Cast in Honor (The Chronicles of Elantra) (36 page)

She listened to the voice of the stone.

She listened to the sound of Annarion’s sword, of Bellusdeo’s sword; she listened to the crackle of the Arkon’s fire, the Arkon’s magical focus.

And then she cut herself off from each, one at a time, concentrating until the only sound that remained in the room itself was the quiet, constant hum of a single word. She strained to hear it, because she couldn’t move—and neither could Mandoran.

Her voice was thin, weak, when she lifted it. It was hesitant, which annoyed at least three of the people whose voices she could not—and did not want to—silence. She
knew
. She knew that hesitance was very much like silence; it was like the wrong word, the wrong language. She strengthened her voice. She began to struggle with syllables, with stringing them together in a continuous shift of sound. With speaking as if the spoken word
had
meaning.

And this annoyed only one man.

Shouting
, he said,
is not a sign of strength. It is a sign, perhaps, of bravery or foolishness—but not strength.

You
say it
.

She felt his annoyance. It was bad. But she understood, as well, that the High Lord couldn’t
see
the word. He could see what she saw, but only to a point. It was like Teela and Mandoran or Annarion. They were willing—sometimes eager—to explain, to let her see, but their explanations made no sense to her. Teela couldn’t process them.

She let panic go. Of all the weights she carried, it wasn’t one she could afford. She looked through Gilbert’s eyes—the ones that were open. Gilbert’s eyes couldn’t see the word there, either, which made no sense.

It is your word, Kaylin
, the familiar said.
It is a word absorbed
from
you.

* * *

The word hung in the air, at roughly the same height Mandoran’s forehead had been from the ground. She listened again. She strained to bring the sound closer. The word drew closer instead. In shape, in size, it seemed simple, but as it approached, she saw that it was more complicated than it had appeared at a distance. The single line that underlay the whole wasn’t actually a line; it was a composite of strokes, of lines that appeared to move in the same direction.

Closer, she could hear it. It was like a chorus of sound. She had one voice, and she faltered again. She could not repeat what she heard. Not all of it. Not all at once, if ever. But...if this was like a chorus, there had to be a melody. And that, she thought, she could follow.

Kaylin
. Severn’s voice. It was thinner, quieter, than it normally was. All of their voices were. She wanted to tell them to shush, to let her listen. She didn’t, because Kaylin realized that was where it would start: these were the voices that connected her, in some fashion, to a world outside of Gilbert’s eyes and Gilbert’s power. If she lost them, she would never find her way back.

They couldn’t see what she saw. They couldn’t hear what she heard. But they could see some part of her, and at least one of them could see it more clearly than she could see it herself. She willed them not to let go of it.

She couldn’t see cloth, as the familiar had described it, and that made her task harder. But she looked at the word, and only at the word, and she felt her panic recede. The marks on her arm were visible, even though her eyes were closed; they were the only other thing she could see.

No.

No, that wasn’t true. She could see the Arcanist. His eyes were closed; he looked waxen, graven, a thing of stone. She wouldn’t have said he was alive, because she could see no hint of breath, no motion at all. She could see no sign of life in him.

This was significant. Had she been able to feel the beat of her own heart, it would have been fast. But she felt oddly disjointed now, as if her own body was no more alive than the Arcanist’s. Her eyes were closed, of course. She shouldn’t have been able to see him. Yet his image filled her vision—as did the glowing marks on her skin.

But she had always been able to see words.

How had she taken Ynpharion’s name? He hadn’t chosen to expose it or offer the knowledge of it to her. She hadn’t carried and completed the name that would define both his place in the world and his power in it, as she’d once done with the High Lord. She had taken it because she could
see
it. She could touch it. She hadn’t had to speak it at all.

How had she preserved the one rune from the Lake of Life that she had given, in the end, to Gilbert?

She had grabbed it. She had held it. She had placed it on the only easily exposed skin available: her forehead. The words she had forced herself to speak, with Tara as a crutch, had never been hers. The words that she had placed in the core of Helen were not words she’d
spoken
. They were not even words she had her own words to express.

She had a thing or two to say to the Ancients, none of it particularly polite. Why had they chosen someone to speak the remnants of their old stories when that person
couldn’t speak the language
?

Because, she thought, speaking it wasn’t necessary.

They were simultaneously her words, and yet not. She was part of their telling, but they were not, had never been, her story. She didn’t need to be anything other than what she was—whatever that was now. She fell silent, staring at the Arcanist. Loathing—and she really did hate Arcanists—fell silent, as well. She did not understand, and would probably never understand, the
why
of what he had attempted to do.

