I will never allow it.
Oh, my people.
In water, blood could be washed away. Against this tide, there was no defense. It was as if…As if she could touch every single one of her people, stalk to stalk, and be calmed and comforted. Could see all their follies, their angers, and the strength of their joy.
But what must they see in her? What must they see?
The water began to shimmer in the air before her, dwindling—and with it, the voices that she had lost in her grief and her guilt and her anger.
She could not bear to let them go. And she had the power—she could see it, pulsing now in the runes and words upon her skin—to hold it, somehow; to keep it here. She had the power to force the water to do her bidding.
“What do you desire?” she asked the water, falling now to her knees, all thought of conquest forgotten.
And the water was silent, then, but the voices were so strong. The elders answering the question that they could feel her asking; they could not hear it across the distance, but she was touching the water, and they—woken by water’s desperation, were also touching it.
They answered her, their many voices becoming, at last, one voice, like the voice of a waking god.
And, awake herself, she waited while the water slowly diminished, knowing that the water had heard what she herself had heard.
“And this,” she asked softly, “can you do this, for us? Is this your desire?”
And the water answered, Yes. And in its voice, wonder, surprise, just the faintest edge of fear. And joy.
But if you use this power, if you do this thing, you will have the power no more. It will be gone from you—you will have no weapon—
I…am done with weapons. If you will do this, if you will it, I am done with weapons.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Cheeks wet with tears, hands trembling, Kaylin Neya felt the world slip away from her. She didn’t want it to leave. She’d been abandoned so bloody many times, she wanted to grab on and hold and make it take her with it wherever it went.
But…
It was a vision, wasn’t it? She smeared water across her cheeks and stared into the unnatural eyes of a twelve-year-old girl with translucent skin, long hair.
It had to be a vision because Kaylin didn’t have stalks.
She didn’t have the Tha’alaan.
Or she wouldn’t, when she let go—but she was selfish. For just a moment longer, she held tight.
Tha’alaan. She whispered the word as if it were a name, and maybe it was.
CHAPTER 17
Kaylin.
Kaylin Neya.
She heard the voice as clearly as if the woman speaking were standing beside her. She looked, but rock didn’t usually speak, and even if she was still shaken by what she had seen, she wasn’t so far gone that the rock had mouths. It was Ybelline’s voice. She knew it.
Yes, Ybelline replied, grave and calm. It is Ybelline. How come you to be here, Kaylin?
And Kaylin said simply, I’m holding the Tha’alaan.
The silence was longer, now, the hesitation marked. Kaylin—
But Kaylin, who had lived in terror of the Tha’alani for most of her adult life, was not afraid. Not afraid of Ybelline or what she might see; not afraid of the Tha’alaan. She had seen what it had given Uriel, in the dim and distant past. And she had been Uriel, for moments, or months, or years—she knew what Uriel was capable of. The why, slow to fade, didn’t matter in the end. If the Tha’alaan could somehow see Uriel and see a person worth saving, what had Kaylin to fear?
The Tha’alaan did not speak at all. Kaylin opened her eyes—it was easier to listen in darkness—and saw the girl’s watchful eyes. But she did not speak.
And what the water did not offer, Kaylin could not, although she was certain that Ybelline knew. Maybe they all did. It was one of the memories, wasn’t it? One of the memories that the Tha’alaan held?
They could not speak openly here, not while the Tha’alaan listened, not while it made all words and all experience part of its endless memory. I heard the Tha’alaan, Kaylin said, choosing the words with care.
Ybelline surprised her. You would, she said softly. You, of all your kind. You bear the marks. Uriel’s marks. But you are not afraid.
How could I be? I…The Tha’alaan…Uriel.
He gave us this gift, Ybelline said softly, and at great cost. We would not be Tha’alani were it not for his sacrifice.
I wouldn’t exactly call it a sacrifice, Kaylin said drily. But he used what mages use.
Yes.
And a mage could—
Yes. It is not spoken of, Kaylin. Most do not know it. To reach that far back in the Tha’alaan is the study of years, for most of my kin. Uriel is too foreign to their minds. He was the first and the last of our warrior leaders.
But not to my mind.
No. Not to yours.
Did you know this would happen? she thought.
I did not know it would happen now, but I guessed it might. And now is better. Understand, Kaylin, that the elemental forces are what they are. The Tha’alaan is not the whole of water, not the whole of what water is. Men still drown. Men still die of thirst. Were it not for Uriel, I do not think the water could have spoken to us at all. It does not speak to us now.
Not, she added, and Kaylin felt both the envy and the fear, laid bare, that Ybelline herself felt, as it first spoke to Uriel. Not as it can speak to you, if you know how to listen.
But Kaylin had, at last, relinquished her grasp on the water; she now fumbled with her sleeves, instead. Ybelline’s clear, soft voice was cut off the instant she had let go, and it was probably better that way. Her sleeves were a sodden mess, but that made it easier to push them up out of the way, so that she could clearly see the marks on her skin.
The Dragons think no mortals bear these marks, she thought.
