She missed a beat. She didn’t miss a step. “Killing you.”
“That seems a bit extreme.”
She shrugged, fief shrug. “It’s a Barrani name. What did you expect?”
That pulled a smile across his mouth. “Nothing short of death?”
“Not that I know of, no. I’ve asked. The Barrani aren’t famously good at divesting themselves of power. Why are you asking?” But she knew. She knew then.
Squawk.
“Oh shut up, you.” She stopped walking. Severn slowed and turned; people passed by them and between them as they locked gazes.
“This is because you tried to use my name against me. When I was fighting the Arcanist.”
His gaze dropped away from hers.
“So—you’ve been avoiding me because of that? Seriously?”
His silence was pretty much a “yes.”
“Severn—I know you were afraid for me. But you stopped. You stopped before I even had a chance to fight you off. I don’t— I wasn’t angry that you tried.”
“I am.”
“Fine. You go ahead and be angry at you—but don’t take it out on me.” She stomped down the street.
He followed. “Kaylin.”
“Not speaking to you right now.”
“We’re on patrol.”
“Seriously not speaking to you right now. We don’t need to talk to patrol.”
“The last time you were in a mood, you kicked Margot’s sign over. She reported it.”
“Fine.”
“Kaylin—” Severn caught up, reached out and grabbed her arm.
She yanked it free. Stomped forward. Stopped, wheeled and almost ran into his chest. “How,” she demanded, “was that different? How was grabbing me by the arm different?”
“Kaylin—”
“I mean it! How was that any different than using my name against me?”
“You know why it’s different.”
But she didn’t, not really. “If I knew why, I wouldn’t be asking.”
“It’s different because when I grab your arm, you yank it back. It’s different because you have a choice, in that. It’s different because I know I can—” He stopped.
Kaylin folded her arms. “Listening,” she said, as if listening took colossal effort.
“Kaylin—I hear you all the time. If I listen. If I don’t. I hear you when I’m sleeping. I hear your worries. I hear your anger. I hear your hope. I—hear you.”
“Yes, and?”
“You have some chance of beating me in a fight if we go all out right now—if I don’t use your name to control you.”
Her arms tightened.
“All right, not a great chance—but better than none. When I—when I use your name, if I use it that way, you’ve got no chance at all. I do not want to lose you. I do not want you to walk senselessly to your own death. I don’t care if that’s your choice.
“But it’s been made clear to me that your choice has to count for something. My choice can’t be your life. And I—” He exhaled. “It’s— It was too hard. I don’t know that I have the self-control for this.”
“And if I trust you?”
“Do you?”
All of the past stood between them now, although they were practically touching. She looked at Severn. At his scars. At his brow, at his clear, clear eyes. They looked almost gray, an effect of the early-morning light. A hint of a smile turned the corners of his mouth, but it was a bitter smile.
“I trust you with my life,” she said and looked away.
“It’s hard enough,” he told her. “It’s hard enough without the constant...”
“Constant what? Danger?”
His laugh was low and short. “No, Kaylin. Not danger. Not magic. Not chaos. Not the possible end of the world. Ever since you left Nightshade, I’ve faced that one way or the other.” He lifted his chin, looking skyward; he slid a hand to the back of his neck. She watched the tension ease out of his jaw, although it remained in the corners of his mouth and eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Without what?” she said, in a softer voice.
“Desire.” When she failed to answer, he added, “You asked.”
She had.
“And now you’re panicking.” The rest of the tension left him then. It flooded into her instead. “I don’t want to frighten you.”
At thirteen, she would have said, You don’t scare me. She was old enough now that she didn’t bother with bravado. “I’m not— You’re not—” She exhaled. “I’m—”
“I know.” He lowered his hand. “I will not say I’m waiting for you. I’m not waiting. You’re my partner. You’re my backup. My life is in your hands.”
“Mine is in yours.”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “But you’re the only person I see when I look toward the future. That may change. It may have to change. But regardless, you’re my partner.”
“Except when you feel guilty and ignore me?”
“Except then.”
“I knew,” she said quietly.
“Because of the name?”
“Partly. I don’t want—”
He lifted a hand, pressed a finger against her open mouth. “I know. But here’s the thing: you have to know. Whether it’s yes or no. You have to know.”
She nodded. Closed her eyes. “Next time, tell me? I mean, if you feel guilty, apologize—that’s what most of us do. But don’t—don’t just disappear.”
He didn’t tell her that she knew where to find him, because that wasn’t the point. He didn’t tell her anything else, not in so many words. And the truth was: she was afraid. She was afraid of being wanted by Severn. She was afraid that she couldn’t reciprocate. She was afraid that she could. She was afraid that things would change.
On the one hand, she was unlikely to be able to break his jaw if she froze or panicked, and that was something.
You have to know, Severn told her. You have to know that this is something you want, and not because I want it. Not because what I want overwhelms what you want.
When they reached Elani Street, he knocked over Margot’s sign before Kaylin could.
