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two before they could reach the Lady.”
    “Yes,” was the soft, tired reply. He opened his eyes; they were blue. “I am aware of her intercession. She is mortal, Barian—and impulsive in ways the young are. And for the moment, I am grateful for that impulse. Remember the results of it,” he added, in a slightly stronger voice, “and forgive her lack of familiarity with our customs.”
    “The other mortal—”
    “He is hers,” the Lord of the West March replied. “Lord Kaylin will not allow him to be driven off; she will certainly object to his execution. Lord An’Teela did not lie; Lord Severn survived the test of name.” He glanced at the blades in Severn’s hands, and his eyes darkened; for a moment Kaylin thought he would say more.
    The eagle on his arm said, “He is to be granted passage and hospitality while either remain.”
    Lord Barian bowed.
    “Come, Kaylin, An’Teela. We will repair to my domicile.”
    * * *
    Kaylin wasn’t certain what to expect. The first Hallionne she’d encountered had been a tree. A huge, ancient tree, true—but nothing about it had screamed building. Yet its interior was large enough to house the entire Barrani contingent, plus the two mortals who were caught up in the pilgrimage. Easily.
    It occurred to her as she walked by the side of the Lord of the West March that the entire West March might be the same: any one of these trees could be buildings as grand, mysterious and architecturally impossible. There wasn’t a pressing need for something as mundane as a passable road if you had a building provided for all of your equally mundane needs.
    But the High Halls had drives. Palatial drives. And the Lords of the High Court spent money in the city, given the way the Merchants’ guild fawned all over them. The Hallionne were, to all intents and purposes, like the Towers or Castles in the fiefs—and as far as Kaylin knew, there was only one Tower in each fief.
    “We are at the outskirts of the green,” the Lord of the West March told her. “The Hallionne of the West March has not been habitable for centuries. It is not there that you—or any member of the Consort’s entourage—will stay. But no; there are few roads that lead to the West March, and we did not travel by any of them. My people do not require paths of heavy stone to smooth their way.” His answer reminded her that he had, as Nightshade had, offered her his True Name. If she wasn’t careful, he could hear her thoughts.
    “The carriages?”
    “There is a road,” he replied. “It is not easily traversed by your kind because they cannot easily find it.” His smile was almost gentle. Kaylin tried not to take offense when she realized he was treating her as a child; in strict years, she was. “Understand that An’Teela is an unusual member of the High Court. By birth, she belongs to two worlds.”
    “Like you?”
    “Very like. She is of the West March and she is of the High Court. There are very few who have her lineage.”
    “But she’s not trusted by either.”
    “She is trusted—inasmuch as any Barrani Lord—in the High Court. But her history makes her position in the Court of the Vale unusual.”
    “You—you have your own court here?”
    His brows rose, and his smile deepened. His eyes were a shade of emerald-green; she’d amused him. “Yes,” he said, “and there is very little in my life that does, at the moment. I consider it a gift. The West March has its court, the Court of the Vale; it always did. You will find that any gathering of significance does.
    “You are aware that my title is Lord of the West March. Are you aware that the High Lord is also called the Lord of the Green?”
    She nodded.
    “This, then, is the green. My brother is the leader of our people—but in theory, the leader of the Human Caste Court is the leader of yours.”
    “That’s a pretty tenuous theory,” Kaylin replied. “I’ve never met him, and even if I had, I don’t serve him.”
    “No?”
    “I