Riaknon didn’t answer. He was Wevaran, not human, but the lack of answer had both weight and meaning.
Can I help?
You are helping now, perhaps more than you know. But I would ask that you stop nattering. Which probably meant shut up.
She opened her mouth and shut it again as a translucent projectile struck her shoulder. Her left ear became so full of random squawking she forgot that she could, with concentration, understand the words that left her familiar’s mouth. At least she could when he was speaking to her.
He lifted one wing and smacked her face with it—harder than was necessary, in case she couldn’t tell from the tone of his squawking that he was angry. She looked through the wing, her hands freezing in position against the Wevaran trunk.
She looked toward Bakkon.
If the Shadows had amassed, briefly, against a barrier that would not grant them exit, they had also turned, in smaller numbers, toward Bakkon. She had no doubt that if they reached him, he would become part of them. But he had built a shell, a web, around most of his body, and the webbing caught them, held them in place, preventing them from actually touching him.
She could see the strands of bright, bright silver grow taut as the weight of more Shadow joined the attempt. And she could see that even now, he was concentrating, weaving. Riaknon’s voice was a physical sensation as he spoke his native tongue. At a distance, she could hear Bakkon doing the same.
And she could see the strands of webbing from this side of the border rise, extending like minute tendrils toward the border—and through it. Terrano spoke in Barrani, his voice low enough that she missed the words; Riaknon didn’t. He grunted in response.
Mandoran shouted. Before he could interfere, Terrano touched the webbing, or rather, the loose strands that seemed to serve no purpose. She understood what he was doing only when he shifted his grip and began to disperse.
Through the eye that wasn’t covered in Hope’s wing, she saw Terrano vanish. But she could see something, an echo of his physical form, through the wing-covered eye. That echo, that odd impression, not quite mist but not at all physical, reminded her of sunspots, the things she got when she stared at the sun for too long; Terrano was more detailed but still out of place.
He crossed the boundary set by the Towers as if it didn’t exist. And then he walked through the press of Shadow bodies, through the odd tunnel that Kaylin’s walk had created. She could still see it, but only through Hope’s wing.
He approached Bakkon without attempting to catch the Wevaran’s attention—but Bakkon’s eyes, or at least some of them, rose from their sockets; the Wevaran was aware that something, or someone, was approaching.
Kaylin shouted, “He’s with us! He’s trying to help!” And then had to repeat it in Barrani. She would have lost sight of Terrano, there was so much Shadow—but through Hope’s blessed wing she could now see each Shadow element as a distinct shape, a distinct form. Terrano was not. But the thread he held—and it seemed to be one thread—was a bright, pale light; she knew where he was because she could see that thread clearly.
Shadows seemed to move through him as if nothing about him was solid; his movement across the ground didn’t slow.
Mandoran wasn’t happy, but if Terrano believed this was necessary, Mandoran was probably shouting into the void. When Terrano reached Bakkon, he lifted the single thread, and attached it to the webbing that protected the Wevaran from all the other attacks.
He then withdrew, fleeing across the border without touching the ground.
Kaylin moved from Riaknon to Terrano instantly.
“I’m fine,” Terrano said, as he once again solidified. He was a shade of green that was in no way appropriate for Barrani, and his eyes were all of black.
Mandoran was there in an instant. “Sedarias is going to kill us,” he said.
“She’ll have to catch us first.” Terrano turned and shouted a single word in Barrani: Now.
Bakkon stepped forward into his own webbing.
He appeared through Riaknon’s. “That went better than I expected,” he said, in Barrani.
“You owe the young...Barrani a debt,” Riaknon replied. “And the fieflord.”
“Fieflord?”
“I will endeavor to explain it all later.” He looked up, and then down to the two members of the cohort. “I believe there is still some danger here.” He began to spit more webbing; it was pink, but a lighter pink than it had been before Kaylin had attempted to heal him.
“I wish to remain here,” Bakkon said.
“I am not certain it is wise.” Riaknon raised one leg. “Can you see him? They call him outcaste.”
