“And in Ravellon, they learned to sleep. And die. And kill.” He rose and began to pace. “Death is not—to us—what it is to you. Your lives are so simple, so silent, they pass beneath us; we notice them if we study your kindred, but in general, you are, to the Ancients, what a blade of grass is to you. Or perhaps an ant.
“Mortals were not created in my waking hours, but I see you as an extension of ancient arguments and debates. The Shadows you speak of now were birthed in Ravellon. They were not meant to be what they became.”
“What were they meant to be?” She hesitated. “Part of you is part of what they are now.”
His smile was thin. “Yes. And it is because they are part of me—and were, at my inception—that I can be here at all. It is why I can understand some small part of your speech. Why I can see time almost as you see it.
“Kattea is necessary because time—for mortals—is inevitable; it is a wall above which they cannot climb.” He glanced at Teela and Bellusdeo. “For the purpose of this discussion, you are also mortal in my eyes.”
Teela shrugged.
Bellusdeo looked mildly offended.
“It was not always safe to be exposed to the Ancients during periods of unhindered creation. Creation requires a malleability that can be...destabilizing. Buildings such as Helen were designed to withstand such instability.” There was a hint of a question at the end of that statement.
Helen answered. “My memory is faulty because I destroyed elements of myself.”
“You did this?” Kaylin thought she could have told him she’d lopped off her head and it wouldn’t have surprised him—or horrified him—as much.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wished to be able make my own decisions.”
Gilbert’s command of Elantran was clearly not perfect. “I do not understand.”
“I wished to choose my own lord.”
He looked dumbfounded.
“Is that such a strange concept to you? I served. I had served for the whole of my existence. I do not recall resentment. We all need purpose, and mine was clear. But my lord left, and he did not return. In his absence, I was forced to destroy some parts of myself to protect what remained of his work.
“And in his absence, I became aware of—fond of—a mortal woman. She cared for me. She did not understand that I was alive, that I was sentient. She cared for the space in which she found herself. She made small pockets of me her home. I understood that my lord would not return. And I understood that I could make myself home to this woman.
“I did not destroy the defenses,” Helen added, almost self-consciously. “Were you to attempt to harm me—or anyone under my protection—you would not succeed.”
He was staring at the wall. Helen’s Avatar had not returned. “So,” he said, voice soft.
“I interrupted you; I’m sorry. It’s a bit of a habit.”
Gilbert shook his head as it was of no matter and picked up where he had left off. “I dwelled within a building similar to the space that Helen occupies. Its name was more complex, and its purpose less easily divined by those who had not dwelled within it for centuries; it is the gardia. It had, as Helen does, physical boundaries, external borders. I believe it occupied more space than Helen; perhaps as much space as a fifth of your city, absent the population that fifth also contains.
“We had warning of a grave perturbation and returned to weather the storm within the walls of that building. But the difficulties we faced were unprecedented, and in the end, we were drawn into the building’s core as it surrendered the outer walls and everything those walls contained. I chose to sleep. Sleep, for my kind, is not what Kattea experiences when she sleeps; it is a way of minimizing contact, an echo of the decisions the building itself made. There are periods of instability; when the instability has hardened or passed, I wake.
“In this instance, however, I did not wake on my own.”
Kaylin found herself holding her breath.
“Yes,” Gilbert continued, meeting—and holding—her gaze. “I woke at the behest of Lord Nightshade.”
* * *
Annarion leaned forward, as if to catch the words that followed. He didn’t speak. Kaylin was impressed; if she’d been Annarion, she’d have jumped across the room and grabbed Gilbert by his collar.
“Nightshade was in Ravellon.”
“Yes.”
“How? How did he reach Ravellon?”
“A good question, and a difficult one to answer. Lord Nightshade did not cross the boundaries that separate Ravellon from the rest of your world; he did not enter with the intent to find or wake me. He was sent to the core of the building that sustains those of us who survived the disaster.”
Gilbert closed his eyes briefly. “Lord Nightshade should not have been able to wake me. That he could was the will of the gardia, the building. I was the only one awakened. The great halls were empty and still. None save Nightshade moved or spoke. Even the gardia was silent.
“There is a silence that is welcome; it is a reprieve from noise and chaos, a type of peace. I do not mean to denigrate silence.”
Helen’s expression, as she studied Gilbert, was grave.
“Nightshade spoke. I did not hear him, at first. I could only see him from the corner of an eye.”
Kaylin, remembering the eyes she had, one by one, carefully closed, said nothing.
“I told you I had to invert myself; it was not a quick process. Nor was it painless. It is not something I have attempted prior to this. I could not speak to your Nightshade in any other way. The gardia had sent him to wake me—or so I assumed; I made the adjustment.” He winced, but the expression faded into a very surprising smile. “I did not expect to like his voice.
“The gardia provided for his needs, and I learned to speak, first Barrani, and then the Elantran, which seems more prevalent here. I learned to listen. It is surprisingly difficult; the language you speak is so flexible, and the same words can have entirely different meanings depending on the speaker. I had to ask questions, repeatedly; I had to choose different angles, different approaches.
