Cast in Flame

by Michelle Sagara

  The fourth was like gossamer. It seemed impossibly delicate. She could imagine herself chiseling—badly—any of the first three; the fourth would defeat her before she’d started. The lines seemed to both cross and curve into one another; it was hard to tell, looking at the writing, which element had been laid down first, and which had followed. There were just too damned many parts. She had no sense at all what this word meant, even as she carried it, searching for its place. It was so complicated in appearance, she thought it must mean something that made sense to a specific type of Immortal—the type that got turned into buildings.

  It reminded Kaylin of the words she had once seen that were, in total, the name of a world, an entire world; she could study it for the whole of her life and never truly understand the entirety of its meaning. Hells, she could barely find the meaning in her own life on a bad day.

  She didn’t have to understand. She told herself this. But there was no place for this fourth rune; it seemed to match none of the spaces that had been created when other words had somehow failed or been destroyed.

  She frowned and returned it to its orbit, and it went. She dealt with the fifth and sixth runes first.

  The fifth felt like responsibility or duty or honor or something similar; it shone. Even in her palms it seemed to rest above her touch, as if it were meant, always, to be a little bit out of reach. It almost made Kaylin feel uncomfortable—as if, somehow, the word itself was judging her. But it didn’t mean judgment, not exactly. Kaylin understood the whole being judged thing.

  It wasn’t the judgment of others. It was her own judgment. It was comprised of both the harshness and the forgiveness that one aimed at oneself. None of her Elantran words encompassed it until she set it down and began to walk away.

  Self-respect.

  This entire endeavor had become surreal. Not that most of Kaylin’s encounters with true language had ever been anything else. But she had an ambivalent relationship with self-respect, and understood why it had hovered just out of the reach of her palms. She couldn’t imagine that Helen needed whatever the word would give her—but she often couldn’t imagine that anyone else did, either; everyone else seemed to have the self-respect that Kaylin struggled so hard to reach.

  * * *

  She held the second to last of the words in her hand; she was walking along the second circle of carved, glowing runes. The word was smaller and tidier than any of the others; it was simpler, as well. It reminded her of Maggaron’s name—the name that he no longer possessed.

  It meant honesty. Or truthfulness. Or truth. And truth was such a personal thing, in the end. As a Hawk, she’d come to understand, very early, that no two people experienced an event the same way; witness testimony differed. Sometimes the differences made you wonder if the witnesses had even been standing on the same damned street—but the witnesses believed that their version of events was the only version.

  Kaylin, who had believed at age thirteen, that everyone lied, wasn’t offended at what she assumed were lies—but she was almost shocked when the Tha’alani made clear that they weren’t lying. The witnesses were attempting to fully cooperate with the Hawks; their testimony was true—to them. It just didn’t match the testimony of other witnesses.

  Which made police work much more difficult.

  Kaylin had come to truth the hard way. Truth was what you offered when everything else had been stripped away. It was a bet with stakes so high even the fieflings would have steered clear of it if they had any other choice.

  Or it had been. But time spent with the Hawks had reminded her that not all truths were dark and shameful; not all truths were so large they threatened to crush the rest of life with their weight.

  It was true that given the choice, Kaylin would rather help people than hurt them. It was true that she would rather be a Hawk than one of Barren’s enforcers. She would rather be a Hawk than anything else. It was also true that she wished the pay were better—but it was money she’d earned, and it put a roof over her head, and she had enough left over to give to Marrin and the Foundling Hall.

  It was true that she loved her friends. It was also true that the word love was so embarrassing it wasn’t used often in the office, except by Caitlin when she was maudlin. It was also true that no one resented it when Caitlin used it, although Marcus did growl.

  All the little truths existed, side by side with the hidden ones. And if they weren’t large and significant in the same way, she’d built up enough of them that she could shoulder the weight of the past without breaking.

