The Chronicles of Elantra Bundle

by Michelle Sagara

  Beneath her hands, she felt moss, peat moss. Mostly, she felt sick.

  “It will pass,” another familiar voice said. When she could, she turned to the right to see that Sanabalis was crouched in the moss bed beside her. He no longer looked like a Dragon. She was almost sorry she had missed it.

  “Where is Mayalee?”

  “The child?”

  She nodded, and almost fell over. Her head was pounding.

  “She is with the Keeper. She is alive,” Sanabalis added, speaking as gently as she had ever heard him speak. “Idis did not, as you feared, cripple her. He could not.”

  “She brought Idis to the water?”

  Sanabalis and Severn exchanged a single glance. Severn finally shook his head. No.

  “What—what happened to Idis?”

  Sanabalis shrugged. He looked old again, and even had the grace to look tired. His beard was straggly and wet, and his hair—which had an austere, sagelike quality when dry—was so flat against his skull he looked bald.

  He wore robes that were definitely not Imperial stock.

  Severn looked as if he’d just come out from a storm. His hair, however, was thicker than Sanabalis’s, even though it clung in the same flat way to his forehead.

  “Don’t ask, Kaylin,” Severn said quietly.

  “Why? Did Sanabalis eat him?”

  The two men exchanged an entirely different glance, and Kaylin winced. “Okay, that was more than I needed to know. Sanabalis, we have laws.” Having more or less coughed up all of the water in her lungs, she pushed herself up and sat down heavily.

  “You have laws,” he replied, too tired to roar, although he looked very much as if he wanted to. His eyes were unlidded, and they were a very deep amber.

  Before she could argue, Severn said, “An Imperial Writ exists, Kaylin. I’m a Wolf. He was a dead man no matter how this ended. And yes, the Imperial Writ is part of the law you’re about to quote. He was not a man who needed to be brought to justice. He was a man to whom justice needed to go. The Wolflord trusts his Wolves,” he added softly.

  “You’re not a Wolf anymore.”

  “You would have spared him?”

  “Hells no. I would have dragged him before the Emperor and let the damn Emperor—” she heard Sanabalis clear his throat in warning “—sorry, his Imperial Majesty, eat him. In front of witnesses. In the name of justice.”

  “If he could have been dragged in front of the Emperor, he would have met his end years ago. Let it go.”

  She did. She was busy looking around.

  “This—”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s the garden.”

  “As we first saw it, yes.”

  “And the water—”

  “You’re less than ten yards from the pool.”

  She stood, then.

  “Remember the Keeper’s words,” Severn said softly. “Listen to nothing, touch nothing.”

  “I was—I was in the water. I was there, Severn. How the hell did I get here?”

  “It spit you out.”

  She nodded as if this made sense. But she walked, stepping carefully around the candles on their small, flat stone altars, until she saw a battered box that seemed to be the center of their light. She couldn’t help herself; she touched its closed lid. She felt nothing but old wood, and ran her fingers over it for a moment, tracing a circle. Then she left it and walked toward the still, deep pond that signified water in this place.

  She reached the side of the pool, which was once again only a handful of feet in diameter, and knelt there, looking at its surface. Looking, as she stretched her neck and shoulders, beneath its surface.

  Waiting.

  Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. She felt a hand on her shoulder that was too light to be Sanabalis’s, too thin to be Severn’s. Looking up, she saw the careworn face of Evanton. The Keeper.

  She reached for his hand and placed her palm against his knuckles. She wanted to ask him who had created this garden, and she wanted to ask him why. Instead, she said, “The first Keeper—he wasn’t mortal, was he?”

  Evanton shook his head. “But it’s a difficult job. Eternity is too damn long.”

  “I won’t touch the water,” she added, as if it needed saying.

  “It would be best if you didn’t.” His fingers tightened. His robes, she saw, were the same majestic blue they had been when she had first seen him step across the thin threshold that separated his cluttered shop from the garden. They were dry and clean, as perfect as they had been when she had first laid eyes on them.