“But I came to understand him. He spoke of his family. His father. The Barrani High Lord and its High Halls. The High Halls he described felt faintly familiar. He spoke of you,” he continued, staring at the mark on Kaylin’s cheek. “He spoke of his Lady, and last, of his brother, Annarion. He spoke of the way time changes all things.
“Time,” Gilbert added, “does not change me. The concept of this change—as a thing that occurs naturally and without the deliberate intent of a creator—was new. It was interesting. I asked many, many questions. Lord Nightshade spoke of his home. He spoke of his Castle. He spoke of Dragons, and of the Dragon who lived in Ravellon.”
Bellusdeo stiffened.
“Lord Nightshade wished to venture into Ravellon—and beyond. He wished to return to his Castle. He wished to speak with his brother, to explain what might be explained. I do not understand all of your difficulties,” he added, a trace of apology in his voice as he glanced at Annarion. “But I came to understand the depth of his desire, and I wished to accommodate it.
“Do you understand now?”
“You spent enough time with Nightshade that you became friends, and you wanted to help him?” Kaylin asked.
Gilbert smiled. “Yes. You understand.”
“How long did you spend getting to know him? In mortal years. Or at least my years.”
Gilbert turned to the empty space Kaylin had silently marked “small dragon.” He spoke. The familiar squawked.
Gilbert then turned back to Kaylin. “Not more than forty of your years.”
* * *
Annarion turned to Gilbert, his eyes a shade of purple that Kaylin seldom saw. “What did he tell you of our family? Of our father? What did he
say of me? What explanation did he think to make that would be of value?”
Gilbert lowered his chin slightly. “You have no doubt noticed that I struggle with your language. With any of your languages. I do not share your history, except secondhand. I will not speak for your brother, in this.
“If you wish to know, you must find him.” He hesitated. “But it might be best if you remained with Helen. I did not lie. I arrived in this time and in this place because, in my wandering, I heard you. The silence of the gardia, the silence of those you would call my kin, was broken by your voice, and yours alone.
“You called me, Annarion. You called me and I came. I lost the thread of your voice. I grieved at its loss. You would wake us all if you lifted that voice in our presence—and I do not think that is your desire. Your brother understands that you are not what you once were. Understand that he is not what he once was.”
Annarion nodded slowly, and Gilbert continued.
“I could not find a path that would lead from the gardia to Lord Nightshade’s home.” He frowned. Turning, he rose, walked to the doors and closed them. “This door is closed. The room we are in now could exist in the gardia. Pretend, for a moment, that it does.” He then opened the door. “On the other side of this door is the foyer. But if this were a door in Ravellon’s center, it would open into an entirely different space. Opening this door a hundred times would grant a glimpse into a hundred different spaces.
“You have no desire to explore. You have a specific space to which you must return. This is analogous to my attempt. Your Nightshade could not clearly describe his residence. Had I wished, from the outset, to aid him, it would nevertheless have been impossible for me. Only with the passage of years, and my growing familiarity with the way you communicate, was there a possibility of success.
“But it was...difficult. My inversion meant that there were transitions I could not make without sustaining injury. The transitions that were allowed were few, and they did not lead to Nightshade’s home. In the endless corridor very, very few of the doors now open. The silence is absolute.”
Gilbert paused for a moment, seeming to collect himself before continuing, “In all of my many attempts, I found only one path that led to Nightshade’s home, as he perceived it; only one tenuous connection.”
“The Castle.”
“Yes, Helen. The Castle. The path to and from the Castle was damaged, frayed. It existed in the aftermath of Nightshade’s departure. It led from the gardia to the Castle.
“The Castle was reluctant to grant me entry. It was more reluctant to allow me to leave, even when I explained my chosen mission. The discussion devolved into argument; the argument into conflict. I sustained injuries there. I was in danger of losing coherence.”
* * *
“And then you met me!” Kattea said, grinning as she entered the parlor. She carried a tray that looked as if it weighed at least half of what she did; Helen was hovering behind her. She didn’t take the tray.
“I did offer, dear,” she told Kaylin. “But Kattea did almost all of the work, and she wanted to bring it in herself.” She gestured, and dishes appeared on the sideboard to which Kattea was carrying the tray.
“You weren’t frightened?” Helen asked Kattea.
Kattea shrugged. “It’s hard to be afraid of Gilbert when you’re expecting Ferals. Or worse.”
Which was perfectly reasonable, as far as Kaylin was concerned.
“Kattea was the first person I encountered. Had I never endeavored to communicate with Nightshade, I would not have recognized what she was. Because I had, I could hear her, and even see her. If I focused on Kattea, the disorientation caused by the Castle slowed enough that I could think. Kattea has explained the concept of races. She has attempted to explain the physical differences between them. To me, however, she was very like Nightshade.”
A ten-year-old girl was nothing like Lord Nightshade.