They are wrong, the Tha’alaan replied. Speaking again, now that she could no longer be heard by the Tha’alani. But they were few, Kaylin, and none of your kind have borne them until you.
“That you know of.”
That I know of, the water agreed gravely. Nor is Ybelline entirely correct—the marks you bear are not Uriel’s marks.
“You could read his?”
I could…sense them…in a different way. They were part of what he was. Reading…is not for our kind, although I understand it in some fashion because of the Tha’alani.
“And these aren’t part of what I am?”
Uriel sang to me in the womb, the water replied softly. He cried to me before he could walk. When he called me for the first time—it was the thousandth time I had heard his voice. What he was, I knew. But you were silent, Kaylin.
“You knew my name.”
I knew what Ybelline saw in you.
“But that was before—”
When you rescued the child, Catti, from the undead Barrani, she said softly, Ybelline touched the child and she saw what the child saw. Ybelline understood you.
“She never touched me—”
She is wise. She did not need to. What she saw, then, I saw. When I saw you again for a brief moment, I knew you. I spoke your name. I called you.
I did not know you would come bearing what you now bear. I do not welcome it, she added, and her voice shifted, rippling on forever. But at this time and in this place, I do not hate or dread it. I am not the whole of the water. I am the whole of the water that remembers mortality.
“Water doesn’t die.”
No. But you do. And your kind. And my people. She lifted her translucent hands to her face, and covered the dark wells of her eyes. There is a magic at work here, she said, although Kaylin could no longer see her eyes. It is not a small thing, and it will call what it calls. But I hear its voice, and it is strong. If it wakes the water, there will be nothing I can do. I do not know if I will survive the waking.
The thought of the Tha’alaan dying robbed Kaylin of breath for just a
moment. But only for a moment. She never accepted the loss of words gracefully. “You can’t speak to the source of this…summoning. Not like you spoke to Uriel.”
No. And I could not have spoken thus to Uriel if he had not allowed it. If you were that force, Kaylin, I could. I had hoped—
“It won’t be me.”
No.
“But you can damn well bet that I’ll be there when whoever is doing this does call.”
The hands fell away. What is bet?
Kaylin cringed. On the list of things to do today, two of which should have made her question her sanity, explaining a bet to an elemental force so old you could probably call it a god and not earn demerit points was not even in the running. “It means that I’ll be there.”
You may not be able to stop the calling, the water said quietly. But you may have the power to stop the water from rising. You may be able to fight what he summons. You may be able to wrest control of it from the summoner.
Kaylin lifted a hand to her throat.
The water nodded. I do not trust your kind, she said. Not to ignore power where power lies. But what you would do with the power, and what will be done—they are not the same, and the part of me that lives with the Tha’alani knows this, and accepts the risk.
Kaylin nodded. She was beginning to feel the damp. “Can I get into the Castle now?”
Castle?
“The building we stand under.”
This is a Castle?
“Well, that’s what we call it.”
I have seen Castles. The Tha’alani have seen them. This is not a simple building, no matter how grand. Surely you can see— But the water stopped. I wished to speak with you, Kaylin Neya. I knew when you touched the ground. I felt the ripple of your presence. You are a threat to water, she added. And in places such as these, all of the elements have some awareness.
“Places such as these?”
They are…groves. But what grows in them are not trees. There is stone here, yes, but…the shape it takes and the shape it desires are not the same. You will find stairs, here, near the darkness of this river that winds forever into the heart of the world, and they will take you to the Castle that you seek. But climb carefully, Kaylin, and try not to look down. The water will not carry you so gently a second time.
“It doesn’t, usually.” Kaylin started to walk away. Stopped. “You drowned an old woman and an old man.”
Yes.
“Why?”
I do not know. There was hardly enough of me present to know.
“Fair enough. We generally don’t arrest weapons for murder.” She hesitated and then said, “If the child who is missing is used to summon Water, what will she get? The Tha’alaan?”
But the Tha’alaan did not choose to answer the question, and maybe that was for the best. Kaylin could think of a few answers, and she hated all of them. Because she understood that the Tha’alaan—as much of it as was known, and really, that wasn’t much—was thought of as something entirely of the Tha’alani. She knew there were mages and Arcanists who even now played at summoning elemental water, without ever knowing there was a connection between the Water and the race of mind readers.
She doubted very much that Donalan Idis was aware of the connection; what he was aware of was that the Tha’alani could summon and control the elements by means of their racial abilities.
And, of course, it would have to be water. He couldn’t just burn down a building or two.
Comes of being a port city, her common sense said. She told it where it could get off and began to grope her way along the cavern wall to the stairs.
The walk up the stairs was anticlimatic, and Kaylin blessed whatever deities happened to be watching over her on that particular climb. There were days when boredom—or the possibility that things could get boring—was as much of a gift as life was willing to give. She took it with both hands. Metaphorically speaking; she actually had both hands on the pocked rock face for most of the climb. There was no rail, and the stairs, such as they were, had been carved into stone and worn away by time.