Bakkon’s eyes shifted; he didn’t raise a leg. “I see him.”
“He is a danger. I do not think they understand what they face. I did not understand it, either. I must speak with Lord Liatt, but if you remain here, I will return.” He stepped through the portal he had created and vanished.
Bakkon didn’t appear to notice. He was looking at the outcaste—and by extension, the two Dragons, gold and silver, who had engaged him. “They should not be there,” he said.
Kaylin turned to Mandoran. “Go to Bellusdeo—try to get her to—” A roar cut the rest of the sentence. Mandoran glanced at Terrano before nodding. He then headed up, framed on two sides by lightning that traveled toward the very physical black cloud that hovered above them.
“He’s not as good at this as I am—but he likes the Dragon, and the Dragon seems to mostly like him. Has to be him.”
Hope squawked. She will not hear him.
“Would she hear you?”
Not apparently, Chosen. But...you were not here then. There was a note of accusation in his words.
“Can you try again?”
Hope pushed himself off her shoulder. He didn’t follow Mandoran into the air; he moved down the street and began to transform, the tiny delicate familiar becoming the enormous, draconic familiar in the space of a few seconds.
Mount. He roared—at this size there was no squawking. Mandoran sprinted toward them as Hope pushed himself off worn cobbles and into the air, his wings snapping out to carry his greater weight. Mandoran joined her, sliding in behind, rather than in front, as Hope headed in a straight line for Bellusdeo.
No, she thought—not Bellusdeo.
The outcaste.
29
Kaylin didn’t have a wing-eyed view of the conflict she was rapidly approaching; she was seated on the familiar who usually offered her that advantage. She did, however, have Mandoran.
It was Mandoran who shouted in her ear; Mandoran who made clear that the outcaste was not the only thing in the air. Most of the Aerians—all, to Kaylin’s view—had been brought down one way or the other. Teela and Nightshade could fight aerial creatures with both feet on the ground.
She could see the three Dragons—Bellusdeo, Emmerian, and the outcaste. But Mandoran’s tone made clear that he could see something she couldn’t. Whatever it was, it wasn’t aiming for Kaylin.
No, Hope said, his voice more a physical sensation than a sound. He then followed the word with a roar.
“Got it!” Mandoran shouted—not bothering to move his mouth away from the vicinity of Kaylin’s ear.
Hope approached Bellusdeo, edging under the cone of the flame she unleashed against the outcaste’s fire—a fire that had always looked purple to Kaylin from a distance. This was not enough of a distance; here, she could clearly see the sparks of other colors, limned in gold and silver and orange, as if each were alive and struggling for dominance. Green collapsed into blue; blue gave way to red; red was destroyed by yellow and green. The colors didn’t merge; it was as if they couldn’t coexist, couldn’t transform.
The flame, however, was hot.
Emmerian approached the outcaste from the flank. Mandoran cursed under his breath. “Don’t fall
off!” he shouted, as he failed to follow his own advice. He ejected himself—she could feel the bunching of muscles at her back—and rode towards the silver Dragon, alighting on his back.
This is a bad idea, Hope said.
“Why?”
Neither Lord Emmerian nor Mandoran has native resistance to the outcaste’s power. Mandoran can see. I do not believe he has enough influence on Emmerian.
If Kaylin had been less tense, she would have wilted in place. She didn’t think she had much influence on Bellusdeo, either. Bellusdeo’s fire pushed the outcaste’s fire back—but not all of it.
Not all of it. Strands of purple, eerily reminiscent of the tentacles that rose from the ground in Ravellon, appeared to be slowly threading their way across the outside of Bellusdeo’s flame cone, and inching up, and up again.
“Hope, do something!”
Silence. She knew what the silence meant; knew that this was not something she could do herself, and not something he would do for free.
It is our nature, he said, agreeing, his tone leavened with something that might have been regret.
“Can you drop me on Bellusdeo’s back?”
Not safely.
“I don’t care about safely—can you do it?”
