She looked at the word as Killian spoke it. She tried to retain the sound of the syllables, the way they flowed into each other. He spoke slowly, but the speaking of these particular words always seemed slow, as if each part of the word had intimidating depth and one couldn’t speak them without intent. The choosing of words, the placement of words, the sense of their weight, were not things that she considered often in her normal life.
If every word had to be spoken and chosen with so much care, would the meanings of those words—far fewer in number—somehow be clearer?
She shook her head. No. Listen. Listen to the sound. Find a way to voice it. Will. Intent. Meaning.
Meaning. In the end, she didn’t know the meaning of this word. She knew how it was used. No, she didn’t even know that. She hadn’t needed to speak the words on the outer bindings of the other Arbiter’s books. She’d merely had to open them.
This book hadn’t been in the library; it had been in Larrantin’s possession. And Larrantin seemed to understand that it had to be returned. She couldn’t imagine that he had taken the volume out of the library—but he’d found it, somehow.
She began to speak, repeating the syllables she could hear, her voice just behind Killian’s, like a stutter. The frustration of attempting to match her voice, her pronunciation, her enunciation to his absorbed most of her thought.
The Arkon’s voice overlapped hers, but his contained words she recognized as words—none of them happy words. She lost the flow of syllables as she spoke a single word: Hope.
Her familiar said, I will aid him—but be wary; I will not be here. No—do not stop. What you do now, you must do. If the Arkon were capable of it, he would do it himself. He is not.
She didn’t even feel him leave her shoulder, and once again closed her eyes.
That is not wary.
When she closed her eyes, she caught the thread of the word; understood that this was not the whole of it, and waited until Killian began again. This time, the sound was clearer, perhaps because she had struggled to match it. But she understood what she was doing wrong and cringed.
This time, when she opened her mouth, she began to sing.
Kaylin’s singing was...not good. It had never been good. Out of kindness to her friends, she kept it to herself. Her lousy voice was so low on the list of things those friends had time to care about at the moment, she forced herself to work past the bitter self-consciousness. Now was not the time for it.
Singing was better. The extension of syllables suited song more than it suited speech; it felt more natural. There was, about the joining of voices—even when one of them was hers—something harmonious. The background of roaring and thunder could almost be percussion, if the percussionist was bad. It was easier to sing a note than it was to speak a long, extended syllable.
Notes had tone. The only reason Kaylin tried to sing—when she was relatively certain it wouldn’t offend anyone—was that songs contained emotions; she could return to a song in different frames of mind and be drawn almost instantly into the immediacy of the feelings it invoked. Even if she didn’t know all the words by heart.
She could hum. She did hum. As she did, as she felt the melding of Killian’s voice and her own, she was enmeshed in a wash of emotion for which she had no words.
Starrante’s word was a song.
It was a song of welcome and grief, of loss and unexpected joy, of things broken and things mended and made whole. Her own words couldn’t have conveyed half of what she now felt, but they would have been irrelevant. She found she was crying as she sang; she lifted hands, turning them palm up, as if to catch something—or to offer it.
She shifted her voice, shifted her volume; breath came naturally in the small pauses between syllables. She let the melody carry her and surround her. She had heard words from this language spoken before; they had never sounded like this. But maybe those words had been echoes of words like this one; shadows of the story that had brought the Leontines to life as a people.
This was not the story of a people; it wasn’t as grand and extended as that. It was not an act of creation—and yet, on some level, it was. This was a song she had never heard before, and would now never forget.
She put her own emotions into the syllables as it progressed; put the weight of those feelings—lightness and joy, heaviness and rage—into her enunciation of the syllables, as people did when singing. She made of it something personal. She hadn’t created it, wasn’t certain how someone else would sing it, and at the moment didn’t care. She could hold on to this.
She could hold it, beginning to end, in her head.
When Killian’s voice fell silent, she noticed the lack of his guidance. But she no longer needed it. She didn’t think, didn’t panic, didn’t heal in any way that she understood—but she could see her own marks gently glowing as she focused on what she’d learned.
This time, on her own, she sang.
The rune on the cover of a book made of ice began to rise. It rose as the marks of the Chosen did. She reached out to touch it; it was now solid between her palms, and they’d recovered enough that she could feel its surfaces against her skin.
She wasn’t expecting the rune to pull away. She wasn’t expecting the book to fly off her lap. She opened her eyes without thought, her voice dying into stillness as she met the midnight-blue eyes of Candallar.
* * *
She moved, throwing herself out of the range of the spell that her skin told her was coming. But she moved in the direction of the book. Candallar had, she thought, kicked it or sent it flying in some purely physical way. She didn’t reach the book first; the Arkon did.
The Arkon had not moved.
Purple fire scorched the floor where Kaylin had been seated. The Arkon snapped a single Draconic word that reverberated down Kaylin’s spine. The specific meaning was lost, but the tone made clear that he intended Kaylin to get behind him.