  Her own dress was also dry, and it was also clean.

  “The fire could burn it,” he told her, seeing where her gaze had traveled. “The earth could shred it, the wind could tear it. But…the water, no. It is of the water, Kaylin. I…did not expect to see you dressed this way.”

  She reached up and touched the hawk that was still across her breast. “I don’t understand power,” she told him quietly. “I don’t really understand why people want it so damn much. It scares me. If I make a mistake, I can usually get by with an apology.

  “If I made a mistake with all of the water at my command—”

  “Dead people don’t listen to apologies?”

  “Not from what I’ve heard. If they do, they certainly don’t accept them.”

  Evanton nodded. “I’ve lived in the garden—or with the burden of it—for all of my adult life. I understand your feelings about this better than you could possibly know. But the garden has existed for as long as the races have existed. Possibly longer. And yes,” he added softly, “were it not for the existence of the garden, there would be no life in the world outside of it. No life as we know it,” he added. “But the Old Ones walked, when the elements were free. It is believed that the Old Ones created the elements, in some fashion, and bound them when they realized that no subtler creation could survive them. There has always been a Keeper,” he added. “There will always be a Keeper.”

  “But what do you do—”

  “I tend the garden,” he replied softly. “The living garden.”

  “What would the dead garden be?”

  “I don’t know, Kaylin. I’m a rational man—cooking fire doesn’t speak. I believe that if the elements could somehow die, there would be no need for a Keeper.” There was a touch of bitter longing in the words. “But the power to unmake the elements does not exist. If it ever existed, it has passed away to a place where we cannot reach it.”

  She lifted her arms, and he glanced at the exposed marks. “Yes,” he told her. “Even the Old Ones are not dead. But they are not here. Perhaps, in a way, they are very like the elements.

  “Mayalee is waiting for you,” he added gently. “I believe she wishes to go home.”

  Kaylin smiled at him, and was surprised that the smile was genuine. One of the rare joys of being a Hawk was the ability to bring a missing person home safely, and she knew that Evanton had insisted on waiting for her.

  It was a gift.

  She rose, thinking of Ybelline’s face, the expression that would spread across it too intense to be just a smile, but too bright to be anything else. But before she had turned away from the pond—it was hard to call it that, but, really, hard to think of it as anything else in its present form—she saw what she’d been waiting for.

  The face of a girl, about ten to twelve years of age. There were no bruises on her face, no lank hair hanging in her eyes, no fear.

  There was sorrow, regret, and gratitude. But she did not speak, and Kaylin—who wanted so desperately to hear her voice again, even once, swallowed and offered her a perfect bow. A breeze flew over the pond, and the ripples that followed it dissolved the image completely.

  “I’m ready to go,” she told Evanton.

  What she was not ready for was Grethan.

  He was sitting in Evanton’s kitchen, across the table from Mayalee; Severn was wedged between them like a warning or a threat. All of that, however, was aimed at Grethan. Mayalee look
ed terrible, even to Kaylin’s eyes. Her bruises were deep and purple, and they were not only across her jaw, but also across her arms. Her hair was, of course, plastered to her forehead, but her antennae were hovering in a delicate dance in the air.

  In front of her, on a plate, were the biscuits that Kaylin had often been accused of stealing.

  She turned to face Grethan, and even the look of shame on his face—just shame, no fear—would not have prevented her from slapping him if Evanton had not grabbed her arm. She turned to face the old man—and he was now his usual, dour, bent self, with his workshop apron, his normal shirt, the pants that seemed to have existed for years against the tides of fashion.

  Her dress, however, had not obligingly disappeared and returned to her the uniform she was so proud of wearing. “Because of his actions, the entire damn city was almost destroyed! Why is he even here?”

  Lord Sanabalis walked in from the narrow hall. Kaylin hadn’t even noticed him.

  “You’re under arrest,” she began.

  But Sanabalis lifted a hand. “I’m afraid,” he said quietly, “that is not possible.”