And it didn’t, at this moment, matter. She understood her own “why.” It was in this room: Teela. Tain. Bellusdeo. Maggaron. And yes, Annarion, Mandoran. The Arkon. Sanabalis. It was Severn and Kattea. Lirienne. The High Lord. Nightshade.

Even Ynpharion, although he despised her.

Beyond them, the Halls of Law. Marcus. His
pridelea.
Caitlin. Joey and the mother she felt she knew, although she’d never met the woman. The Hawklord. Marrin and her foundlings. Evanton. Helen.

The Emperor. Diarmat. She didn’t even grimace, thinking his name.

All the things she loved. All the things she hated. All of the people.

She reached out and caught the floating word at the heart of Gilbert’s eye in both of her unseen hands. If she understood what had happened, it was one of her words, anyway—one of the ones she carried as both responsibility and bane. She felt its edges as sharp, painful things; she felt the whole of its weight.

And then she turned toward the Arcanist, made hollow by his own action. Fractured by it, so that part of him was fighting Annarion, and possibly killing Dragons, while he somehow remained here. She whispered Severn’s name, over and over, listening for him. Listening for him as she’d listened for him for eight years of her childhood.

Hearing him in echoes, in fear, in hope. The other voices were there, but so muted, she could barely touch them.

It is different
, the familiar said.
You gave Severn
your
name.

She placed the word she carried against the forehead of the Arcanist. In the darkness of her closed eyes, the word seemed to melt into his forehead; its golden glow spread from there across the surface of his alabaster skin, changing white to something warmer, something that might actually be alive.

Kaylin! No!

She felt Severn’s panic—a sharp tug, an insistent, almost overwhelming pull.

Not yet.
Not yet
. It was gone before she had to fight it.

The Barrani Arcanist opened his eyes.

* * *

Barrani had beautiful eyes. She thought this without desire, without warmth. The length of his lashes, the color like a dusting of perfect snow; the width of his eyes and the shape of them; the placement across the bridge of an unbroken, perfect nose.

They were beautiful. They were nothing like her eyes.

And they were a shade of purple Kaylin seldom saw. Purple was the color of loss, of funereal grief; the Barrani offered it to very, very few.

Grief.

As his eyes widened, as his face took on lines of expression, they darkened as well, becoming a much, much more familiar midnight. She might have taken an involuntary step back—in part because it was the only smart thing she could do—but he began to fade from view almost before the color of his eyes had fully made the transition.

* * *

Kaylin
. She felt the same visceral pull she’d felt the first time, but this time, she obeyed it. She had nothing left to fight with, and even if she did, she had no desire at all to fight.

* * *

She couldn’t see. She couldn’t see, and if she’d had the strength, she would have panicked. But Severn’s voice—no, all of the voices she’d gathered and touched—came rushing in, to fill the void left by darkness.

She could hear.

She felt heat above her upturned face; she felt stone—suspiciously warm stone—against her arms and chest, and remembered the stone bell. It was still now. It did not vibrate. Nor did she hear the oddly staccato voices of the three men.

She heard blades clashing, and then she remembered.

She remembered the eyes of the Barrani Arcanist. He would die here, no matter how powerful he was; she was certain of it. If he was forced to actually face the people in this room—the least of whom was exhausted to the point of diminished vision and apparently clinging blindly to a rock—he wouldn’t last five minutes.

But his grief—grief, not rage—cut her. She
knew
what would have happened had it not been for Gilbert, but she thought that maybe,
maybe
, the destruction the Arcanist had caused was unintentional. And maybe, if his only desire was to somehow be free, if he had somehow met Gilbert on his own, he might be at peace.

It was a stupid thought, and pointless, because he’d be at peace now, regardless.

“Kaylin.”

She tried to speak, but apparently she’d been screaming, because her throat felt raw and scraped, and she could barely hear her own voice over the rest of the almost overwhelming noise in the basement.

“Kaylin, you need to let go.” She recognized Annarion’s voice.

“Are my eyes open?” she asked him.

“...Yes.”

“I can’t see you—”

“Let go, Kaylin.” Pause. “Your
cheek
.”

She smiled. “Yes. Your brother is...in his Castle.” She groaned as Annarion apparently attempted to remove her arms—or her skin.

“You need to let go. The Arkon says we need to break these stones.”

She looked, tried to look, at Annarion’s face, which she assumed was in roughly the same direction as his voice. And she saw one thing: Gilbert’s eye. Gilbert’s only remaining eye; the others, she could no longer use. She couldn’t really see out of this one, either, and realized that it was probably still embedded in Annarion’s forehead.

