The buildings beyond the street—which Kaylin could now see much more clearly—had not been harmed—but where the four Ferals had been crushed flat, pools of shadows were growing.
She could hear the Dragon court at a distance. The entire city probably could. The sound of their roaring didn’t distract the Barrani ancestor; Kaylin wondered if the Draco-Barrani wars had been much after his time.
She ducked as Teela’s blade whistled an inch above her head; it connected with the neck of a Feral. Teela was in a foul mood; giving her something to kill was no doubt an unintentional kindness on the part of the attacker.
Annarion killed two of the four, which left one; Severn dispatched it. Teela hadn’t broken a sweat. Blade slick with blood that looked black, she raised her sword arm and brought it down as if she intended to cleave the air in two.
“Corporal?”
Severn nodded. Teela stepped back and to his left. Annarion, in silence, moved to take up a similar position on his right as Severn moved to stand in the gap that had once been wall. The chain didn’t cover the entirety of the hole as it spun, but covered enough of it; there was no convenient wall to stave in to crush Severn’s weapon.
The small dragon squawked and batted one of the runes still attached invisibly to Kaylin’s head. She had no idea what they were meant to do, but she felt safer while they were there. The dragon squawked again, and then screeched, which was piercing.
“Fence is almost done for,” Kaylin said, while trying to cover her ear.
“I think,” Mandoran said, “your familiar is trying to tell you something.” He pointed at the runes. “You’re standing in a building that’s confessed it’s quite diminished. The building is under attack; its defenses are not what they were. She told you this. Were you not listening?”
“I was—”
“Your familiar feels that your crown of words might help to heal the damage done. Now,” he added more urgently. “There has to be something left to heal.” He looked past Severn. No, Kaylin thought, watching his expression; he looked through Severn. “Teela—”
“Yes, take her and go. But Mandoran—”
“I won’t kill her.”
“Don’t get her killed.”
Mandoran snorted. He turned, caught Kaylin by the arm, and dragged her out of the dining room, leaving by the same door that Helen had taken. Helen, Kaylin was certain, had gone up. But she was also certain that up wasn’t the way to go if they needed to reach the heart of the building.
“It’s not,” Helen agreed. “I am about to lose the outer wall.”
“How long do you have, Helen?”
“Perhaps five minutes. He is not yet at his peak power; he is using borrowed power.”
“I meant, how long do you have once he does enter the house?”
“That will depend on your friends, dear.”
* * *
Kaylin noted that Helen wasn’t giving Mandoran directions, but he didn’t seem to need them. He entered what might have been a large kitchen in other homes, and found his way to what looked like a small supplies closet. Instead of buckets and brooms, there were stairs. The stairs were not well lit. They wouldn’t have been lit at all were it not for a crown of words; those words shed an even, ivory light—enough so that Kaylin could see that the stairs were a descending spiral around a central column of some sort. The curve was gentle; it was not a small circumference.
It must be the tower. From the streets, no such tower had been visible.
“Is there anything in the basement we should be worried about?” Kaylin asked.
It was Mandoran who answered. “Yes.”
She didn’t ask why he was so certain; it was clear that he was. Nor did Helen contradict him.
“Shadows?” she asked, when the silence after the bad news had stretched on too long.
“Not exactly. Follow me when we reach the bottom. Or an exit. Either will do. Step exactly where I step. Exactly. Your feet are smaller than mine; they should fit within the same space.” He grimaced. “I don’t think anyone’s been here in centuries.”
The stairs suddenly shuddered. Mandoran cursed—in Leontine. He tightened his hold on her arm as the walls moved away from the staircase—in both directions. “This is bad,” he said.
“In what way beyond the obvious?” Barrani balance was better in general than mortal balance, but Kaylin had walked narrower stretches, higher above the ground.
“Whoever he is—he’s speaking to Helen. And Helen is responding.”
* * *
Down continued for at least five minutes; Kaylin was counting seconds as she moved, knees slightly bent. The stairs shuddered twice more; on the third iteration, the tower once again expanded to fill the gap created when it shrunk. Kaylin kept one hand on the stone, increasing her pace to match Mandoran’s; she was aware the tower might once again change shape, and kept her touch light. The walls on the other side—to the right while descending—did not magically reassert their existence; there was a drop here, and Kaylin couldn’t see how far it was.
They didn’t reach the bottom. A door opened to Kaylin’s immediate left; it sprang out and almost knocked both her and Mandoran off the stairs. She had to admit she liked the way Mandoran used Leontine: as if he meant it.
The door didn’t slam shut after it had been very narrowly avoided.
“Helen?”
“She can’t answer you—not in a way you can hear. Not now.” Mandoran’s next breath was sharp enough to cut. “Now we understand why Teela was so pissed off.”
“You’ve got each other’s names—didn’t she explain it?”
“Yes. But her explanations lack immediacy. And detail. And substance. Let me go first. Remember what I told you.”
