Tiamaris, in spite of any change in status, did what any sane person would have done: he obeyed, first handing his torch to Sanabalis, who followed him. The ladder, from the sounds of raw scraping against the floor, was heavy, but Tiamaris returned with it, and she heard a different scraping as it was put into the desired position. “Arkon?”
“Don’t just stand there. Come here. I want your opinion on the marks on Private Neya’s arms. The glowing ones,” he added, in exactly the peremptory tone of voice Kaylin most hated in any of her teachers. Clearly, several centuries had enabled Tiamaris to handle it with grace.
But Tiamaris’s eyes were almost gold; the Arkon’s were now orange. The younger Dragon glanced at the older Dragon’s face before he spoke. “I don’t recognize them.”
“Any of them?”
“Not clearly. If you wish, we can repair to my Tower. The Lady may have more knowledge.”
“We are not likely to be able to repair to your Tower with the altar,” was the chilly reply. The Arkon was silent for a few beats before he added, “I would, however, like to visit the Avatar at a slightly more convenient time in the future. And I would also like you to take note of both the glowing marks on Private Neya’s arms, and the runes on the side of the altar. If it is at all possible, as we don’t have a convenient memory crystal, I would like to know what she thinks they mean.”
But Tiamaris inched the sleeve up Kaylin’s wrist, and frowned. “This one,” he said quietly, “I’ve seen before. And this.”
“It’s not on the altar—” Kaylin began, and then bit her tongue; she couldn’t see the whole damn thing. “What do you think it means?”
He smiled, and the smile was wholly Dragon. “This one? It is in the Old Tongue, of course, and the meaning may not be precise. Or rather, our meaning may not be precise. But it is the root of the Dragon word for Hoard.”
CHAPTER 12
“The root of the Dragon word?”
“Neither Barrani—in any flavor—nor Dragon appear to come from the Old Tongue in any linguistic way. Nor, for that matter, does Aerian or the Human tongue. We can trace the developments between High and Low Barrani precisely. We can trace the disparities between Human languages, with some effort. The Leontine language does not seem to diverge greatly with geography, but there are better reasons for that.”
“The Tha’alani—”
“The Tha’alani share some linguistic characteristics with Humans.” Tiamaris frowned. “The style of writing, here, looks in very superficial ways to be similar with formal, High Barrani—of the archaic variety, which you will not have studied in the Halls of Law.” Or outside of it, either, his tone suggested. “It is not, however. But some key concepts exist, and there is overlap.”
“So this isn’t the same as your theory of harmonic presentation?”
He raised a brow.
“Never mind.”
“There is no larger pattern in the presentation. The runes here are singular.” He frowned, and glanced at her arm again. “There might be some pattern to the marks on your skin, but the marks there are not subject to our revision.”
They had once been subject to revision, at a distance and with a dimly understood magic that involved human sacrifice. Kaylin failed to remind him.
The Arkon nodded. “That,” he said, pointing to one glowing mark, “and the third rune, are familiar.”
“What does the third rune mean?” she asked.
“Journey.”
“Travel?”
“No.”
“What about this rune?”
“That one, you’ve seen,” was his curt reply. He started to turn away. Dragons.
“Pretend I’m mortal, with the usual fallible human memory.”
He raised a dark brow, his expression indicating that this clearly wasn’t an acceptable excuse, even if it was a fact. “It is the rune for Truth, the truth of a thing, the whole of a thing. It is one of the first spoken words in the Genesis of the Leontines. I would speak it, but I am already weary. If you need a more active reminder, Lord Sanabalis, I’m certain, would be pleased to aid you. He will not, however, do it here.
“Private, please join me at the ladder’s height.”
She glanced at the Arkon, hoping the ladder was as heavy as Tiamaris’s movements had made it sound, and walked around to the other side of the big stone block. The opposite side of the base was also adorned with runes: five. They didn’t look the same as the ones on the side facing the door, and she hoped that she wouldn’t end up either rolling up her pants or stripping her shirt off.
She forgot about that as she climbed, because as she did, she saw, at last, what lay across the surface of the altar. It was, or looked like, water. She understood, then, why the Arkon had been so concerned about the Tower.
“This is a mirror,” she said softly.
“It is.”
“Is it attached to Imperial Records?”
“With effort, yes, it can access them.”
Something about his reply was slightly wrong. “What do you access when you don’t put in effort?”
“That,” was his curt reply, “would be the question. What do you see when you look in it now?”
She stared at it. It seemed like faintly luminescent water. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“It looks like glowing water to me.”
He nodded. “You might wish to cover your ears,” he told her.
Grimacing, she did as bid, because he drew a loud, rattling breath—which would have been alarming had he been an ancient mortal—and began to speak in his native tongue. Covering her ears did not noticeably diminish the pain or the vibrations; even the surface of the water rippled at the force of his speech.
The water did ripple, yes. It didn’t change. It looked the same to Kaylin. “Do you see anything there?” she asked. The Arkon glared at her. But the water that lay across the surface of the altar—how, she didn’t know, because it didn’t seem to be lying in stone—was otherwise unresponsive.