* * *
Helen was waiting for Kaylin at the end of the day. She nodded at the familiar, draped across Kaylin’s shoulder.
“Have they finished?” Kaylin asked, as she removed her boots.
“I am not certain they will finish before the end of the week, if you refer to Lord Nightshade and Annarion.”
“But they’re both still alive? That’s something.”
“The only person who has lost his temper—so far—is Annarion. It has caused negligible damage.” She seemed much more relaxed than she had when Nightshade had first entered.
“I am, dear. I do not trust him where you are concerned—but he feels a very strong attachment to Annarion.”
That stung a bit, which was stupid; Kaylin let it go.
“Annarion feels a surprisingly strong attachment to you,” Helen continued. “So does Mandoran, but I believe Mandoran blames this on Teela. Teela—”
“Yes, I know. She still thinks of me as a child in need of protection.”
“Barrani children are not often protected in the way mortal children are,” Helen said, correcting her gently. “Bellusdeo has also had one visitor.”
“The Emperor?”
“No, dear. Lord Sanabalis.
“And Kattea has had one visitor. I am afraid,” Helen continued, voice soft, “that I have been forced to confine him. He accepts this.”
“Have you told Kattea?” Kaylin asked, looking up the stairs. In answer, Kattea appeared, clutching the rails at the height of their rise.
“Is it—is it—” The name wouldn’t leave Kattea’s mouth.
Helen smiled, although the smile was troubled.
“That’s a yes,” Kaylin said.
* * *
If they expected to be led to the parlor, they were mistaken. Helen walked to the kitchen, and from there, to the doors that led down. Kaylin had always had a particular dislike of basements, but it had definitely grown stronger in the past week or two.
The stairs, however, did not contract or expand under her feet. No doors magically popped into existence. Helen held a lamp, and the lamplight cast perfectly normal shadows.
“Did he—did he do something wrong?” Kattea asked, her voice echoing.
“Not on purpose,” Helen replied.
“Is he in a dungeon?” This was asked with less dread.
“Yes.”
Kattea’s eyes widened. She glanced up at Helen, but there was no fear in her expression; there was a little bit of wonder. Kattea had clearly never seen a dungeon before.
* * *
Whether or not Helen had transformed the hall to which the stairs led to better conform to Kattea’s bright imagination, Kaylin wasn’t certain—but the hall certainly looked like a storybook dungeon, replete with flickering torches. There was a barred gate at the end of the short hall.
Fingers were wrapped around two of those bars; they looked like mortal fingers, normal hands. But they were very clean and very unblemished, and anyway, they weren’t the thing that caught attention.
The eyes were.
Kaylin thought she would recognize those eyes anywhere, even when there were only three of them.
“Kattea,” Gilbert said. His voice echoed far more than Kattea’s had, and for longer.
“Can he come out?” Kattea asked Helen.
“Not safely, dear—I’m sorry.”
“Can I go in?”
Helen was silent.
Gilbert’s hands loosened. “Tell her,” he said.
Helen nodded. “Gilbert’s presence here is destabilizing. What the Arcanist failed to do, Gilbert might do by accident, as he is now. If he adopts the form with which he was created, he will cause no damage—but he will not be able to interact with you.”
“I told you I would come back.”
“But—but when you were here,” Kattea began. She faltered.
Helen said nothing.
“Helen, can’t you do something?” Kaylin whispered. Kattea had normal hearing, after all.
“I am doing everything I can,” Helen replied gently.
“Is it safe for Kattea? Is it safe for her to enter?”
“It will be safe for Kattea, yes.”
“What are you not saying?”
Helen exhaled. She knelt beside Kattea, whose eyes had not left the bars behind which Gilbert stood. “Gilbert is here because he promised he would return. He wants you to know that you saved this city. You saved the Swords. Because he found you, because he remained with you and because he listened to you, he could hear everyone, and everything, else. He understood how very, very little room he had to maneuver in if he did not want to destroy the anomaly in the usual way.”
“Why can’t he tell me that himself?” she asked. She was still looking at Gilbert.
Gilbert’s eyes closed.
“He wants to see you,” Helen replied. “And so, he is here.”
“Gilbert,” the girl said, shaking her clenched hand free of Kaylin’s almost numb one. She propped her hands on her hips. “What did I tell you?”
“You told me that I am lonely,” Gilbert replied.
“And what else?”
He smiled. “That you would never leave me alone.”
Kattea nodded.
“If you come with me, you won’t be able to visit any of the friends you’ve made here. You won’t be able to visit your parents. Or your city.”
“They’re not my parents,” Kattea replied. “They’re not my parents anymore, anyway.”
Helen, silent, waited. Kaylin frowned.
But Kattea said, “I shouldn’t be here, should I? I shouldn’t still be here.”
Gilbert did not answer.
Kaylin stared—at Helen. “Helen—”
“If I understand everything that has happened, Kattea should have been swept away when the damage was repaired,” Helen replied. “She should have ceased to exist. I am not Gilbert; I cannot speak with certainty.”