In reply, he flew in a wide arc around the current—and moving—combat. She glanced once at Emmerian; the silver Dragon had allowed Mandoran to mount. If they spoke at all, she couldn’t hear a word. Hope was a far more stable mount than Bellusdeo had been; she could pull her legs up, tuck them beneath her, and still maintain her balance.
That went out the window when she pushed herself off in Bellusdeo’s direction. From this distance, she could see that the gold Dragon’s eyes were crimson; the color was reflected off the scales closest to those eyes. She fell short of a perfect landing. Sadly, she fell short of any landing.
She trusted Hope to catch her on the way down, but it wasn’t Hope’s claws that caught her by the shoulders. Bellusdeo couldn’t breathe fire and speak at the same time—and she couldn’t stop breathing fire under the outcaste’s assault. While Dragons were immune to the effects of Dragon fire, the outcaste was not a normal Dragon. Kaylin was absolutely certain that his fire wouldn’t burn Bellusdeo.
No, it would do worse.
Bellusdeo knew it as well—better than Kaylin, in the end. This was her war, a continuation of the conflict that had destroyed her adoptive world and had enslaved her Ascendant. There was probably nothing new Kaylin could tell her about the consequences. Bellusdeo didn’t shift her grip; Kaylin couldn’t climb the Dragon’s claw or leg to reach her back.
But she could reach out and grip those claws; she’d healed Bellusdeo before. Bellusdeo stiffened as she began to focus on the injuries the gold Dragon had taken; to her surprise, they were both minor and physical.
The only disadvantage to the healing attempt was that Bellusdeo could talk to her while also ejecting a lot of fire.
What are you doing? Are you suicidal? Tell your familiar to get you out of here right now!
I can’t—no one could hear me over this ruckus.
I’ll drop you.
You can drop me after I make sure—What the hells was she doing? You need to avoid the outcaste’s fire—some of it, some shadow part, is winding its way up your fire.
Bellusdeo fell silent, assessing the warning. Because she was Bellusdeo, she didn’t ignore or dismiss it; her expertise in her own failed war had taught her that Shadow was flexible, devious, the attacks evolving with time. And she had never fought the outcaste like this before. He pressed the attack.
Severn spoke, his voice overlapping Nightshade’s. You’ll need to get her out of there. Emmerian is going to attack the flank, according to Terrano. Nightshade and Teela are going to combine their lightning attacking from the same side. Get Bellusdeo down while the outcaste isn’t breathing fire.
When?
Terrano gives you a three count. He also says there are people near the Tower that need your help.
I don’t think that’s going to work, she told him, internal voice more urgent. I think if the fire collapses—on her part—she’s going to get hit with Shadow.
Your job is to make sure that it doesn’t overtake her.
She had no more time to argue. Emmerian swooped in front the outcaste’s right and as he did, the sky changed color as lightning leaped from the ground. She couldn’t see Nightshade or Teela, because she wasn’t looking—but she could follow the lightning as it split the sky. Both bolts hit the outcaste as Emmerian did, claws extended, jaws wide.
She almost screamed at him not to bite, but she wouldn’t have been heard anyway. She didn’t have to tell Bellusdeo what the plan was; Bellusdeo had ceased the exhalation, ducked her head, and changed the placement of wings so that she plummeted instantly out of the range of the outcaste’s breath.
Out of the range of fire, but not of danger. The outcaste’s fire stopped seconds after the joint attack; the threads and filaments continued to travel, without the resistance of natural Dragon fire to keep them in place. They sped toward Bellusdeo.
“Hope!” Kaylin shouted. “Breathe!”
The familiar didn’t move. Kaylin cursed—cursed loudly—as the filaments sped through sky. Her hands gripped Bellusdeo’s feet as her stomach reasserted its natural position; she braced herself for the Shadow impact.
It didn’t happen.
A silver form, as large as Bellusdeo’s, flew between the Dragon and the Shadow tendrils. The outcaste roared in fury, undercurrents of pain shifting the texture of the roar.
