“No. The words are doors, if I understand their use—and, frustratingly, my knowledge in this regard is scant. If I could see the word, I could attempt to speak it; I am not guaranteed to succeed. The words you have heard me speak—the words you have heard Sanabalis speak—are words that were taught to me in the distant past.
“But you are aware of the effect those words might have on the Leontines, a race that does not require True Names in order to live. Words have power, Kaylin.”
“Yes—but those words had specific power.”
“So, too, these. And they are simple words; they are not an entire tale. The power that those who attacked the High Halls wished to access was those True Names. This is not that. You will not, speaking the name, bind Starrante in the fashion you clearly fear.”
“Will I bind him in some other fashion?”
“I believe you will build a connection, yes. But it is a connection that has, in some fashion, already been built by someone else. You have the advantage of holding that book.” His tone implied that she had better make use of the minor advantages she had—and quickly.
But words weren’t spoken quickly, if they were spoken at all. She wished strongly that she could use the magic the Arkon possessed to create a visual, visible illusion; she trusted the Arkon to speak what must be spoken.
Fire erupted in the distance; it was a white-gold fire, and it was accompanied by a very familiar voice: Bellusdeo’s. The Arkon tensed, but said nothing.
Above Kaylin’s arms and around her legs she could see the marks of the Chosen. They were golden now, their light a glow that implied warmth, not the chill of ice. Starrante’s book was before her, and she could now see that it, too, was golden. It just wasn’t solid.
Her own marks, her own words, were. She could reach out and touch them—and did, to ascertain their solidity. She hesitated for one moment, and then turned, again, to the Arkon. He understood, and reluctantly held out one book for her inspection: Androsse’s. Kaylin was certain this was mostly by chance.
Androsse’s word was solid; it was part of the cover of the book. It didn’t rise or float; it didn’t spin. But it was present. She assumed the same of Kavallac’s, but the Arkon didn’t offer the second book; having confirmed that Kaylin’s fingers didn’t dip below the surface of Androsse’s, he was done with the experiment.
Kaylin’s familiar had dropped his wing at about the time Kavallac had chosen to engage the intruders. He’d folded it, and further, had collapsed on her shoulder like a bulky shawl. He said nothing, and offered no advice or criticism.
The Arkon didn’t, either. She could hear the sounds of battle, all of it magical; there didn’t seem to be one drawn sword in the fracas. But she could also hear syllables, words—as if catching the mood and tone of an entire crowd. A crowd that was not, or had not yet become, a problem for the Swords.
These syllables, much like the random sentences spoken by people in a gathered crowd, overlapped and clashed; none were terribly loud, and none demanded instant attention. But none would; none of the syllables conformed to a language she knew. None implied intent or danger. They were a simple gathering of sounds with nothing to collect or catch her attention.
No, she thought, that wasn’t true. She understood as she listened—closing her eyes as she often did to aid concentration—that those syllables emanated from the marks themselves, as if they, rotating in place, were desperately attempting to be heard. She listened now.
As she listened, she began to search for words that seemed to be written with a similar foundation to the one on Starrante’s book—bold double horizontal lines as the central composition, with a slender, slightly curved line to the left of the whole figure that seemed to anchor the rest of it. There were very few of the squiggles, but three dots had been added beneath the second horizontal line.
She knew that the pronunciation of true words wasn’t dependent on the composition, or not precisely dependent on it. The rough alphabet that comprised true words had never appeared to be phonetic. This language wasn’t like Elantran or Barrani, where at least ninety percent of the words could be sounded out by someone just learning to match speech to the written equivalent.
But this was what she had, at the moment. She chose to touch the marks of the Chosen that most closely corresponded in general shape and composition to the rune on Starrante’s book.
As she touched them, she could hear them. She could hear how they might be pronounced—or perhaps how they might be pronounced by Kaylin. It hadn’t occurred to her until this moment that they might contain sounds that her human throat couldn’t, or didn’t, naturally make. When Sanabalis spoke these words, or when the Arkon did, they spoke with normal voices—but louder, deeper, richer in intonation. They didn’t wrap the sounds in the Dragon thunder that passed for conversation in their native tongues.
She would have to remember to ask the Arkon whether or not he could speak True Words in Dragon.
She couldn’t. But she could hear syllables now. She could hear the similarities in pronunciation as she moved from one word to the next. She had, with the help of Tara and Tiamaris, repeated words and sounds, struggling to force them into coherence. But she understood now that it wasn’t just sound; intent was required.
She had learned to look at carved words, to see their shape, and to understand when that shape had begun to shift or change in ways that were wrong. But she didn’t read them out loud; she didn’t speak them. There was nothing wrong with the shape of the word that graced Starrante’s book. There was no disfiguration.
Her eyes were closed, or she would have closed them again. The syllables that she heard were different enough that she couldn’t quite match components to sounds—and she was aware that there might be no actual match.
Speak, Hope said.
She didn’t argue with him; she wanted to, but there was nothing to be gained by it. If writing words, if holding them in the correct shape, was a matter of instinct, of recognizing the harmony in disparate shapes...was speaking like that, as well?