He lifted her. He carried her. She cried the whole way because her skin hurt so much. She wished she’d removed all her clothing before she’d arrived in the basement, which was not technically legal.

The eye began to move. She could see no word in it; it was a simple, and small, golden orb, with a pupil that seemed to have depth; it reminded her, in a tiny way, of the small pond at the heart of the Keeper’s Garden.

She tried to speak, but failed. She closed her eyes. She wanted to beg Annarion to put her down, but before she could, he did—and she watched this lone part of Gilbert, whose Shadow, whose presence, she couldn’t otherwise see, move to what she assumed was the exact spot on which the Arcanist had been standing when he’d cast his spell.

She didn’t know what Annarion was doing. She’d have to ask him, later.

But the sound in the room grew sharper and more distinct—which was not, in her present condition, a gift, exactly—as Gilbert’s remaining eye grew less distinct.

She could hear Dragon roaring. She’d learned to differentiate between “discussion” and “argument” while living in the Palace. Most native draconian spoken in the Palace, on the other hand, was the latter.

And she thought, with increasing confusion, that one of the two voices—three voices—raised in argument was the Emperor’s, which made no sense.

It was the last thought she had before she slid into a very blessed unconsciousness.

Chapter 30

Afterward, she heard the rest of the story, because she didn’t really make it back in a condition to witness it for herself. The Arcanist had appeared in the center of the room. The fighting nearest the stairs stopped instantly, which did
not
mean that the fighting had stopped entirely. Given the other occupants of the room, the rest of the fight wasn’t particularly long.

It was Mandoran who told Kaylin that Gilbert’s eye—the one remaining eye, in Annarion’s forehead—had left Annarion. And it was Annarion who told Kaylin that he thought Gilbert had used what power he could summon, through that tenuous connection, to patch the rend in time. To change the things that had happened. To bring the
rest
of the city back.

Annarion very deliberately ignored Kaylin’s face for twenty minutes—or longer—of their first visit. When he couldn’t keep that up, his eyes were drawn instantly to her cheek. Which was blistered and puffy. Nightshade’s mark was, of course, still there—and Annarion understood exactly
why
her skin was blistered, and it reminded him of the very core of his anger at his brother.

Since his brother was actually alive, worry had given way to the usual resentment. The two of them were going to have to talk, but Annarion was unwilling to risk visiting Castle Nightshade again.

“I called him,” she said quietly. “I needed his help to keep myself...here.”

Mandoran said, “That’s better than your usual attempt at lying. Half of it is probably true.” When she winced, he added, “You’re not going to make anyone believe that he burned part of your face at your request. Except maybe yourself. The rest of us are actually Barrani. We know how it works.” She realized, with some surprise, that Mandoran was almost as angry as Annarion.

* * *

Tain had cracked ribs and a pierced lung. It was Teela who passed that news on. Tain was apparently recuperating in a building that wasn’t sentient and didn’t also contain Mandoran and Annarion.

“Did I really hear the Emperor?” Kaylin asked the Barrani Hawk.

“I’m certain even the dead heard the Emperor. That’s a yes, by the way.”

She wilted. And fell asleep.

* * *

She slept on and off for three days.

During that time, Helen visited frequently with food. Marcus’s wives, led by the indomitable Kayala, visited, Marcus in tow. It was always funny to see Marcus surrounded by his wives; he was like a kitten. She was never stupid enough to
say
this in his hearing, though. Moran visited while Marcus was present, chatted amicably with his wives and gave Kaylin a very, very thorough medical inspection. She treated the burn on Kaylin’s cheek, as well.

Since she was not actually in the infirmary when she did this, Kaylin had hopes that her demeanor would be substantially different. Clearly, exhaustion had made her stupid. Moran told Kaylin—and Helen—in no uncertain terms what she
expected
of Kaylin’s convalescence. Kaylin didn’t pay much attention to most of it, but Helen certainly did, and Kaylin tried to remember that she had
wanted
Moran to live here.

Caitlin visited, with food. And flowers for Helen, just because. The Hawklord did not visit. The Arkon did not visit, either, but that was probably for the best.

Kattea, drawn and silent, her expression the forced smile of a child who has nowhere else to go and knows it, visited; she came in with Helen and left with her. Helen informed Kaylin that Kattea would be staying temporarily. Well, technically, Helen
asked
if Kattea could stay. But she asked in a tone of voice that made it clear there was only one acceptable answer.

Since it was the answer Kaylin would have given regardless, this was fine. Kattea, however, was not—and Kaylin could not force herself to stay awake for long enough to do anything about it. She did ask Kattea about Gilbert, heard Helen’s
very
sharp intake of breath and let the matter drop.