Fire followed her steps; purple lapped at her legs. It didn’t burn; it numbed. She stumbled into the Arkon’s left arm, and he caught her before she could hit the ground. All around him, she could see a luminous, faint sphere.
So could Candallar.
“Leave them!” he shouted, although he didn’t take his eyes off the Arkon—and Kaylin. “What we want is here!”
The Arkon exhaled a narrow plume of fire; it blossomed across Candallar’s chest without apparently burning anything. Candallar, however, shouted no further instructions to his distant companions.
No, he focused on the two people in front of him, and on the three books one of them now carried.
“You do not have permission to be here,” he said, his voice a curious blend of ice and fire. His eyes widened slightly as his words died into a silence battered by distant roars and combat. Those eyes narrowed as he spoke the words again: you do not have permission to be here. The words echoed and repeated as if Kaylin were hearing them spoken by more than one voice.
“Neither do you!” Kaylin shouted back.
This time, his eyes narrowed until they were almost closed. He lifted a hand, and in it, Kaylin could see something that looked like a rod—small, compact, not terribly useful for fighting. It seemed ceremonial.
He pointed the rod at Kaylin. “Leave.”
“I’d suggest you consider it,” a familiar voice said. Terrano stepped out of the shadows.
* * *
Terrano was unarmed. Sedarias, however, was not. She joined Terrano, her hair a flyaway mess, something seldom seen on a Barrani when they weren’t in motion.
“Lord Candallar,” Sedarias said, her eyes a shade of blue that made clear her displeasure.
“Do not interfere here,” Candallar said, struggling to keep his voice as smooth—and cold—as Sedarias’s had been. “You are intruders, and as intruders, you have no hope of survival. This is not Mellarionne, An’Mellarionne. You will find that
you have no power here, except the power I choose to grant.”
The Arkon roared.
Candallar appeared unmoved.
“You are in the library,” the Arkon said. “And your people are intent on causing damage to it.”
“The library is part of the Academia, and I am its Lord.”
The floor shook beneath Kaylin’s feet.
The Arkon looked singularly unimpressed. Sedarias and Terrano joined Kaylin; Sedarias did not put up her sword. But it was Sedarias who spoke.
“What claim have you over the Academia?”
“I told you—”
“And what use is it to you?”
“Do you not understand what is gathered here in the detritus of ancient history?” Candallar’s voice was soft.
“You have intrigued with the Lords of the High Court who are discontent with things as they now stand,” Sedarias continued, as if she had not been interrupted. “None of us do so without goals. You will not and cannot claim the High Seat, and given your role in the recent difficulties, your reinstatement to that Court is nigh impossible.”
He said nothing.
“I have offered alliance, and you have failed to respond to that offer.”
“And you will offer it again?” There was no trace of sneer in his voice or his words, but it was clear that he didn’t believe it.
“There are things that I can, and cannot, accept,” Sedarias said. “I am An’Mellarionne, as you have clearly ascertained. I speak with the voice of Mellarionne.”
“You yourself were not obedient to your brother when he ruled your family.”
“We are never obedient when the goal is our destruction, no. But your destruction was both ordained and escaped; you are fieflord, and your Tower is Candallar. Do you wish to be relieved of the burden that preserved your life?”
Silence.
“I cannot see what you hope to gain in your intrigues at Court. You cannot be both fieflord and a Lord of the High Court; in the history of the Court that has happened only once. You rule your domain, and what you make of it reflects your concerns, but the power of the fieflord is almost absolute in the fief that bears his name.”
“Is that what you believe?” An edge of anger inserted itself into the words.
“That is what we have been taught, yes. And we have seen the truth of it in the fief of Tiamaris.” This wasn’t strictly speaking true—but Sedarias was Barrani, and it was pretty close to facts as Kaylin understood them.
“Perhaps Tiamaris’s Tower is different. The Tower of Candallar is not obedient; it conveys power, yes, but it is more of a cage than a shelter. I cannot leave it.”
“You are demonstrably not within your Tower now.”
“No? I can hear the Tower’s voice while I stand in this place. It is aware of everything I do while I am here. I can escape that voice if I enter the city—and I have entered Elantra—but I cannot dwell within that city if I am still labeled outcaste.”
“Nightshade does not consider his Tower to be a cage.”
“Lord Nightshade wields one of the three,” was the edged reply. “And he was skilled in arts Arcane before I was birthed. He is outcaste, yes—as am I—but for different reasons. The Lady favors him, regardless.” This last was said with a bitterness he could not hide.
“He could survive those who curried the High Lord’s favor. No one who hunted him returned to the Court. None of his kin, and none of his enemies. I had hoped that the taking of the Tower would elevate my power; I had hoped that I might become like Nightshade. I have not.
“I have gained power, yes—but it is equal to power that has been gained by those who are not outcaste, though in greater measure. I want to leave the Tower—and I cannot, unless I am reinstated.”
