Cast in Conflict

by Michelle Sagara

  Riaknon came to an immediate halt, repositioning his bulk without altering the orientation of his legs. “You!”

  Larrantin spoke in a series of extended clicks, lifting his arms just as Robin had done, but—because he was Barrani—with infinitely more grace. “Riaknon.”

  The Wevaran clicked and spoke, the syllables clearly a language that could be learned.

  “And your brother?”

  “Zabarrok remained at home. If Starrante is truly present, I doubt we will be able to keep him there. You know how they were.”

  Larrantin’s eyes had lightened; they were almost green.

  “Were you concerned that I was infected?”

  “You know what your kin were capable of when enslaved and set to work,” Larrantin replied softly. “Yes. The students here are from a much benighted era; they are familiar with so few of the great races, they feel that true understanding of history is a waste of their precious time.”

  “They are mortal?”

  “Not all of them have that excuse, no. But yes, many—like Robin—are mortal.”

  Riaknon clicked. “But mortals burn so brightly in their need to make use of the few decades they are given; much of what we learned we learned because of their curiosity and their odd interventions.”

  “Then if it will comfort you, I will tell you this: Starrante is indeed Starrante, he is whole, and he is still purely Wevaran. We had some excitement in our attempt to once again reach reality.”

  “And you?”

  “Do I look much changed?”

  “Somewhat, although perhaps I should not say that—forgive me. Some of your customs—the clothing for one, and the importance of hair—have always eluded my understanding.”

  “But you have the tattoos and the markings that serve as identifiers; most of us would be unlikely to survive the process to lay them down. Certainly it would kill mortals.”

  “And it would look ridiculous. But come, come—I am to visit this library space in which Starrante lives and weaves, and I do not want to miss it. I will have to leave with Lord Liatt, and she is not a woman for many words when a single word will do.”

  “But she speaks with the chancellor now,” Larrantin pointed out, leaving the class—and whatever students it had contained. “And the chancellor can, at need, be a Dragon of many, many words where one would suffice.” He glanced at Robin, glared briefly at Kaylin, and then exhaled. “If you wouldn’t mind my company, I will join you.”

  * * *

  Robin didn’t attempt to chatter at Riaknon; Larrantin was doing that just fine on his own. He did, however, talk quietly to Kaylin, theoretically still in the lead. He also chattered at Mandoran with none of the fear that children his age from the warrens would have shown so instinctively.

  “I met your friends,” Robin told him. “They say hi. I really like them. Serralyn especially.”

  “They like it here,” Mandoran replied, at ease with Robin in a way that implied Serralyn at least returned Robin’s regard.

  “You don’t think you would?”

  “I have Sedarias constantly lecturing me. Why would I want to sit captive in a chair while anyone else does?”

  Kaylin did her level best not to break out laughing, and only in part because she was at the head of the procession and Riaknon and Larrantin were certain to notice. In Larrantin’s mind, Kaylin wasn’t an officer of the law—she was like a student, but worse. A lazy student with no intention of applying herself to her studies.

  But Robin and Mandoran started to talk about magical theory—and at greater and greater speed; Kaylin suspected that the person who really wanted the answers was Terrano, who wasn’t present, as these weren’t the normal questions the laid-back Mandoran usually asked.

  Robin is, as Starrante suspected, promising indeed, Nightshade said softly. If the conversation was not one Kaylin was interested in, the same couldn’t be said of Nightshade; he was listening, largely to Robin. Kaylin listened only because the kid was so excited and so enthusiastic, she could almost see what he saw.

  And frankly, if he’d been talking about playing ball, she would probably have listened just as attentively. Happiness in the fiefs had been brief, and to be grasped whenever one could. Unhappy moments were bound to follow, one after the other.

  Robin was from the warrens, not the fiefs; there were no Ferals to deal with. The streets might be unsafe at night, but for entirely human reasons. But his life hadn’t been easy, either. To Robin, the Academia was heaven. And the library was like the highest perch in that heaven. He was practically bouncing on the pads of his feet, even through shoes, when the doors finally opened: the Arbiters had agreed to entertain visitors.

  There was noise, a cacophony of clicks and crackles that had syllables of a kind in them. Riaknon entered the library vibrating in place; had Liannor been mounted, Kaylin thought there was a good chance she would have fallen off, he was shaking so much.

  Starrante appeared at the sound of Riaknon’s voice—and then there were two Wevaran clicking up a storm of sound that reminded Kaylin of...rattles, maybe? It was a strangely comforting analogy. She didn’t step through the doors, but the library emerged around her anyway. The doors were part of library space.

  Arbiter Kavallac chose to join them, as did Arbiter Androsse. Androsse, however, had eyes for Mandoran, and only Mandoran; two extremely delighted and loud Wevaran might have been an everyday occurrence, given his reaction.

  Mandoran was watching the Wevaran, his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed.

  “What do you observe so carefully?” Androsse asked him.

  “The boy,” Mandoran replied, without otherwise turning to offer the expected, polite greeting.

  Robin stood between the Wevaran, or rather, between and to one side, as if he were the apex of a triangle. His head bounced back and forth between the two, the way it might if he were following a normal conversation between two fascinating people.