Yes.
“Not with normal language.” Damn.
You think of the words as language. This is both right and wrong.
“Fine. Tell me how it’s wrong. Wrong is what I need to fix.” She raised her voice as the sound of cracking, breaking rock swamped Hope’s possible answer.
They are words. They are language. They are life. Think of true words as the blood of the Ancients. You have seen this before in glimpses of ancient Records.
“Our blood doesn’t work that way. We bleed when we’re injured, but the blood’s not alive.”
Hope didn’t reply.
“Hope?”
Silence.
“Look—you don’t actually expect me to heal an injured word, do you? Words aren’t singular. Even true words. It’s not like it’s said once and that’s done forever and ever. If I could only use each word once, I’d never be able to talk!”
Her familiar glared at her.
“Even if I wanted to heal this particular word, I can’t touch it. I’ve been trying.”
“Corporal,” the Arkon cut in. “I believe you are looking at this the wrong way.” She didn’t open her eyes, so she couldn’t see his expression, but she could pretty much hear it. “In this case, you do not need to touch the word. You need to speak it.”
“I was trying that—”
“Yes, you were. But in all of the times you’ve possessed the marks of the Chosen, you’ve shown competence in utilizing their innate power in only one way: you heal. Speaking the words as I’ve spoken them will not, I think, resolve the issue we face.”
Kaylin was almost frustrated enough to open her eyes.
“You must speak them, Corporal, with the power you have always used to heal. The only power you trust enough to use willingly and deliberately.”
“I lit the room,” she sai
d. Hope bit her ear. But if he wanted her to use that power, she had to touch the rune. So that wasn’t what he was saying at all. He was asking her to speak a word she didn’t know—which she’d been trying to do—while using the power of the marks of the Chosen to heal a word in a completely unnatural way.
What was healing? What did she do in order to heal?
Touch the body. Touch the injured person. She didn’t trust her powers; she trusted each body’s knowledge of itself. Regardless, touch was essential and there was nothing to touch here.
Sorry to interrupt, Severn said, but we may have a problem.
More of a problem than three Barrani Arcanists attempting to kill us in a library no one else can reach?
Terrano says he’s found a way into the library.
And that’s bad?
Not for Terrano. The rest of us have found the chancellor’s office. We didn’t have to pick the lock; the door was open.
...Someone was in the office.
Something was in the office, yes.
Without another word, Kaylin pushed her awareness behind Severn’s eyes. In theory, the connection between them was built on her name—a name she had picked for herself from the Barrani lake of life—which meant Severn had power over Kaylin if he wanted to wield it. In practice, that had never been an issue.
She swore, apparently with her own mouth. The Arkon said, “What is wrong?”
“Starrante’s a Barrani name, right?”
Silence. The pause held the crackle of lightning and the roar of Dragons.
“Ah. It is indeed a Barrani name—but it is a name that was adopted for ease of use by the students and the academic committee overseen by the chancellor.”
“Starrante’s not Barrani.”
“No.”
“Did you ever actually meet him when you were a student here?”
“Yes.”
“Did he happen to, I don’t know, eat the students when he was in a bad mood?”
“In his time, he was considered the most gentle of the Arbiters; I believe it was Androsse who caused occasional structural damage when disappointed.”
“Fine. Was he a giant, hairy, eight-legged spider-like...creature?”
“Ah. I believe Corporal Handred has found some part of Starrante.”
Chapter 25
Robin had led them to the chancellor’s office, and was peering through the door; Kaylin was aware of his presence because Severn was. The child kept Severn and Emmerian between him and the open door. Annarion had taken up position by the side of Severn that wasn’t occupied by a Dragon.
You should tell Robin to go back to class, Kaylin said.
Severn, however, lifted an arm. Given the proximity of Annarion’s sword, this took courage. “The Arkon says that this is one of the people we’re looking for.”
Given that the creature had not yet attacked, although what might have been a head had swiveled in their direction, Annarion said nothing rude. He didn’t sheathe his weapon but did lower it—without removing Severn’s arm. Emmerian was, in theory, unarmed. Dragons considered swords of nonmagical origin inferior to the gifts granted them by nature. This was because they were.
The creature that looked like a giant spider opened a mouth that was distinctly fleshy. Its voice was a screech of sound, like large chunks of rock rubbing against each other in the middle of an earthquake, but quieter.
No one spoke in response, and the mouth opened again. The creature appeared to be sitting on an impressive desk, and it flexed four of its legs to sidle off the flat surface.
“Arbiter Starrante,” Severn said. “We apologize for interrupting you at your work.” He spoke in High Barrani but spoke slowly. Annarion was willing to allow Severn to speak for them, which probably meant Sedarias was occupied.
The spider creature’s mouth closed slowly. Yes, he did have a head that was separate from the rest of his body. That head rose on something that resembled a leg rather than a neck. The head itself appeared to be mostly mouth, but the round, dark things that might be eyes sat at the four corners of a mouth that seemed rectangular in shape.