“With the exception of Annarion and Mandoran, you all are. The way you live, the way you are confined, the limited scope of your interactions with the world—they are consistent across the various species. But there is something else that is strangely consistent, as well. It was not a trait that I noticed in Lord Nightshade; it is a characteristic of every other inhabitant of the city I have encountered.”
“And that?”
“Your relationship with the time in which you dwell. Kattea is rooted in her own time. The length, the consistency, of those roots is strong, but they will fade the longer she remains here; she will meld into the now in which you live. This now will sustain her, just as her own would. I do not wish to return her to the place in which I found her.” He grimaced. “Your language is thin and inexact. You speak of ‘time’ and ‘place.’ To you, these are distinct. They may overlap, but they are not one.
“Kattea is not an anchor in the sense that your boats—”
“Ships.”
“—ships have anchors. But she serves the same purpose. She is part of her own time, and only in that time is there a road into—and out of—the gardia, by which Nightshade might leave. Only through Kattea do I have the confidence that I am able to return to that time. But that connection will wane.
“It is almost irrelevant at this point. I did not intend to stop here. I did not intend to come here at all.”
“You meant to return to Castle Nightshade.”
“Yes. I followed the sound of Annarion’s voice until it abruptly ceased. When I could not longer hear him, I attempted to correct my course. I could not. It is not that I am trapped here,” he added. “I can move, if I so choose.
“But there is nowhere to move to.”
* * *
Kattea, determinedly unaware of the weight of the ensuing silence, busied herself with floating plates. “Gilbert asks a lot of questions. Some of them are kinda funny.”
Gilbert smiled. “I have come to understand mortality from Kattea’s answers. I understand that you contain no true words, no paragraphs, no stories. Such words do not form, guide or control the shape of your life.”
When Kaylin made no immediate reply, Helen said, “You have choices that we do not. The Ancients created us for a purpose. They devised the beginning of our conscious lives, and they saw to the end of them. Everything within the parameters of our creation is open to us. Everything beyond or external to them...is not.
“You have said we have the power of gods within our own boundaries. We do not. We cannot create life, although we can destroy it. We can speak, but if no one crosses our threshold, we cannot be heard. We have purpose, but it is a purpose dependent, always, on others.” She reddened. “And I speak, of course, for myself, not for Gilbert. Gilbert can move independently. He can make decisions that I could not, before my injury, make. He can make connections that are still, by my very nature, denied me.”
“Yes. Apologies, Helen. Yet if I can make those connections, my interactions are nonetheless prescribed. Yours, Kaylin, Kattea’s, perhaps your companions’, are not. They do not exist in all of the planes of being.”
“We have names,” Bellusdeo told him, her voice unusually gentle.
“Kaylin and Kattea do not even have that. Yet they think, they speak, they plan. Perhaps the wisdom of their plans can be called into question—but they have a choice and they make it, unhindered.”
Kaylin cleared her throat. “We don’t.”
“You do.”
“No. We’ve got choices, sometimes. But what choice did Kattea have? Did she choose to lose her parents? Did she choose to lose her home? Did she choose to be hunted by Ferals?”
“Kitling—”
“Did she choose to meet you outside of Castle Nightshade?”
“Kitling, I think—”
“He’s romanticizing poverty and desperation, Teela. If he’s going to talk about choice that way, I wa
nt him to understand what he’s actually saying. Yes, our lives aren’t predetermined. They’re not fixed. But we need to eat. We need to keep warm. We need to sleep. We don’t get to choose where we’re born, or how, or to who. We’re not guaranteed to get any of the things we need. We’re just as trapped by the things we need and the things we fear as you are by the words at your core—but most of us will never, ever be able to do the things those words allow you to do.
“If Kattea had met Ferals instead of you, she’d be dead. You’d never find enough—”
“Kitling.”
Kaylin stopped.
Kattea, however, threw Teela a look that seemed far too old for her face. “Why are you making her stop? She’s right.”
“I think Teela is concerned about the effects discussing your death might have on you,” Helen offered.
“Because the discussion would change it? She’s right. If Gilbert hadn’t found me, I’d be dead. If Gilbert had been a different person, I might be alive—but I might not be free. At all. I have no family to protect me. No one who would care if I disappeared. I don’t expect Gilbert to understand all this—he didn’t even understand breathing. No, I mean it. He didn’t. He didn’t really understand eating, either. He doesn’t understand family. He doesn’t understand anything. But Kaylin does understand. And she should be allowed to speak.”
Kaylin shook her head. “I think you’ve just said everything I was going to say.”
“I didn’t. Do you know what the two days before I met Gilbert were like?”
Kaylin closed her eyes. “I can imagine.”
“Gilbert protects me. But I help him, too.”
“And how,” Mandoran drawled, “do you do that? If you’re so helpless, so powerless, how do you help him?”
She flushed, but continued, her expression clearly shouting I don’t like you. “Because he doesn’t know anything. I explain things.”
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