Bellusdeo came by with, of all people, Sanabalis—who was not dead, but looked almost as if death would be a mercy, his color was so bad. Bellusdeo’s eyes were a shade of orange that shifted perceptibly to gold when she saw Kaylin. “This is the first time you’ve been awake while we’ve been here,” she said, by way of explanation.

Kaylin deliberately didn’t ask her about the Emperor. She did ask about the Arkon, and both of the two visitors winced.

“Lannagaros is not, perhaps, in the most social of moods,” Bellusdeo said. “I am sure he will recover. Lord Diarmat inquires after your health.” Her smile was slightly edged as she added, “His concern almost appeared to be genuine.”

“He just wants us back in class.”

“Of course.”

* * *

Severn didn’t visit, and that was worse.

* * *

On the morning of the fourth day, she had a visitor she hadn’t expected.

You should have
, he said, standing on the steps leading to the front door.

Yes. Maybe she should have. The mark on her cheek was no longer quite as puffy and sore. All the rest of the pain caused by magic faded when the magic itself did. Trust Nightshade to be an exception.

She was more or less on her feet. Although Marcus had told her not to come into the office for a week—with pay, even—she was restless, and therefore chose to dress for work. If work clothing wasn’t exactly lounge-around-at home clothing, she took comfort in it anyway. And it wasn’t as if Helen was going to judge it.

“I should hope not.” Helen’s voice was not accompanied by her Avatar.

I do not think I will be allowed entry without your direct intervention.
Which made it pretty clear where Helen’s physical representation actually was. Kaylin moved, crossing the floor and the halls to reach the stairs almost before she took the time to think. The small dragon flew from the left side of the pillow—his de facto perch for much of Kaylin’s convalescence—to her shoulder; he wrapped his tail lightly around her neck.

Squawk
.

Her home was not a place she’d ever expected to see the fieflord. Home wasn’t a place she’d ever intended to
invite
him. But she didn’t want Helen to reduce him to ash or send him to another dimension, either. They’d gone through a lot to actually bring him home.

Which was not, of course, his experience of events. He had lost a month to the defense mechanisms of Castle Nightshade. He had not lost decades—if, indeed, Gilbert’s approximation of the time they had spent together had been accurate—in the heart of Ravellon. Whatever had happened in some future, it was gone; it was in the past. And that was ironic.

She wondered if that was what had happened to Gilbert, but shook her head as she looked down the stairs. If Gilbert was gone
because
things had been changed, Kattea wouldn’t be here. And Kattea was here, waiting for Gilbert with increasing impatience—which everyone expected—and diminishing hope. Which was heartbreaking.

Helen was standing in the doorway. The door was open, but Helen hadn’t actually moved aside to allow Nightshade entrance. Kaylin could see her back. She could see the delicate lines of shoulders that were not
quite
elderly; she could see the stiff, straight fall of Helen’s arms.

“Helen.”

Helen didn’t turn.

Kaylin came all the way down the stairs. She intended to join Helen, or to at least stand beside her—but Helen lifted an arm to prevent this from happening.

What did you
say
to her?
Kaylin demanded.

I merely told her I wished to pay my respects to both you and my brother
. There was a glimmer of dark amusement in the words. That and anger.

“Helen,” Kaylin repeated. Even when the ancestors had attacked them all, she had never seen Helen behave quite like this.

Helen turned her head—only her head. Her eyes were jet-black. Her face had lost most of the lines that implied smile or laughter.

Is that
really
all you did?

Helen turned back to her clearly unwanted visitor.

I am not unwise enough to attempt to cause harm in a building of this type. I was perhaps under a misapprehension about the building’s exact nature, as all of my knowledge comes—indirectly—from your first encounters with it.

Her name is Helen.

Silence.

Kaylin folded her arms. “Helen, please. He is not going to hurt me. He’s not even going to try.”

Helen did not appear to hear her.

“Annarion lives here. Nightshade is—as far as I know—his only surviving family.”

“Did I not tell you,” Helen replied, relenting enough to speak, “that I would not allow those who intended you harm across this threshold?”

“Yes. Yes, you did. But he has had
plenty
of opportunity to cause me harm in the past, and he’s failed to take advantage of any of them. I don’t know what he’s done—”

“You do not understand the nature of the harm. Would he kill you? No. He would no more destroy
Melliannos
, his sword. Both you and the sword are of value.”

Nightshade stiffened; his eyes were as dark as Barrani eyes could get.