  And she could see why Helen might need that. Kaylin couldn’t wrap her head around the Ancient’s concept of a building. But maybe everything in the ancient world had been sentient and immortal. In the end, she wasn’t here to judge; she was here to find a home.

  But if this was just some kind of near-suicidal game, she was going to be pissed off.

  “It’s a little extreme, even for me,” Helen replied.

  “I’ll quibble with your use of the word little later,” Kaylin said, kneeling to fit the last, stark word into the spot she’d chosen for it. Nothing changed, of course.

  She reached up to the light that adorned her brow; there was only one word left, a word that could be the entire name of a world, but in miniature. This mark had risen from her skin. She’d seen it. But no runes on her skin had ever looked like this one. She was fairly familiar with the runes themselves, thanks to the modern miracle of Records capture—and playback.

  Without giving herself time to doubt her decision, she strode decisively toward the center of the room—toward what was, she suspected, the center of Helen. She knelt, the tips of her toes overhanging a word or two as she positioned herself, and set the last word down.

  The lights went out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Kaylin froze in place. Without the light cast by the words, the room was completely dark; there were no moons and no stars because the sky was a rounded curve of white rock. Even the marks that adorned the visible portion of her arms shed no light. She was alone with the sound of her breathing—when she started to breathe again.

  Cursing followed breath, as if one was a consequence of the other. There was no way for Kaylin to retrace her steps and rearrange the words she’d set down; the best she could possibly hope for was that she could walk around those words without knocking them over or stepping on them.

  It was easy to doubt herself in the darkness—always had been. It was easy to doubt that she’d done the right thing because she had no idea what the right thing was supposed to be.

  “Helen,” she whispered.

  Silence.

  Lord Kaylin.

  Of all the voices she’d expected to hear, Ynpharion’s was not one. She was, however, grateful—for about two seconds.

  Lord Kaylin.

  I’m here. We’re having a bit of difficulty at the moment.

  As are we. The Dragon Court emerged from the Imperial Palace; they joined Bellusdeo. The Lady says the Emperor ordered her to retreat.

  She can understand Dragon?

  Some of it. I did not understand the spoken words—if they can be called words at all—but the meaning was unmistakable. If it is at all possible—

  I can’t leave. I’m in a large cave with no exits. In the dark. I mean, pitch-black dark. Lord Teela and her friends are holding off the other non-Barrani ancestor, and he’s not dead yet.

  She felt Ynpharion’s fear. It was not for, or about, himself.

  The High Halls can’t be in danger from one man—I don’t care how powerful he is.

  We are not directly in danger at the moment; the arrival of the Dragon Court diverted the enemy’s attention. But—Lord Kaylin— he fell silent.

  It was a bad silence. What? What’s happened?

  We cannot leave the High Halls.

>   Pardon?

  The exits are blocked.

  By what?

  Magical barriers. They are not, however, inert. We have made three attempts to bring the barriers down; we have made two to circumvent them in other ways. There has been one death and two moderately severe injuries. The High Lord is now consulting with the Arcanists who were within the bounds of the Hall themselves when the barrier was erected. Given the events after the assassination attempt on Bellusdeo, that is almost all the extant Barrani Arcanists. We have attempted to lend aid to the Dragon Court in other ways—but we are stymied.

  Ynpharion paused; Kaylin could almost hear a shouted Barrani order. She recognized the voice that conveyed the command; it was the Consort’s. The Lady has asked that you observe the streets.

  Given the darkness of this isolated chamber, Kaylin nodded; Ynpharion sensed assent, but even if he hadn’t, he would have obeyed the command he’d been given.

  “Lord Kaylin,” the Consort said. Kaylin concentrated until she could see the platinum-haired woman who had the sole responsibility of waking the newly born. She saw her, of course, through Ynpharion’s eyes. Once again, Ynpharion didn’t fight her intrusion.

  “She is listening, Lady.”

  “Come to the mirror, Ynpharion.”

  Do the mirrors work?