  If his voice hadn’t been so quiet she would have sworn he was speaking in Dragon, because none of the words made any sense. “I’m a Hawk—” she began.

  “He is Tha’alani,” Sanabalis replied.

  “I know what he is. He—”

  “And as such, it is a matter for the Tha’alani Caste Court.”

  “No, it’s bloody well not.”

  “Kaylin—”

  “The entire city was in danger, Sanabalis. Caste law takes precedence only in cases where no outsiders were actually harmed.”

  “None were.”

  “Tell that to the two old people who drowned in the merchants’ quarter, damn it!”

  “They were killed by Idis,” he replied quietly.

  She would have said more, but it was true. Idis had killed them. And Idis had already faced the Emperor’s justice.

  “Kaylin,” Evanton said, coming to stand to one side of Grethan, first surrendering her wrist to Sanabalis. “There is something you should know.”

  “Clearly.”

  “The first thing,” Lord Sanabalis said, his eyes shading orange, “is that you speak to The Keeper with the respect due his station.”

  “Oh, that is Kaylin’s version of respect,” Evanton said with a sharp smile. “Not a word of Leontine in it.”

  She had the grace to flush. “Evanton—”

  “Grethan brought Idis,” he said quietly. He waited for the words to sink in. And although it had been a very, very long day, they did.

  “The first time?”

  “The first time.”

  She looked at Grethan. At the round, slightly bumpy scars that were all that remained of his antennae, his desperate attempt to find someplace to belong. She pitied him, yes. But her hand still itched.

  “How is that possible? He didn’t have the keys—”

  “The keys are not entirely necessary,” Evanton replied evasively. “He brought Idis to the garden.”

  “How did he even know about it?”

  “I am not entirely certain. He came here, once. I remember him. And if the castelord of the Tha’alani sees fit, it is here that he will stay.”

  “But—”

  “I’m old,” Evanton replied quietly. “And he is damaged. I will not deny it. But he is the first in many years, and I am not willing to condemn either the city or myself to the last struggles of a decrepit Keeper.”

  The rest of the words sank in.

  “Mayalee has touched him,” Evanton added.

  “You let her?”

  “Yes.”

  Now she had a choice of people she wanted to smack, and hard.

  But she felt Mayalee’s hand touch hers, and she looked down at the girl. “He has no mother or father,” she said, speaking with difficulty. It came to Kaylin then that Mayalee did not speak Elantran. But as she was definitely speaking it now, she probably had some help. She could touch the Tha’alaan here. “He has no mothers or fathers. He has never been able to touch the Tha’alaan. He can’t remember,” she added. Each syllable sounded foreign, and each was spoken painstakingly slowly.

  “Ybelline,” Kaylin said, “don’t use this girl—”

  A burst of language, very unlike the studied syllables that she’d spoken up to now, came from the child, who almost glared at Kaylin.

  Severn said, “She said she wants to help.”

  “But—”

  “She says she’s almost seven,” he added.

  Right. And Kaylin was almost forty. She snorted. But she understood the girl’s desire to be of use. Wasn’t it, in the end, her own?

  Mayalee, free from the constraint of an entirely foreign tongue, let go of Kaylin, walked over to Severn, and climbed unselfconsciously into his lap. She put her arms around his neck, and her antennae suddenly brushed hair from his forehead, and nestled against his skin.

  Kaylin wanted to scream, then. She wanted Mayalee to see and know nothing of the Wolf and his secrets, for so many of his secrets were also Kaylin’s. But this was no fear of discovery. It was the fear of damaging a child.

  “She finds speech difficult,” Severn said, most of his face obscured by the back of Mayalee’s head. “She doesn’t use it much among her kin, but promises to learn.

  “And she says that she wanted to touch Grethan. No one told her to, and no one asked. No one told her not to,” he added, and in a more normal voice said, “not that she asked permission.”

  Fair enough. Kaylin wouldn’t have, either.

  “She says Grethan is sorry.”

  This, however, made Kaylin grind her teeth.