  “Why?” Mandoran’s lack of manners were returned.

  “The floor at his feet—and only at his feet—appears to be different. Or different from the floor beneath either of the other two.”

  “Interesting. And the floor upon which we are standing?”

  Mandoran shook his head as if to clear it. He then turned to fully face Androsse and tendered him a perfect bow. “Apologies, Arbiter Androsse. I find the Wevaran fascinating.”

  “Dangerously so,” Androsse replied. “And you have not answered my question.”

  “He is not your student.” It was Larrantin, who had chosen to stand back from the meeting of the two Wevaran, who replied.

  “Have I made the mistake of somehow inviting your opinion?”

  Kaylin coughed.

  Larrantin glanced in her direction, but it was brief; he was eyeing Androsse. “What is your concern?”

  “You have functional eyes, ears, and magical sensitivity. My concern should be clear to you.”

  Ah. Old argument. It hadn’t occurred to her that Larrantin could dislike the Arbiter, or vice versa. People tended to be less hostile to each other in the face of a pressing emergency. She was very glad that it was the chancellor’s problem.

  Mandoran, for his part, had ceased to stare at Robin and the two spiders; he was now completely blue-eyed and neutral.

  “My question?”

  “The ground beneath your feet—and mine—is remarkably similar. The ground beneath the corporal’s feet, and Robin’s, seems solid and mundane in comparison. The ground beneath the feet of the Wevaran is different again.”

  To Kaylin, it all looked like wood. Or stone.

  Larrantin snorted. “You should take classes, boy,” he told Mandoran. “You are lacking the proper vocabulary to discuss what you see.”

  “And you can see it?”

  “Yes, although it was not something I was searching for upon
arrival. But perhaps the Arbiter cares to explain. This is, in essence, his classroom.”

  “It is a vast repository of knowledge available for those who have the desire to better themselves; I have little use for people who must be led and cozened.” His expression soured. “Perhaps you would care to describe it.”

  Kaylin, however, was confused. “It’s your building. You don’t know?”

  “This was a found space,” Arbiter Kavallac said. She did not seem to consider Mandoran the threat Androsse did, but that might have been because to her eyes Mandoran was a lone Barrani, and she was a Dragon.

  “Found space?” Robin perked up instantly. Given he was standing beside the two loud Wevaran, Kaylin was certain she wouldn’t have heard the comment had she been standing in his shoes.

  Robin’s sudden interest caused a distinct decline in clicking. The two Wevaran didn’t move to face Kavallac—but given the smattering of eyes all over their central bodies, didn’t need to.

  “What have you been taught about found spaces?”

  “Not a lot, and Garravus is grouchy when you ask him a question and the answer is: nobody knows.”

  “Ah. I do not think I have met Garravus. Barrani?”

  “Yes. He’s new.”

  “You don’t care for him?”

  “Well, he’s not Larrantin.”

  “Some,” Androsse cut in, “would consider that a good thing.”

  Robin clearly didn’t. But Kavallac had asked a question, and if he looked hesitant, she was a Dragon. “The answer really seems to be: nobody knows. I didn’t know the library was built in a found space, either. I mean—who found it?”

  It was clearly a question of import to Mandoran, who had been off his stride all day.

  “The Ancients found it.”

  “Did they build the library?”

  “The library was built in the found space. When we speak of found spaces, we are not talking about geography; we aren’t talking about space as might exist in the largest of your lecture halls. That space is, without Killianas’s direct intervention, fixed. It is created by walls and architecture.

  “This space is not that space; it is, in a physical sense, extensible in the way the Academia, or the Towers, are. I think we could expand the collection without pause for eternity, and the library would grow to accommodate the entirety of it. There are shelves in places that I have once or twice accidentally encountered; they are,” she added, glaring at Robin, “entirely off-limits to students.”

  Robin flushed.

  “Have you ever found living beings in your basement?”

  The two Arbiters with obvious eyes shared a glance; Kaylin had no doubt Starrante had been part of it as well. “That is a question for another day,” the Wevaran told her. “As is the question of this space. We call it library space, but if our library is to contain all knowledge, some of it is not considered safe.”

  “By who?”

  “By the library space itself.”

  Kaylin felt her jaw drop. “Are you saying the library is sentient?”

  “It is not sentient in the way we are, no. And that is what has concerned Arbiter Androsse, even if he is too curmudgeonly to own concern as a general concept. The library is reacting to your Mandoran.”

  Why did people insist on saying “your” in that tone of voice? She knew enough Dragons that she didn’t bother to ask.

  “I’m not doing anything,” Mandoran said quickly, lifting both of his hands in the universal gesture that meant either surrender or I’m harmless, look, no weapons.

  “If we believed you were deliberately doing...whatever it is you’re doing, you would be ejected unceremoniously, regardless of your external status. But Androsse is perceptive. Starrante, if we might interrupt your reunion for a moment?”

  Starrante did rearrange his body posture then—he pointed the bulk of his form, or at least his forelegs, in Mandoran’s direction. He said, speaking in Barrani rather than his native tongue, “Riaknon, perhaps you have not gone entirely blind in your life outside of our home?”