“And who will captain the Tower, if not you?”
Candallar’s shrug was a fief shrug. “That will not be my concern. The Tower can hold its own for some time while it searches. But I have nothing to offer you,” he continued. “If I understand what your brother feared, you have nothing to gain. Should you wish to take the Tower, it would be yours; I would step aside.”
That is not how the Towers work, Nightshade said.
Weren’t you supposed to be paying attention to the lecture?
It is over—but I am fully capable of doing two simple things simultaneously.
Kaylin didn’t interrupt the conversation, because it was clear to her that Sedarias didn’t believe they worked that way, either.
“Break off your negotiations with your former allies, and we will consider the difficulty the Tower presents,” Sedarias finally said. “I cannot offer you the reinstatement you desire; it is possible that I might offer protection from those who would otherwise see you dead.”
“What is offered me now—by the allies I have gained—is of far more worth; you will spend your life protecting yourself, and it will not be enough. The enemies you have made at Court are powerful and established; they will not falter in the face of junior Lords such as yourself.”
Sedarias smiled. It was a lazy, slow smile. Terrano took a step back, which brought him in line with Kaylin. “This might get messy,” he said in very quiet Elantran.
“Ask them,” Sedarias said, “whether or not their voices—voices of established, old lineages—are heard by the High Halls. Because, Candallar, mine is.”
He fell silent. He could not ascertain the truth or lie in her claim. To be fair, neither could Kaylin.
“Regardless,” Sedarias continued, when Candallar failed to speak, “you have something of value that is not yours to claim.”
His brows rose. “And you seek to claim it for yourself? You?”
“No,” Sedarias said. “Not for myself. If I understand this place—what this place once was—it is not for me. But it is not for you, either.”
“I have spent decades building it,” he replied, voice sharper again, the nod given to Sedarias and her iron self-control. “I searched for it. I found it. I have attempted, where possible, to repair it—”
“Repair?” The Arkon’s voice was a rumble. “Is that what you call this?” He lifted the arm that did not hold the three books, tracing an arc that involved the combat in the distance.
“This? It is a library, no more, no less; a collection of books, some of which might have useful information, most of which is fanciful conjecture or history. We have attempted to ascertain where books of use might be found, but it has been cumbersome.
“Think you the library essential? It is not. Killian has coped quite well without access to its dusty, dead contents.”
“You are a fool,” the Arkon said.
“There were three things of value here; we found one, but its retrieval was tricky and it has not been fully repurposed to our needs. You have, apparently, found the other two—but you have no idea how to utilize their potential power. At best, they will remain sentinels in this place—they will have no wider or greater purpose.
“But perhaps, just perhaps, they might form the basis of a true negotiation.”
“Pardon?” Sedarias shifted in place.
“You do not know how to use what you have. We do. We would be willing to teach you what you must do to take control of the books in your possession, and would ask only that you return the book that was in ours.”
“How did you get it out of the library?” This was Terrano. He winced, no doubt from Sedarias’s internal and private rebuke.
“That would be one of the things we might demonstrate. There is no need to fight as you are currently fighting.”
“We are not doing the bulk of the fighting,” Sedarias then said. “If you will take the risk of letting me out of your sight, you might see for yourself who is. If you are wise, you will not, but let me explain. The Dragon and the man who might be one of our progenitors from long ago are fighting three Arcanists wh
o I assume are your allies. They are residents of this library.”
The implication was that they now did Sedarias’s bidding.
“Regardless, you have made a fatal error. You recognize Dragons, surely.”
Candallar had stiffened. This wasn’t a surprise; Barrani reacted poorly to condescension aimed at themselves. He didn’t dignify her question with an answer.
“You do not recognize them individually, or perhaps you do not understand the significance of one of our visitors.”
He did turn then; when he turned back, his eyes were almost black. “You brought the female Dragon here?”
Sedarias, however, said, “You are a fool. Perhaps my brother and his subordinates found you useful—but in my experience fools are a double-edged weapon that cannot be relied upon in a battle.”
“Get ready to move,” Terrano said.
“Why?”
“Because as far as I can tell, he is interim chancellor. It’s the only possible way he could be here at all.”
“Can you stay here?” Kaylin said.
“I can—but it won’t be safe if he decides we don’t have permission.”
“Why?”
“Enough.” Candallar lifted the arm that held the rod; for a moment, Kaylin could see a flash of something that looked very like green fire flare in a circle in the center of the fieflord’s chest.
Terrano didn’t answer.
Or perhaps she couldn’t hear the answer; she blinked once and found herself in an entirely familiar room.
* * *
She wasn’t alone.
Bellusdeo and Sedarias were with her. The Arkon, however, was not. The room itself was large enough to house an angry Bellusdeo in full Draconic form; it was the room in which they had first entered Killian’s domain. The statues that had once been carved reliefs took up more of the room than they once had, but Bellusdeo’s presence did not destroy any of them.
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