the Warden and his men. Severn was. He glanced at her and she shook her head once. She didn’t feel a great desire to discuss the Consort’s health in front of total strangers.
The Warden’s home was not, by any stretch of the imagination, humble—at least not as mortals understood it. It was as tall and imposing as the building that housed the Lord of the West March; it was not, however, built the same way.
The home of Lord Lirienne boasted a large amount of stone; it contained the central courtyard with its fountains, and also played home to a theoretically natural source of hot water. The home of the Warden reminded Kaylin of the Hallionne Sylvanne, at least from the outside.
The door was a large tree.
Many of the homes in Elantra were made of wood—but that wood had pretty much stopped growing, on account of being cut down. The doors that led to those homes also boasted things like hinges. And handles. Here, she stared with some dismay at the bark of a very wide tree, glancing nervously at the small dragon.
“I don’t have to bleed on this door, do I?”
Severn winced, and she realized she’d fallen straight into her mother tongue in the presence of the Warden of the West March. He didn’t wince.
“No, blood isn’t necessary,” he replied, in Elantran. “You visited the Hallionne Sylvanne on your journey here.”
“I did.”
“My hall is not sentient. What peace exists within it, I preserve. The door is warded.”
Why had she thought this was a good idea? “I have a little problem with door wards.”
“How so?”
“Sometimes they object to my presence. It’s not all door wards,” she added, as he looked down his nose. “But—the ones in the Imperial Palace, and at least one in Lord Lirienne’s home—” She grimaced. “It’s harder to explain than to demonstrate.”
“It will not harm you?”
“No. Not directly.”
“Does it harm the ward?”
She should be so lucky. “It hasn’t harmed any of the wards so far.” She lifted her left hand, and placed the palm firmly against the midsection of the trunk. It was a guess; there didn’t seem to be much in the way of obvious markings.
But the small dragon considered it all boring; he didn’t hiss, leap up, or bite her hand.
The door opened, in a manner of speaking; the tree dilated, the bark folding back in wrinkles, as if it were cloth. Usually Kaylin would be grateful for the lack of fuss; today,
“No. But there are some similarities.”
“Can anyone become Lord of the West March?”
“It is a hereditary title—but yes; the green does not privilege the politics of either Court. The Lord rules, but the Warden serves. It is therefore the position of Warden that the green husbands.”
“Teela—what is the green?”
Teela smiled. “I do not know. Perhaps if I knew, I would understand why I alone, of the twelve gathered here, was spared.” She hesitated, and then added, “Avonelle was my mother’s sister.”
* * *
The Consort had not wakened; nor had she moved in her sleep. She was a color that Kaylin associated with death. “Is she—is she breathing?” she asked.
Lord Lirienne inclined his head, his expression grave.
“Should I try to wake her?”
“I am not my sister.” It was stated as if it were a reply.
Kaylin understood that this man was the Lord of the West March; that he had power and rank; that he was immortal. But she couldn’t find the fear that would have forced her to be cautious. “Can I pretend I asked that question again?” She spoke Elantran.
He raised a brow. “To wake her, you will attempt to heal her.”
“Not necessarily. I can’t heal her if there’s nothing physically wrong with her.”
“And how would you determine that?” When Kaylin failed to answer, he said, “I will keep watch tonight. If there is any deterioration, I will summon you.” He placed his palm over his sister’s hand.
* * *
Avonelle was not waiting when Kaylin returned to the Warden and his men. Severn was. He glanced at her and she shook her head once. She didn’t feel a great desire to discuss the Consort’s health in front of total strangers.
The Warden’s home was not, by any stretch of the imagination, humble—at least not as mortals understood it. It was as tall and imposing as the building that housed the Lord of the West March; it was not, however, built the same way.
The home of Lord Lirienne boasted a large amount of stone; it contained the central courtyard with its fountains, and also played home to a theoretically natural source of hot water. The home of the Warden reminded Kaylin of the Hallionne Sylvanne, at least from the outside.
The door was a large tree.
Many of the homes in Elantra were made of wood—but that wood had pretty much stopped growing, on account of being cut down. The doors that led to those homes also boasted things like hinges. And handles. Here, she stared with some dismay at the bark of a very wide tree, glancing nervously at the small dragon.
“I don’t have to bleed on this door, do I?”
Severn winced, and she realized she’d fallen straight into her mother tongue in the presence of the Warden of the West March. He didn’t wince.
“No, blood isn’t necessary,” he replied, in Elantran. “You visited the Hallionne Sylvanne on your journey here.”
“I did.”
“My hall is not sentient. What peace exists within it, I preserve. The door is warded.”
Why had she thought this was a good idea? “I have a little problem with door wards.”
“How so?”
“Sometimes they object to my presence. It’s not all door wards,” she added, as he looked down his nose. “But—the ones in the Imperial Palace, and at least one in Lord Lirienne’s home—” She grimaced. “It’s harder to explain than to demonstrate.”
“It will not harm you?”
“No. Not directly.”
“Does it harm the ward?”
She should be so lucky. “It hasn’t harmed any of the wards so far.” She lifted her left hand, and placed the palm firmly against the midsection of the trunk. It was a guess; there didn’t seem to be much in the way of obvious markings.
But the small dragon considered it all boring; he didn’t hiss, leap up, or bite her hand.
The door opened, in a manner of speaking; the tree dilated, the bark folding back in wrinkles, as if it were cloth. Usually Kaylin would be grateful for the lack of fuss; today,
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