  “I have not gone, as you put it, blind at all. You will see that I still have all of my eyes. Unlike some people.” He too angled his body in Mandoran’s direction. Mandoran looked about as comfortable with this attention as Kaylin would have felt.

  “Larrantin,” Starrante then said, “you said you have friends of this boy in your class?”

  “Yes. Two. I consider them gifted but unusual.”

  “Unusual?”

  “Unusual for Barrani.”

  “How so?”

  “They are...quite young for their professed age, and their attitudes have a surprising flexibility. This flexibility would not be met with approval among most of our kin. I find it interesting. They have spoken about their unusual childhood,” he added.

  Mandoran grimaced and Kaylin winced. She imagined that a few of the cohort had words to say about that and hoped that those words didn’t spill out into another middle of the night emergency.

  “Very little study has been done to determine how the green in the West March influences our kin, but it has been the suspicion of some experts that the green is also a found space.”

  “Might we speak with those students as well?”

  “If they are amenable, and as my class has already been interrupted.” Here he gave Robin a reproving glance that had too much approval in it to become a glare. To Starrante, he offered an apology.

  “I am not certain I can accept an apology that is offered without reasons.”

  “They are new, and they are excitable. Although they have of course asked, they have yet to be granted permission to visit the library.”

  “Ah. Then perhaps I will accept what is graciously offered.”

  * * *

  They must have run down the halls at breakneck speed, because at least one of them was slightly winded. Serralyn was glowing. Her eyes—unlike the eyes of every other Barrani present, including Mandoran—were emerald green. She was practically quivering in place. She did remember her manners, and she expressed such a profound sense of awe at her first sight of walls and walls of shelving that the Arbiters could not—or at least didn’t—find it in their hearts to be quelling.

  “Androsse?” Kavallac asked, as Serralyn, dragging Valliant and Mandoran by their arms, headed toward the nearest shelves as if she had finally reached the destination of a religious pilgrimage and meant to share.

  Androsse, frowning, watched them. While green was the happy Barrani color and no one present could deny that Serralyn, at least, was radiant with happiness, suspicion existed regardless. Kaylin was impressed.

  “They are,” he finally said, “like Mandoran. Can you not sense the small disturbances their feet create when they walk?”

  “She is hardly walking,” Kavallac added, amused despite genuine worry. “Do you not remember the first time you encountered the library? Has so much time passed that even your memory has become fallible?”

  “I believe I had a great deal more dignity.”

  “Ah, well. That is no doubt true. But I cannot find it in my heart to be suspicious of her intentions.”

  “I am not suspicious of her intentions. But there are disturbances now, where the three walk.” He turned to Starrante, being possessed of only two eyes.

  Starrante, his kinsman beside him, had turned in the direction of the three as the distance between them grew. “Yes,” he finally said. “I can see what you see. It is...fascinating. I do not think the three are in control of the effects they are having; they have them simply by existing in this space at all. If we were prudent, we would deny them entry until we better understand those effects.”

  “If?”

  “I feel that her joy is perhaps the heart of what this knowledge should represent, and it would pain me to forbid her the library.”

  “T
hey have no Wevaran in their history, do they?” Riaknon asked, watching as Starrante watched. Multiple eyes were now open across their bodies, aimed in all directions. Kaylin couldn’t make out distinct colors in the light but suspected that the emotional state of the Wevaran was not announced by a simple shift of eye color. But then she remembered Starrante’s eyes when they were red.

  “None whatsoever that I know of.”

  Since Kaylin’s response would have been that’s impossible, look at them, she was slightly discomfited by Starrante’s reply; it implied somehow that the question hadn’t been rhetorical.

  “Do you know, Starrante, I’ve had an idea?”

  Clicking became a storm of sound—one of those summer storms that dumps all the water in the sky in five minutes.

  Starrante looked highly doubtful, and how Kaylin recognized this, she didn’t know.

  “It is possible that these new students of yours—”

  “Not a student,” Mandoran said quickly.

  “—could actually be taught.”

  “And me?” Robin asked.

  “No, child. It is not just about spinning webs—” or spitting them, Kaylin thought “—it’s about walking the lines. Webs are spun but the lines they draw together are specific. It is not an accident; it is a deliberate choice on the part of the spinner.

  “We—Starrante and I, and the rest of our kin—walked those lines from birth. We had favorites, and we were territorial; many did not survive their youth.” He spoke without apparent grief. So, too, the Dragons. “We could not, of course, be what we were with one simple line, but we were capable of learning, and as we did, we were able to combine what we’d learned in new and different ways.

  “And no, before you ask, we do not believe it was our experimentation that destroyed Ravellon—our home, and home to many. It is an art that is all but lost. Starrante was a master.

  “And we have no young—not here, and perhaps not even in Ravellon. Those of our kin who were not destroyed have become a terrible danger to the worlds.” Kaylin did not want Bellusdeo to hear this.

  She is not a fool, and she is not a child, Nightshade said, chiding Kaylin as if she were both. Do not think she does not know.