But the stairs led into what looked like a room, with walls that had been laid by stonemasons, and not by—well, whatever it was that chiseled cliffs. There were no windows here, but there was a door, and that door was open. Dust didn’t appear to make it this far down—she had no doubt that she was in a sub-subbasement—but light did; there were sconces in the walls, and they held burning torches. Which even smelled like oiled wood.
And not like charring flesh.
She flinched. Speaking to the Tha’alaan, speaking to Ybelline—that had felt natural, had reminded her of herself. But she also felt Uriel’s presence; the memories that she had lived had been scored in her mind like a brand. She had understood everything that he did. She would have done it all herself, it felt so natural.
What had Ybelline said? That the memories one first saw in the Tha’alaan were likely to be the memories that one could most identify with. And this was hers. It was a harsh reminder of the differences between her life and the lives the Tha’alani lived, sheltered as they were in their quarter.
But it was a life she wanted for them. Hells, it was a life she would want for any of her orphans, any foundling at all. In the end, she had seen that in Uriel. In the end, he had done what mattered.
But he did a hell of a lot more.
Yes. And he was dead, and whatever justice existed for men who would commit genocide, he was facing it now. Kaylin had her own problems. But she had been with him for long enough that she knew his bitter regret, his understanding—at the last moment, but in time—of the damage he had almost done. She couldn’t even say he’d done it unknowing; he hadn’t cared. The dead had driven him.
And in that, they had much in common. Too much, really.
Justice was such a narrow edge to walk along. Too far, and one became the cause of some other vendetta; too little, and one became immured to all suffering, if it didn’t affect one directly. How could you do enough? How could you make the right choice? Uriel had killed tens of thousands of innocents—but wasn’t he right? Wouldn’t some of those innocents have gone on to live a life of war and barbarism?
When did Justice become Revenge, and were they ever different? It made her head hurt. Because in the end, it didn’t matter. In the end, she had chosen to wear the Hawk—and in the light of those unexpected torches, it shone with a grace that spoke of flight, freedom, and duty. The Emperor’s Law might not be her law—the endless nattering of a whining merchant at Festival season really drove that home. But she couldn’t really think of a better law, and if she was willing to die to uphold it—and she was a Hawk—wasn’t that all that mattered?
Maybe that was the point of having a law, of not being a law-unto-yourself. It gave you the illusion that the law was above you, impartial; if you benefited from it, if Justice was somehow miraculously both done and recognized, it was a Justice that you trusted because it wasn’t in your own hands.
She shook her head. Her hair was damp and ratty, but the rivulets had long since ceased to flow.
The Emperor was above his own law; that much Sanabalis and Tiamaris had said. But he didn’t expect Kaylin to hold him above that law. He expected her to die defending it. She really didn’t understand kings. But having been Uriel for far too long, she really didn’t want a better understanding, either.
“And what, then, does Kaylin Neya want?”
The smooth, low voice that came from the other side of the door was one that she couldn’t mistake for anyone else’s.
“Dry clothing,” she said.
The door didn’t swing, it glided. Lord Nightshade stood on the other side of the frame, his arms folded across his chest, as if he’d been waiting a while.
How long had he been waiting?
How long had she been in the dark, in the—
“It has been little over two hours,” he replied. “It is dark now, and the Ferals are hunting. I can see that dry clothing is indeed necessary
. Come.”
She had the urge to hug him, just to see how he’d look when damp and bedraggled. She had a suspicion that he wouldn’t look any different.
He did her the grace of ignoring the thought she was just too tired to suppress. Too tired, or too beyond caring. She felt…hollow, somehow. She wouldn’t have been Uriel for all the money in the world—not even for wings, had some god deigned to offer them in exchange. But what she had felt when she’d drawn the Tha’alaan into her arms—that was his, not hers. And it left a mark, an absence, even an ache.
All in all, she thought she had been a happier person when she’d just loathed the Tha’alani. Finding out how little there was to hate had caused a bit of guilt and the usual humiliation that attended any realization of her own stupidity or ignorance; finding out how much there was to love was infinitely worse.
But she had let it go because she had to let it go. There was a job to do, wasn’t there? And a city to save. Not that she cared about the city all that much at this particular moment. No—it was the face of the girl, the water’s face. And also the unseen face of a child that she had never met, who was now in the hands of a man whose face she had seen, and didn’t much care for.
Things could get bigger around her; they could get bigger just because so much power happened to be involved. But the things that she cared about, the things that drove her—they could be as small as one life. Because if she forgot the one life, what else could she forget?
See as a Hawk sees. Marcus had said that. And Red, during an autopsy. They had meant different things by it, but mostly they’d been telling her to look at the things in front of her, and not the endless consequences, the endless permutations.
“Kaylin.”
She looked up.
“What happened?”
“Didn’t you hear it?”
“No. There are some things that the mark does not grant me.” He paused, and then added, “Or some things that you yourself do not grant. The only power I sensed was yours.”
“Can I do that?”
“You can,” he replied, his voice cool, but without edge. “You have my name, Kaylin. You could try to do more.”
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