“But she is here,” Kaylin said.
“Yes, dear.”
“And she is staying here.”
“I think,” Helen said quietly, “that that decision is not yours—or mine—to make.”
“No,” Gilbert said, as if no one else had spoken. “This is not where you should be.”
“I should be in the streets of Nightshade. With the Ferals.”
He nodded.
She was afraid. Anyone with half a brain would be afraid. Kaylin started forward; Helen caught her shoulder in an iron grip.
“I should be dead.”
“If I understand events, yes,” Gilbert replied. “But...I do not want that. I can see no way in which your lack of death causes instabilities.”
“Because it doesn’t, or because you don’t want it to?”
Helen exhaled. Her grip on Kaylin’s shoulder tightened, which Kaylin would have bet was impossible; there would be bruises, later.
“What happens if I stay here?” Kattea asked quietly.
Helen said, “If you remain within the house, no material damage should be caused. You would be contained—in an entirely different way—as Mandoran and Annarion are contained.”
Helen was lying. Kaylin could tell, although she wasn’t sure what the truth was. On the surface of it, the words seemed reasonable. Even believable.
Kattea hadn’t noticed. “Will Gilbert be able to visit again if I stay here?”
“No, dear. It was very, very difficult for Gilbert to arrive here at all; I am uncertain how he did.”
But Kaylin thought she knew. A very small part of the many, many words that constituted Gilbert was of this time. It was a Barrani True Name.
Kattea turned from Gilbert behind bars to the woman who was, effectively, his dungeon. “I’d like to go in now.”
Kaylin opened her mouth. She thought Helen would break her collarbone, but she forced the words out anyway. “Kattea, you don’t need to go. You can speak to Gilbert here. Gilbert’s not human. He can’t speak with you without injuring himself or limiting himself. You don’t—you don’t belong with him.”
Kattea turned back; her eyes were wet. “I don’t belong anywhere else. I would be dead, if not for Gilbert. Gilbert found me—us—a home.” She was pale, some combination of white and green that made her look the very color of fear. “I was alone. I was alone, after my father left. I understand why he left—I truly understand it now. I understand what he lost, because I’ve seen it.”
“You haven’t—you haven’t seen your mother yet—”
The tears fell. “I can’t. What I want—what I need—she can’t give me, and I can’t ask.” She swallowed, reining the tears in. “I’m grateful that I saw my dad. But...he already has my mom. He already has...me. They don’t need me, they don’t want me, they don’t even know I’m lost.”
“I could—”
“Tell them?”
“I’m sure—” Sure of what? That she could make the corporal and his wife believe her?
Kattea’s answering smile was tremulous, thin—but like a knife’s edge. It cut. “Gilbert,” she said quietly, “is lonely. You have Helen.” She looked past Kaylin to Helen and said, “Thank you, Helen.”
Helen’s smile was warmer, fuller. In response to Kattea, the cell door clicked audibly.
“Kattea—” Kaylin said.
“Thank you, Kaylin. Can y
ou—can you say goodbye to the others?”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know,” she said. “But the only person who needs me now is Gilbert.”
Kaylin understood, because she had been where Kattea was standing—emotionally, at least. She had been alone and without purpose or value. She had made a life for herself as enforcement for a man she hated, because the only alternatives were to become a corpse or a victim. A different kind of victim.
And it had seemed to that Kaylin, the desperate, broken girl of years ago, that she would never, ever have a family again. That there would never be a place for someone like her. She would have no friends, no purpose, no reason for existence.
And she wanted to tell this girl, this Kattea, who had not sunk to theft and blackmail and assassination, that years from now, she would have friends and a home and purpose again. That life, even the worst life, didn’t have to remain forever shrouded in darkness and fear and loss and self-loathing.
“No,” Helen said. “But you had no one who needed you after the deaths of your girls. Or so you thought. And Kattea is correct. If we—Gilbert and I—were not created to be as free-ranging as you and your kind, we live. We breathe, in a fashion. And we know loneliness and even despair when our lives become devoid of purpose. I do not know what has happened in Ravellon. I do not know why Gilbert chose the long sleep—if indeed he so chose.
“But he said himself that he had not expected to wake again. And yet, he did. His Nightshade is not your Nightshade, but the memories remain—for Gilbert. And memories are precious, Kaylin, for ones such as us. But they are not fully sustaining, in the end.
“Kattea understood that Gilbert was alone. She herself was alone, and if those states are not materially the same, there is enough overlap. Kattea was not, is not, wrong.” She released Kaylin’s shoulder, which was good, because her arm was now numb.
“Kattea—” The familiar, silent until now, bit Kaylin’s ear. She turned to glare at him. “You don’t understand!”
Squawk.
Kattea ran back, threw her arms around Kaylin and hugged her ferociously. “He came back for me,” she whispered. She was trembling, yes. And afraid. But beneath both of these things there was another truth. “He came back.”
Kaylin returned the girl’s hug.
Cast in Honor (The Chronicles of Elantra) Page 46