  Yes. We can relay messages to—and from—Elantra. No one can enter the High Halls; no one can safely leave. There is one possible avenue that is even now being attempted. He didn’t seem to be confident of success. Ynpharion, while speaking to Kaylin, had crossed the polished marble of an interior room; he joined the Consort in front of a tall, oval mirror, resting upon the clawed likeness of taloned feet.

  The reflective surface of the mirror had already parted. A line had appeared in the mirror’s center, traveling from top to bottom; on either side of that line, silver undulated and retreated. What was left in the mirror’s view were the very familiar and upscale streets that led to the High Halls. They were not often traveled by any but the rich and the powerful; this close to the High Halls, even the Swords didn’t bother with perfunctory patrols. No one outside of the Barrani themselves would be stupid enough to attempt to steal or vandalize anything behind the significant fences that marked Barrani property—and Barrani had their own ways of dealing with their troublemakers.

  “Lord Kaylin,” the Consort said. “Do you recognize all the Dragons present?” The mirror view shifted, streets giving way to sky.

  Tell her that Dragons don’t remain one color. Having said that, she added, I recognize Tiamaris. And Bellusdeo—she’s the large, golden one. What are the spikes on her neck?

  I am not a Dragon, Ynpharion replied. But in general they would indicate distress or fury.

  Fury, Kaylin told him. I think the blue is Emmerian. No, not that one—the blue on the left. The larger one is probably Diarmat. If you’re repeating these to the Consort, can you add ‘Lord’ in front of all the names?

  He was almost disgusted with the pettiness of the request—which was fair. The mirror’s view continued to pan the sky, pausing as Kaylin identified the draconian forms of the Dragon Court. In the night sky, Sanabalis looked almost silver; she was certain that he was actually gray.

  When the mirror’s eye reached a Dragon she didn’t recognize, her ability to form cogent thought paused for a moment. He looked black, to her eye—black and larger than any of the others, except perhaps Bellusdeo. Even thinking of her would-be roommate seemed to shift the mirror’s view; it pulled right back, framing the Court as it moved. Kaylin could now see all the aerial Dragons—and her jaw dropped when the golden Dragon suddenly roared and flew—at full speed—toward the black one, knocking him two body lengths across the sky.

  Before words could frame her shock, lightning did. It drove skyward from the ground, clipping one golden wing.

  Bellusdeo roared. The mirror made the sound small; Kaylin’s imagination and experience enlarged it. The golden Dragon tumbled toward the ground; the great black Dragon caught her, roaring, as well. Kaylin realized that she’d been wrong about his color; he wasn’t black. He was a very, very deep indigo; the gold of Bellusdeo’s scales brought blue highlights out of the darkness.

  If Kaylin had entertained any doubts at all, she had none now. It’s the Emperor, she whispered. And Bellusdeo’s been hurt.

  And she was. She flew toward the ground—the ground beyond the fence. She had, Kaylin thought, saved the Emperor.

  And the Emperor, damn him, was going to be a raging berserker because of it. She was stuck in a windowless, doorless, dark cave and she could practically feel his rage. Had she been close enough in person, she would have smacked him.

  Which was probably the fastest route to suicide known to Elantrans.

  Ynpharion—what’s on the ground? Is it the—the Barrani ancestor?

  Yes. He has destroyed half the street; the Dragon Court has destroyed the other half. Their fires do not kill him; his protections are too strong. His magicks on the ground are much, much stronger; it is the reason the Court has remained in the air.

  Kaylin frowned. How do you fight him, then?

  In number, Kaylin. In great numbers. The Dragon Court could—we believe—destroy him. But it is not a certainty, and they will not all survive the attempt. We have weapons in the High Hall that have some effect against their sorcery—but we cannot leave the High Halls to join the Dragons. We have tried.

  One of the Dragons is missing, Kaylin said. Ynpharion passed this on, and the Consort looked into—and past—his eyes. “The Arkon,” she said.