  “She wants you to touch him,” he added, and she caught the corner of a very amused smile.

  “Tell her I can’t.”

  “She knows you’re not Tha’alani, but she heard you in the Tha’alaan, and Ybelline called you by name there, and further—according to Mayalee—said you had a right to be there.”

  “Oh, for the love of the gods—”

  “So she would like you to touch Grethan.”

  “Severn, I know you find this funny, but could you please explain that I cannot touch Grethan the way she can?”

  “I did try,” he said, sounding entirely unapologetic.

  “Kaylin,” Sanabalis said quietly, “have you tried?”

  “Well, no. For one, you seem to have hold of my hand.”

  “To prevent an interspecies incident.”

  Grethan, who could understand Elantran, rose stiffly from the chair he’d been occupying in complete silence. She saw, as he held out his empty hands in a gesture meant to comfort, that one of them was blistered and raw, and in spite of herself, she winced for him.

  “I never wanted to hurt her,” he said miserably.

  “Mayalee says this is true,” Severn told her.

  “I never thought—”

  “No. You didn’t.”

  He held out both hands as he stepped toward her. She didn’t want to touch him; she was afraid of what she might do. But the fear was ebbing, because Mayalee was so adamant, and it was Mayalee, in the end, who mattered here.

  “Mayalee wants me to tell you—”

  “Severn, you’ll pay for this later.”

  “—that without Grethan’s help, there would be no Tha’alaan. She wants you to know—” and this time, Kaylin didn’t interrupt him “—that he thought he would die. He was certain he would die. But he knew that he had to somehow get Idis to let go of the box.”

  Kaylin looked at Grethan’s wretched face, and saw in his eyes a brown that was very much like her own.

  “You were under the water,” Severn added softly. “What Mayalee wants me to tell you—”

  “All right. All right, Severn. Mayalee. I surrender.”

  “—is that she would have fallen into the water if Grethan hadn’t saved her.”

  “What?”

  “Grethan caught her by the arm
and pulled her free of the currents before she could join you, and the reliquary, in the pond.”

  “But he was trapped—”

  “That’s what Idis thought, too. But Evanton said—”

  “Wait,” Evanton supplied genially. “I told them to wait.”

  “I was occupied with Idis,” Sanabalis added. He still had not relinquished Kaylin’s wrist. “Grethan saved the child, and held her when the water began to…erupt. She is here because of Grethan. It was at that time,” he added, “that she touched Grethan, and although he did not desire it, he could not stop her without letting go of her. He needed the use of both arms to hold her while the water pulled.”

  “And it didn’t pull him.”

  “No, oddly enough, it did not.”

  “Okay, Sanabalis. You can give me back my arm now.”

  The Dragon lord let go.

  Grethan, pale, was still standing before her with both of his palms held out in penitence. She placed both of her hands on top of his.

  “See, Mayalee? I can’t—”

  And Grethan spoke a word that Kaylin would never forget. Water.

  She expected to hear him whine, or plead, or make excuses—anything. But although she was aware of him, he said nothing.

  The Tha’alaan spoke. Her voice—Kaylin would always think of the Tha’alaan as a girl—was so clear and so soft, she would have mistaken it for a girl’s voice in truth, if she hadn’t recognized it so strongly.

  “Grethan will stay with me, while he lives. Here,” she added, “I can hear his voice, and he can hear mine, and he can also hear the voices of his kin, past and present. He was hurt, and he was deaf. He therefore touches the early memories. He has been Uriel, Kaylin. He has been worse. But he has now been more and better, and in time, he will find peace.

  “Do not judge him.”

  “He kidnapped a child.”

  “He was mad, yes.”

  “You can’t know that he won’t be mad again…” But her words trailed off. She looked at Grethan’s face, and could see behind him the cramped kitchen, the cupboards that always looked as if they might, at any time, drop off the walls, the wooden counter with its variety of jars and tins and, yes, books. She had not been transported into another place; she had not been taken into other memories; she could not hear the Tha’alani.