“Step exactly where you step.”
He didn’t look back. The small dragon squawked, and Mandoran appeared to be considering something. “Not yet,” he finally said. The small dragon snorted.
“Shouldn’t you be upstairs?” Kaylin asked him. “The heavy lifting is all happening there. Or at least we hope it is.”
In answer, the crown that wasn’t quite touching her head began to rotate, which made as much sense as most answers about magical battles did. The familiar, still anchored to her neck by his tail, didn’t budge as Mandoran moved to stand in the door frame. He had to release her arm to do so; she grabbed a handful of tunic just in case she needed to haul him back.
“The heavy lifting—as you say in Elantran—is meant to be a distraction. Can you hear those words?”
“Which words?”
“The ones you’re carrying.”
“No.”
“Figures. Teela can’t, either.”
“Can anyone but you and Annarion?”
“...No.”
“Can you tell me what they’re saying?”
“Lord Kaylin—they’re right in front of your face.”
“You’re calling me that to be irritating, right?”
He laughed. “Annarion feels it inappropriate. You’re going to have to let go of me, or we’ll be standing here until the ancestor arrives.”
“He’s not coming here.”
“Where else would he go? You have some understanding of the buildings the Ancients created; you know they have a core, and the whole of their power resides there.”
“She does,” Helen—who had been largely silent throughout their descent—said. “She understands possibly more than you do.”
Mandoran snorted. “She’s mortal, Helen.”
“She’s Chosen.”
“Yes—but she’s not particularly perceptive. Or bright.”
“If you don’t want me to knock you over, you might consider taking that back.”
“I didn’t say I was perceptive or bright, either.�
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She let go of his tunic and braced herself in the door frame.
“You’ll want to be careful here,” Helen told them.
Kaylin, looking at a floor that seemed to be made of solid, if worn, stone, glanced at the small dragon on her shoulder. He didn’t lift his wing until she cleared her throat. He took the hint—but he batted the side of her face first.
The floor, seen through translucent wing, looked exactly the same. “Fine. Sorry.” She looked back to Mandoran and froze—because Mandoran didn’t.
He had the same height, the same shape, the same features—well, seen from the back, at any rate—but he was translucent. Not as much as the small dragon, but she could see stone walls through the contours of his back. He was also glowing faintly. Strands of his hair moved back and forth as if caught in a crosswind, and as she watched, the trails of gentle light they left in their wake formed a weave, a pattern of some kind.
“He’s right,” Helen said, as Kaylin considered walking across the floor. “You can walk through this room, but it will not lead you to me.”
“Where will it lead me?”
“Quite possibly a laboratory or a library. There are many rooms that I chose to absorb during the time of difficulties, and their contents remain scattered throughout my...basement.”
“Are they safe?”
“No,” Mandoran said sharply. “They’re not.” He had started to walk, and he moved slowly and deliberately; he didn’t follow a straight path, but at this point that wasn’t in his character. “I’m finding this more difficult than it should be. Probably because of the noise.”
Squawk.
Kaylin followed in Mandoran’s footsteps, because she could see where his feet had touched stone; he’d left a mark that was a gray blur in his wake. She was pretty certain the mark would be invisible without the veil of dragon wing, and she moved quickly. She had always been steady on her feet, and she had learned to step lightly, to make as little noise as possible.
She could therefore walk where Mandoran lead without falling behind. But there seemed to be no pattern to the path he was following.
“He isn’t following a path,” Helen told her. Mandoran cursed under his breath. “He’s making one.”
“And you’re letting him?”
“Yes. It is challenging, I admit.”
“Could you not just open a path we could both walk across now?”
“No.”
“But the Hallionne—”
“And your Tara, yes. They could—and did—lead you into the heart of their power. I could have done so once—but I surrendered that ability to protect myself.”
“From what?”
“I did not wish to be forced to serve a master not of my own choosing.”
“But if you’re willing to let me live here—”
“Yes, Kaylin, I am. But you are not my master. And you’ve no desire to be.” The floor shook; Mandoran swore in loud Leontine as Kaylin put both of her hands on his back to steady him.
“Someone does,” he said, and he began to move more quickly.
* * *
He walked toward the door on the far wall. To Kaylin, the door hadn’t changed; it looked older, but solid; it was of scored wood, but the frame, like the rest of the room, was of stone. To her eyes—even given dragon wing—it looked as if he’d just chosen a very circuitous route instead of marching across the floor in a direct line.
When he reached the door, he stopped. He didn’t touch the handle; he didn’t try to open it. Instead, he placed both palms flat against its surface, at the height of his shoulders, and bowed his head. His hair rose in swirls, long strands twining and thickening around his shoulders, until they formed three distinct braids, which moved like rope snakes. It was disturbing.
It really didn’t help when the hair—with no visible help—rose above the height of his shoulders and drove itself—in three spikes—through the wood of the door. The door cracked.