“It appears,” he finally grudgingly said, “that the magical wards and protections currently in force in the inner sanctum of my Library are causing some interference.” He glanced at Sanabalis. The younger Dragon Lord shrugged.
“The Library is yours, Arkon. The risk is yours to take.”
The Arkon nodded, weighing his options. At last he said, “Lowering those wards and protections is not a risk I wish to take at this time. I will, however, try some of the less artificial invocations. Private, you may take your hands away from your ears now. I will not be speaking properly.”
The Arkon began to speak, and this time, Kaylin felt the hair on her neck rise. It wasn’t the usual prickling discomfort caused by magic. She recognized, in the richness of his voice and the breadth and depth of his syllables, each spoken with precision, focus and care, the language of the Old Ones.
She didn’t recognize the words he spoke—if he spoke more than one; she remembered Tara teaching her, by repetition and desperation, to repeat one rune that was over twenty syllables long. But…when Sanabalis had told his story, she had almost understood it. She started to say as much and then remembered the other thing that had happened.
She had seen the words, as he spoke them.
She saw the word that the Arkon spoke now, materializing in the air between them; it was, like the words on the altar’s side, a lambent, warm gold. It stood half the ancient Dragon’s height, from his waist to the peak of his head, and it floated as if it had no weight. “You’re speaking the Old Tongue,” she said, although it was obvious and Dragons hated that sort of thing.
“Indeed. The native enchantment upon the altar is ancient, and the words of invocation are therefore naturally in keeping with its creators. With some effort under normal conditions, the altar can be used in the regular fashion.”
Kaylin nodded, but most of her attention was caught and held by the floating sigil above her. When it began to move, she said, “Is it supposed to do that?”<
br />
“Do what?”
“Move.”
“We do not apprehend the words in the same way, Private, if you recall. I do not see the word as a concrete manifestation.”
She remembered. She’d had to touch them before they were visible to anyone else. “Do you want me to—”
“No. I would appreciate the chance to study your…interpretations…in more detail, but at a more appropriate time. The rune should descend into the water, in your paradigm of comprehension.”
“Good, because that’s what it’s doing.”
When the rune touched the water, the water shivered and absorbed it, the way it might have absorbed dust. But where dust might muddy the waters, this single rune seemed to clear them entirely; the liquid in the lake now looked like water’s pristine, elemental ideal. The Arkon nodded; clearly this is what he expected.
“What do we need to do to activate it?” she asked him. “Because if we need to ask it questions in the Old Tongue, we’re not going to get much.”
“You would,” was the slightly grim reply, “be surprised. Let me attempt to access the Palace Records now.”
“But you said—”
“If you were paying attention to what I said and not what you incorrectly inferred—a trying habit of mortals and the young—you would know that what I said was it is difficult to invoke.”
“Yes, Sanabalis.”
He turned slightly orange eyes on her while she tried to catch the mistake that had just fallen out of her mouth. On the ground some distance away, torch in hand, Sanabalis cringed. Tiamaris, on the other hand, turned to one side, and Kaylin had the distinct impression he was laughing.
The Arkon chose not to notice either of his colleagues; he fixed a steady and baleful glare on someone who wasn’t even his student—not that she was stupid enough to point this out. She apologized under her breath, and he snorted in the smoky, literal way of irritated Dragons everywhere. Because he was irritated, he didn’t bother to give her much warning when he started to speak again—and this time, he roared.
This time, however, the waters began to move and respond to his voice, images forming from the streaks of color that seeped from the edges of the rectangle toward its center in a widening spiral. She couldn’t understand what he said—and if learning Dragon was to be part of her etiquette class, she’d be so deaf she’d miss Marcus shouting in her ear—but the colors solidified into very, very familiar images: her own inner arms, writ huge.
The marks were their usual dark color. When the Arkon spoke again, images of her inner thighs and her back added themselves. “These are our most recent Records. I understand that you will possibly find this uncomfortable, Private, but I now require you to disrobe.”
Every word she wanted to say slammed smack against every desire she had ever had to keep her head attached to the rest of her body—but only because she’d entertained the suspicion that it would come to this on the long walk here. Pretending she was headed for the showers with Teela, she stripped off her gear and set it to one side of the platform. The room wasn’t cold, and the Arkon’s interest was so dry and intellectual it was like visiting a doctor.
Which, come to think, she avoided like the plague. The Arkon instructed her to turn, and then to turn again; he positioned her legs so he could examine them, his gaze flickering between the surface of the pool and the fact of flesh so rapidly Kaylin had to close her eyes in order to prevent dizziness. As he did, he spoke in his loud, bombastic mother tongue.
But she opened her eyes when Sanabalis called up from the ground. “Arkon?”
The Arkon nodded. “You may get dressed, now, Private.”
She did. Quickly. When she turned back to the Arkon, the images in the pool had shifted again, shrinking in size to accommodate new images. Kaylin, who had a vested interest in these particular images, was aware that any resentment she might feel over her brief lack of clothing was misplaced; at least the Arkon hadn’t insisted that the skin on which the marks resided be detached from the rest of her body.
