“It has been tried, historically,” Helen’s voice said. “Do you need help?”
“No—Barrani clothing onlylooksfussy. What do you mean it’s been tried?”
“Exactly that. The Barrani are political by nature. Theyconsider respect an element of fear. They consider titles and hierarchies to be almost as important as air. The Teller’s crown and the harmoniste’s clothingcanbe, as you put it, counterfeited. But the roles themselves still need to be filled. Only the young or the foolish believe they can, by dressing the part, fool the green.”
“Maybe they don’t believe in the green.”
“It is not a mistake from which they could learn.”
Kaylin parsed that slowly. “Meaning they died.”
“Meaning they died, yes. For their affront. But they were not the only ones. The Barrani may be foolish or egotistical, but persistent, permanent memory means they seldom make the same mistake twice. I believe you will need some help.”
“Why? I’m dressed. I told you, Barrani clothing only looks fussy.”
“Your hair.”
Kaylin sighed. “Yes, Helen, I’d love help with my hair. And next time I set a meeting time, could you remind me to make it later in the day? Barrani don’t need sleep. I do.”
“I remind them of this frequently. The ring is on the dresser.”
Right. The ring. “I really don’t like rings,” she grumbled as she lifted it and put it on her left hand. “They just feel awkward, and they bump into everything.” This one was worse than she remembered. It was a thick band, and it sported an enormous emerald, although the emerald was set into the band itself.
Helen played with her hair. Teela, mindful of their first visit, had provided clothing and accessories. Kaylin didn’t hate necklaces as much as rings, but Helen didn’t touch any of the jewelry except the hair things.
The reason she’d hesitated to wear this dress was the Marks of the Chosen. They were exposed because the dress itself exposed more skin. Kaylin’s very conservative style of dress wasout of necessity. She couldn’t expose her arms or the back of her neck without also exposing the Marks of the Chosen.
She didn’t wear those proudly.
And maybe she should. Among the Barrani she should. She had to stop being afraid of the Marks. She had to accept them. Whether or not she was worthy of bearing them, they were hers. She wondered if confidence came in waves, rising like the tide and inevitably falling as the tide receded. Maybe it was always going to be this way, and she had to learn to live with it.
Maybe there was never going to be The Moment in which she had fully and finally become a Good person, or the Right person. Maybe there was never a time when that work was finally done and she could relax.
And maybe, if she hesitated on the inside of her room, her hand on the door, Sedarias would come storming up the stairs to inspect her, and she’d forget all the rest of the worry because immediate survival would become the priority. Thinking about it that way was almost funny: Sedarias’s rage coming to the rescue, and taking Kaylin away, for a moment, from her own inadequacy.
She opened her own door. The hall was empty.
She headed toward the stairs but stopped outside Annarion’s room. Annarion seldom left it, and Mandoran often kept him company through his constant vigil. Maybe the need for sleep was a gift. She hesitated at the door, and as she did, she felt her cheek—her marked cheek—begin to warm.
23
What Kaylin needed at this very moment was not to start bleeding. Not while she was dressed for intimidating company and surrounded by concerned Barrani who noticed and remembered everything. But she didn’t retreat from the door. The mark had been relevant to Nightshade’s survival in the end; if she hadn’t started bleeding, she’d never have raced to his fief. It was heating up; she lifted a hand to her cheek both to touch it and to cover it.
She then knocked on the door. Helen could open the door but wouldn’t without permission from its occupant. She accorded the cohort the same respect for privacy that she accorded Kaylin.
The door did open. It was Mandoran. He looked at her, blinked, his eyes shading into the color of surprise before returning to their regular blue. He took in the dress, probably noticed the ring, certainly noticed the hair, and stopped on her face.
“Your cheek.”
“Is it bleeding?”
“Can’t tell—you’re covering it. You probably don’t want to bleed on that dress.”
“It’s unlikely to be damaged or stained, unlike my regular clothing.”
Mandoran shrugged. Fair enough. “Are you here because of that?”
Kaylin nodded. “Yvonne isn’t due for another hour—”