The creature spoke again, but this time, Kaylin could understand the words. They were Barrani. “You are not in class.”
“We have permission to leave the classroom.”
“Impossible.”
Robin said, “Killian gave me permission.” He spoke from behind Severn’s back. “You can ask him.”
“Ah.” It was hard to tell if Arbiter Starrante was frowning. His eyes, however, seemed to be shifting in color—or at least the two lower eyes. They had gone from black to a pale blue. The upper eyes remained dark, but Kaylin could see—through Severn’s eyes—a flicker of something that might be gold. “I am afraid Killianas is not responding.”
“Killianas requested that the library be opened.”
“That is not Killianas’s decision to make,” Starrante said, more edge in the words.
“Is it yours, Arbiter Starrante?”
Careful, Kaylin said.
The head lowered, retracting into the body.
“Are you the chancellor?” Severn asked.
“Of course not.”
“Who is the chancellor?”
“There is no chancellor,” Starrante replied, his head now so flush with his body he once again looked like a spider. A spider that was making its way to the door.
“Who is the interim chancellor?”
“There is...no...chancellor.” The words were louder, and not just because he was closer.
Severn—
He moved, grabbing Robin and vacating the open door. But even moving, he could see—and therefore Kaylin could see—the color of Starrante’s upper eyes; they were a livid, ugly purple. She had no idea what race Starrante was; had he been less solid, she would have thought him a one-off Shadow, straight from Ravellon.
Giant spider legs with terminal claws crashed into the door frame. Annarion, like Severn, had leaped out of the way. Starrante’s movements were jerky, unnatural and punishingly swift. The door frame cracked under the weight of the sudden blow; it cracked again when the second leg joined the first.
Severn retreated down the hall, shoving Robin in Annarion’s direction.
“Don’t attack him!” he shouted. “Avoid closing.”
“Easier said than done,” Annarion replied. “He doesn’t seem to be under the same restrictions.”
“I don’t think he’s doing this of his own volition!”
Nightshade—we’re having a bit of trouble with Starrante. We’ve found him, she added. Can you tell Killian—or ask Killian—if he can interfere?
Interfere in what?
I think Starrante is trying to kill Severn and Annarion.
“I doubt that. I doubt it highly,” Killian said. Nightshade had not spoken. “If Arbiter Starrante truly intended to kill your friends, they would almost certainly be dead.” He frowned. “I do not include Lannagaros in that number.”
“He’s not the only Dragon that came with me—but they’re trapped in the library. I’ve found Starrante—he was in the chancellor’s office.”
Killian frowned. His expression was more fluid, more dynamic, than it had been the first time she’d met him. “I see.”
“Can you do anything to interfere in the—the conflict? I don’t think the Arbiters are supposed to damage—”
“There are no students present. No people with requisite permissions—Ah, no. I am incorrect.” His smile was slender. “Robin has apparently lost his way in an attempt to reach the...bathroom. Yes, I believe I have the authority to intervene in this case.”
He lifted his head. “Arabella, self-study does not mean doodling. And give Taran his book back, please. He will be in some trouble if he loses another one.” He lifted his voice. “We have discussed the nature of True Words i
n the insubstantial ether. We have discussed the possibilities inherent in the primal ether. If one has the ability to reform that ether into a shape and a solidity of one’s choice, why can the words find no anchor?”
Severn?
Starrante has...vanished.
When?
Just now. Killian’s still lecturing?
He is. He was waking. Helen could have continued the lecture while also separating combatants.
“Killian, we need to speak with Starrante.”
“I am afraid that that is not possible at the moment. The Arbiter seems to be engaged in an internal conflict of his own.” This last was said with some concern. “He could not hear me, and he was damaging himself in an attempt to disobey the compulsion laid against him. I have removed him to a place that will be safer, for the moment.”
“Can you send him to the library?”
“No, Chosen.”
Kaylin exhaled. “Can you speak the word that will summon him?”
He stared at her. Or stared at Nightshade, whose voice spoke the words she wanted to say so naturally she almost felt as if she were in the lecture hall.
“Yes,” Killian said, “it is almost as if you are here. But this takes a toll on Calarnenne, and it would be a pity to exhaust him so completely he retains nothing of this lecture.”
“The word to summon Starrante?”
Killian closed his eye. When he spoke—when his voice formed the first of many syllables—Kaylin could hear it so clearly he might have been standing beside her.
I cannot hear it, Nightshade said.
Neither could Severn.
“Calarnenne, please. You have allowed yourself to be distracted enough—and I would like your input. This is a question that is not often asked of students as junior as yourself, but it is a pressing matter that might well define your future.”
“I’m sorry,” Kaylin said in her own voice, in a library that was vibrating with sound. “Please, repeat the word.”
* * *
What did Hope mean? What was healing? How did it relate to the sound of this single word? She sat cross-legged on the shuddering ground and placed Starrante’s book in her lap because she could no longer hold it in her hands; the cold had numbed them so completely she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t drop the book.
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