“What are you doing?”
Mandoran didn’t answer; his hair did; it seeped between boards and through splintered wood, pulling more and more of what had been door apart. The small dragon hissed when wood bits bounced off his wing, which didn’t make Mandoran any happier.
But Kaylin understood why; the floor was shaking almost constantly. She bent into her knees, her hands still on Mandoran’s back. The door they’d entered slammed shut; Kaylin turned her head to look back at it. She hadn’t closed it; neither had Mandoran.
“I did,” Helen said. “Tell your friend he has to hurry.”
“Helen—”
“Your friends are still alive,” she replied, before Kaylin could ask. “They are fighting as we speak. Because Annarion is present, the enemy is forced to fight on two fronts.”
“He should be fighting on three.”
“On two. One is the small, physical world you inhabit. This would be much more difficult for all of us had you not brought them with you; as it is, the enemy can do far less damage while being engaged. Annarion can attack him on the same plane that Teela and Severn can. He can also attack in a different way. If Annarion were not here, there would be very, very little we could do to counter the damage he could do in that dimension.”
The closed door they’d entered shuddered. Once. Twice. Kaylin thought she heard the crack of wood.
Mandoran’s door came down first. He turned and grabbed Kaylin by the waist; before she could react, he lifted her off her feet as if she weighed nothing, and tossed her through the jagged opening. “Go!” he shouted. “I’ll hold the rear!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kaylin scraped skin off her elbow as she rolled to her feet. Turning, she looked back at Mandoran to make clear how much she appreciated this.
He wasn’t there.
Neither was the doorway.
“Helen?”
“I’m here.” Or at least her voice was. Kaylin looked around the room and discovered that room was the wrong word. It was, or it looked to be, a cave. A cave composed of alabaster, gold, and marble. The ceiling was high and rough; it rounded gently at its height. The walls closest to Kaylin were the same; if not for their color, they wouldn’t have been out of place in the average cave.
She found her footing and began to walk. The words that adorned her brow were her only source of light, but at least they left her hands free. As she headed toward what she assumed was the center of the cavern—by height of ceiling—the light began to change.
At Tara’s heart—if heart was the right word—Kaylin had seen words. And she had seen the Shadows that had slipped between the cracks of defenses that mortals couldn’t even see attempt to rewrite, revise, or destroy the words that had been written there. At the time, she had had the Tower’s Avatar by her side as she attempted to halt the damage; she had had Tiamaris, who could, if not read the words, at least recognize the shape and form they should have, without interference.
And she had spoken the words, grouping syllables that should have been gibberish into sounds that Tara, at least, could acknowledge.
The words written here were very like the words written in the Tower of Tiamaris. There were, however, far fewer of them. As Kaylin walked, her feet passed over great, black scorch marks. In places, the floor was pocked and uneven, although the stone wasn’t cracked; it looked, to Kaylin, as if it had both melted and cooled. There had once been words here.
“Yes,” Helen said.
Kaylin turned, but Helen’s Avatar was not beside her.
“I can’t be, anymore. I can only be in one place at a time. I am almost in the dining room now; the ascent and descent of the tower are more difficult. I do think the two boys could travel at greater speeds.”
“Is Mandoran still alive?”
“Of course. I do not think they will be abl
e to drive the enemy away—but he cannot kill or absorb them without power—which he is expending as we speak. I am sorry,” she added, her voice softening.
“For what?” The glow in the center of the cavern resolved itself into words, as Kaylin had expected. There appeared to be a central stone; the words that had not been destroyed ringed it in rough, concentric circles. There were far fewer words than Tara had contained; far fewer than she had once glimpsed in Castle Nightshade. Seeing the unoccupied scorch marks that occupied most of this cavern, Kaylin suspected that Helen had once had as many.
She knew what the words she carried as a crown were meant to do.
She didn’t know where they were meant to go, and wasn’t even certain their position was important.
Squawk.
But she suspected, given the noise the small dragon was making, it was. She closed her eyes. Eyes closed, she could still see the words—all of them. She could no longer see alabaster and crystal and cavern, but they were just distractions; she needed to concentrate on the words she couldn’t, without a lot of coaching, even read.
The small dragon squawked again; this time his voice was softer.
“I wish you could tell me what these said. I think I recognize one or two of them—but there are a lot more than one or two.”
Squawk.
The ground shook. In the distance, Kaylin could hear roaring. It wasn’t, sadly, Dragon roar—and this is probably the only time she would miss that sound.
“Helen—”
And I said NO. It was Mandoran’s voice. She heard it almost the same way she heard Ynpharion’s, Nightshade’s or Lirienne’s—and that was disturbing. What she couldn’t hear was who he was shouting at.
But the ground shook again, and this time—this time rubble fell from what Kaylin assumed was the ceiling. She opened her eyes, then; the last thing she needed was a chunk of much larger stone landing point first on her head.
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