“I do not intend to destroy him,” Helen continued. “I do not wish to hurt Annarion, and his anger with his brother stems, at its base, from attachment.”

“Annarion can’t visit his brother in Nightshade.”

“I fail to see how that is my problem.”

“It’ll be
my
problem if Annarion leaves the house. He’s been able to move freely only when I’m physically
with
him. If you want me to see less of Nightshade, this is the safest place for
me
to be. I don’t ask that you let him do whatever he wants solely because he’s a guest.” Which, to be fair, Kaylin knew would never happen. “But you’re
here
. There’s nothing you’re not aware of.

“And he did help me,” she added.

Helen’s eyes narrowed as she glared at Kaylin’s blistered cheek.

“...We had different ideas of what I was supposed to be doing during the confrontation.”

“And his ideas were clearly of more value to him than yours.”

“...Helen, he’s
Barrani
. He’s a Barrani Lord.”

“So, if I recall correctly, is your Teela.”

“You didn’t see Teela when I was in training.”

“It is in no way the same, as you are well aware,” Annarion said from the top of the stairs. Kaylin had no idea how long he’d been standing there. He spoke in very stiff High Barrani, and his eyes were as dark as Nightshade’s, if for entirely different reasons.

Kaylin placed a hand on Helen’s shoulder. “Helen, please.”

Nightshade was, if anything, more annoyed.
Do not
beg
a building such as this. You are Lord here, or you are prisoner. Choose.

“That’s not the way Helen—or I—work. It’s not the way we
need
to work.”

Then you are subject to its—

Her.

...
her
whim.
His eyes narrowed, and he turned away from the door.
This was an abominable idea. I have no idea why I am here. I almost cannot believe the centuries I spent attempting—in some small way—to retrieve the brother I could not believe was dead.
He headed down the stairs.

“Helen,
please
.”

Helen exhaled. It was a sound that was vaguely reminiscent of Dragon.

“Nightshade!” As he continued to walk away, she said, “Calarnenne.” She spoke without force, as if it was merely a mortal name. He stopped.

Annarion had come down the stairs; he’d reached the doors. Helen’s ability to shield his presence extended to the fence line, but he was understandably reluctant to test this. Kaylin glanced at his expression. It was nowhere near as shuttered as Nightshade’s, and yes, there was anger in it.

Anger, she thought, and bewilderment.

“They need to talk,” she told Helen. She spoke very quietly, but without hope that either of the two men would fail to hear her.

“Then perhaps it would be best if they used the Twilight Room. I do not like this, Kaylin. I understand that you accept certain attitudes as inevitable cultural behavior. But Lord Nightshade is unlike the other Barrani you have invited as guests.”

“I am not more of a danger than Lord Teela,” Nightshade said, voice sharp, eyes narrow.

Helen’s eyes rounded. They were still obsidian, but the expression itself was more human.

“Lord Teela,” Helen replied, in a voice that was about as soft as her eyes, “does not trouble herself to hide her thoughts when she enters Kaylin’s home.”

“My thoughts,” Nightshade said, “are not your concern.”

“No. But Kaylin is.” Before Kaylin could move, Helen reached up and gently touched the mark Nightshade had placed on Kaylin’s cheek.

Kaylin was surprised. It no longer hurt, and she didn’t resent it nearly as much as Annarion, Mandoran and Helen did. “No, you don’t,” Helen said.

At least teach your Helen that she is not to reveal the thoughts you are wise enough not to put into words.

“But none of our anger is as deep as Teela’s.” Helen shook herself, and as she did, she resumed the most familiar of her forms. “Annarion? The Twilight Room?”

Annarion nodded grimly.

“Will you require refreshments?”

“I’m not sure, yet.”

“Should I inform Mandoran that the meeting will be private? I believe he is...concerned.”

Nightshade’s anger turned on edge—and gave way to a bitter amusement.

“Yes,” Kaylin answered, before Annarion could. “Tell Mandoran exactly that. It’s not like he’s not going to know if Annarion needs backup.”

Helen led the way.

Her voice, however, remained behind, and when the Barrani and her own Avatar had cleared both the foyer and the visible upper hall, she said, “He feels that he owns you.”

“He can’t own me. For one, it’s illegal. For two, he’s wrong. I’m not responsible for how he views me. I can’t change it. I’m responsible for how
I
view me, and I’m telling you it doesn’t matter.”

“He does not have friends, Kaylin. He has lieges and servants. He does not understand family as even Annarion understands it. What you want will never be of value to him in the way that what he wants is. I cannot read him,” she added. “But he is powerful, and that attitude combined with power is not...safe.”