“Private?” the Arkon said, in an uncharacteristically subdued tone. He spoke two very loud words, and the water shivered, images dispersed by small ripples. When those ripples regrouped, the only two that remained were once again huge: they were side-by-side images of the runes on her thighs. They weren’t, however, identical.
“That one,” she asked, in a voice that matched his, “was the last known image before today?”
He nodded. “You see it.”
She did. The marks on her lower leg had changed. She didn’t examine herself often—other than the usual brief perusal-and-cringe that constituted standing in front of a mirror—and she certainly didn’t examine the marks for minute changes of any kind. But it was clear, examining these, that the last two rows—such as they were—were dimmer and grayer than the rest; they had somehow faded.
“You think—”
“I think,” the Arkon said heavily, “that your brief encounter with your unknown pursuer in your nonworld caused the fading, yes.”
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at his profile. “You think,” she said, flatly, “that if it weren’t for the marks, I’d be dead.”
He nodded, without shifting his gaze.
“Do you think it was the use of the magic?”
“No. I would ask if you believe that previous use of your magic has caused similar…discoloration…but it is my suspicion that your answer would only annoy me.”
She failed to annoy him, staring at the pale and shining water instead. The marks on her legs were basic black, except for one on the newer image, which was a softly glowing gold. Without thinking, she said, “Records, enlarge left gold mark.”
The mirror obligingly complied, and Kaylin examined it with care. “Arkon, this was the one that meant journey?”
But the Arkon didn’t immediately answer. She glanced at him; he was staring at her, his eyes slightly rounded. They weren’t orange, which was good; they were absent inner membrane, which could go either way. She started to ask what was wrong, and then realized it on her own.
She’d spoken to the water as if it were a run-of-the-mill Office mirror, and it had responded. “Should I shut up now?”
“In my opinion, you should speak perhaps ten percent of the time you actually do,” was his reply. He hesitated; she was, after all, accidentally experimenting with an ancient and clearly valuable part of his hoard. To her surprise, he finally said, “Continue. Continue, however, with caution.”
She glanced at Tiamaris and Sanabalis; Tiamaris was staring at the Arkon in open surprise. Sanabalis, however, had better control of his expression.
She nodded. Turning back to the mirror, in which the rune writ large was rotating in three dimensions, she said, “Records, access information—Devourer.”
“If this is your definition of caution, Private, it is a small wonder you have survived your handful of years.” The Arkon’s voice was dry as summer grass in a drought.
The rune was swallowed whole by a sudden vortex in the water’s center; as a transition, she preferred ripples. No image came to replace the rune; the water was dull and flat. Five minutes went by. Ten. Kaylin turned to the Arkon and shrugged. “I guess there are no on-Record stories. There are supposed to be religious—”
Her words were interrupted by a roar.
It wasn’t a Dragon roar, but it was familiar. Turning, she left the sentence dangling and looked at the altar mirror. In its center, she expected to see the hungering void that had almost terrified Tara.
She didn’t. She saw, instead, a man. He wasn’t human, to her eye; she thought he might be Barrani, although there was a subtle wrongness about the cast of his features; his bone structure seemed too heavy. Dragon? But he was slender, and his hair was both white and long; it fell well past his knees.
He spoke; his voice broke twice, lost to the roar in the background. She tried to see beyond him, to get a sense of where he was, but he existed entirely in isolation in the image
. His eyes were ringed with dark circles; he looked exhausted. He faltered once, looking over his shoulder, his hair a spray at his back, the movement was so fast.
He turned back. He seemed to be looking at her; he was probably looking at whoever held the memory crystal that had so perfectly captured his image. “I will not make it,” he said. His voice was a rasp, and it was surprisingly deep. “Enkerrikas has gone ahead, leading what remains of our number. I am here, and I will face the Devourer.
“I will be lost in the void.” His eyes flashed like new copper catching sunlight on a damn clear day. He was afraid, and he took no trouble to hide it, because he was also determined. If he was immortal—and he must be, she thought, because those were not mortal eyes—all of the arrogance and general condescension immortals usually showed were absent.
“But I will hold him as I can. Escape, now. Send word. Our enemy is not dead, as we hoped, and the ways are now in peril.” He lifted both of his hands, palms out, toward her. It was neither a plea nor a rejection; she wasn’t certain what it meant. But years of watching the Barrani, the Aerians, and the Leontines had made clear that each race had different gestures for basic, simple things like myself. Or Come here.
His eyes were now bright enough that the shadows that had dogged their undersides vanished. “…with luck—both good and ill—you have seen what occurred in Ankhagorran, and you know what waits if you do not escape.” His eyes flashed copper again, but he now seemed exhausted; he opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again, because the roaring was so loud only a shout—or a scream—could overwhelm it.
The water darkened all around him, light leaking out the edges until only he remained. His expression, shorn of voice or sound, was pale and grim; he looked young, to Kaylin, and frail. She reached out to touch him, but the platform meant her hand was several feet above the water’s surface, which, given the sound the Arkon made, was probably a damn good thing.
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