  Kaylin nodded; Ynpharion nodded. For a moment, they were almost one person; she found it uncomfortably disorienting.

  “Will he come, Lord Kaylin?”

  “Yes. Yes, he’ll come.”

  “He doesn’t leave his library often.”

  “No. But for Bellusdeo, for his Emperor, he will.”

  “You are certain?”

  Kaylin nodded. She was.

  “Good. I believe your Arkon is our only hope. I understand that you face one of these creatures now.”

  “Not me. I’m in the bowels of an ancient building trying to rebuild its defenses so the much less significant force stationed here doesn’t die.”

  “Which building, Lord Kaylin?”

  “I don’t know how well you know the city, but we’re on Ashwood.”

  The Dragons in the mirror disappeared as the Consort gestured; they were replaced by a map of the city. “The Halls of Law are mobilizing,” the Consort said, as the map solidified. “I believe the Swords and the Hawks are being called up, en masse.”

  Kaylin stopped breathing for one long moment; it took that long for the words to make sense.

  “You are here?” the Consort asked, as if the information she’d just relayed—which amounted to the probable massacre of everyone with whom Kaylin had ever worked—was of passing, casual interest. Ashwood, as seen by city Records, loomed into view.

  Tell her yes. Please, she added.

  “One moment, Lord Kaylin. If possible, please retain the connection.”

  Kaylin would have been furious in any other circumstance—but she was sitting alone in a dark cave with no entrances and no exits; she had nothing better to do. It occurred to her that the Consort was likewise trapped within the High Halls, although in much posher surroundings. Men in armor appeared closest to the mirror. Kaylin recognized one of them immediately.

  The High Lord. He frowned, his eyes narrowed to indigo edges. “What is this?” he asked the Lady. His tone didn’t imply that she was wasting her time—it implied suspicion and grave concern. Kaylin decided irritation would have been preferable.

  “You recognize it?” the Consort asked, voice cool. Her tone implied that not even the High Lord was allowed to speak to her with open suspicion; not in fro
nt of witnesses.

  “Yes.” He turned to the side and said, “Summon Lord Evarrim immediately.”

  Great. Just what she needed: to be a passenger in the mind and body of someone who mostly wanted her dead, listening to Evarrim while the Hawks and Swords crowded into the streets as fodder.

  “Lord Kaylin,” the Consort said. Her voice was far less stiff than it had been when she’d addressed her brother. “This may be of import. I understand it is difficult for you.”

  For me, Kaylin thought, with a sudden rush of guilt. What must it be like for Ynpharion?

  It is...bearable, to my considerable shock. This is not the way I would have chosen to serve the High Lord—but I believe it is necessary; no other could do what I have now done.

  But they know.

  Yes. But you are much in the Consort’s favor, and the High Lord owes you a debt. I can almost believe that they will not look at me with the utter contempt I would have expected. I am oddly grateful at this moment.

  It won’t last.

  She felt a hint of bitter amusement. Gratitude seldom does. Ah, Lord Evarrim is here.

  And he was. He had replaced the burned out ruby that adorned his forehead at the height of a slender tiara; his eyes were as dark a blue as everyone else’s. As he caught sight of the mirror, their shape shifted into something more round.

  “What is this?” he all but demanded. “Is this where the enemy originated?”

  “No. It is our belief that the enemy came from the fief of Nightshade.”

  “So. The rumors were true.”

  “Indeed. It is possible I owe my father an apology; it is fortuitous that I will not be forced to tender one.” The High Lord’s father, Kaylin knew, was dead.

  “You are certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, then, is this section of the city now under observation?”

  “It is where the second of our enemies has traveled. It is under attack now.”

  Evarrim said something in High Barrani that Kaylin had never heard; she was almost embarrassed by the speed at which she committed the syllables to memory. Ynpharion was, once again, disgusted. “He must be stopped.”