Kaylin was frozen as she watched the slender threads strike Emmerian. “Emmerian!”
Terrano says there’s going to be trouble.
No kidding. “Bellusdeo—take me to Emmerian right now!”
The gold Dragon hesitated, eyes too red, a few yards above the ground. Kaylin was extremely surprised to see Teela leap—from either ground or rooftop—toward the outcaste, great sword in hand. The outcaste turned toward her, jaws open; they snapped on air and steel.
Teela held the sword, dangling from it without apparent concern; the outcaste didn’t release the blade until Nightshade joined her in the air. There were no wings; neither of the two appeared to be capable of actual flight—but the arc of the leap from ground to air could be seen as Meliannos carried Nightshade to just above the outcaste’s closed jaws.
Kaylin!
The outcaste roared; Teela fell. She didn’t hit the ground.
Kaylin, however, found her vantage shifting as Bellusdeo dragged her over to Emmerian and dropped her on his back. The gold Dragon spoke in her native tongue, but there was no sign Emmerian had actually heard what Kaylin was certain was a command.
Mandoran caught her, stabilizing her landing; she turned and shouted to Bellusdeo, “You have to retreat—he’s done here, he knows it!”
Bellusdeo roared.
Kaylin reached out for Emmerian.
“I told you,” Mandoran murmured. “She’s going to be pissed off for days, if you’re lucky.”
Emmerian did not reply.
The moment Kaylin reached out to heal him—and she knew he’d be angry about it later, because the only immortal who willingly let her touch and heal was Bellusdeo—she knew no reply would be forthcoming.
She had touched this Shadow before, when Mandoran had been pierced and almost bisected by the weapons the altered Aerians bore. Then, she had had to listen hard to hear what it whispered—and that had landed them both in Ravellon.
She didn’t have to try at all, now. The attenuated voices she could barely hear in Mandoran felt as if they had taken control of a Dragon’s vocal chords; they were a roar of sound, and given she was physically attached to the Dragon, they were a sensation, each syllable wracking the body in which it was contained.
She didn’t recognize the language the Sha
dows spoke at first. It didn’t feel familiar to her in the way spoken True Words did. She wasn’t certain it mattered. What mattered here was Emmerian.
She is going to be so pissed at you, she told the silver Dragon. The Dragon who, until this particular transformation, had been blue. She knew, in a vague and inexact way that would never pass muster as knowledge, that Dragons didn’t always maintain the same color when they adopted their draconic form. She had no idea what caused the shift in color—Bellusdeo had always been gold—but assumed that it, like eye color, varied depending on the mood of the Dragon in question. Emmerian.
She is likely to be angry, yes. But the Dragon Court will be angrier, and it will not be at me.
Wait—me?
You should not be attempting to heal me. This voice buckled, thinning; she pulled it back almost unconsciously. Let go and get Bellusdeo out of here.
You’re obviously delirious with pain if you think I can tell Bellusdeo what to do.
If he wasn’t delirious, he was definitely in pain. She could see why. In the roar of non-Emmerian syllables, she could feel his flesh contracting, reshaping; she cursed in very voluble Leontine because she had seen something similar before.
I’m sorry, she told the Dragon.
He said nothing; he understood what she wanted to do: excise infected flesh completely in an attempt to prevent the body from adapting to a new normal that had little to do with Emmerian himself. In the background, she could hear and feel a second roar of sound—this one outside of Emmerian’s body, and therefore not a threat.
Except it was Bellusdeo, and Bellusdeo was angry.
No. No, she couldn’t think about that, couldn’t act on it now, or she would lose Emmerian. They would lose him.
Stop moving! she shouted, although she didn’t open her mouth.
She is hurt—
She’s pissed off. She’s angry. And she doesn’t have to be hurt for that. We have two of The Three here, on the field. If the outcaste can get through them so quickly, we never stood a chance. Stop moving.
I am attempting not to move, he replied, just a hint of anger and frustration underpinning the words.
Cast in Conflict Page 47
