Spike hummed. Sadly, it was a beehive hum, not a melody.
“You recognize these streets?” The Consort’s voice was thin.
“Not personally, no,” Kaylin replied.
“And Halls of Law Records detail them correctly enough?”
Kaylin fell silent.
“No,” Severn said. “I recognize them. The Imperial Records display of fief streets is more complete—but it is also classified. The last thing the Emperor wants is to provide a physical map of the fiefs for those who believe themselves treasure hunters.”
Kaylin stared at the side of his face. Who in the hells would think they could find treasure in the fiefs? Then again, the whole “do not enter, death here” sign would probably irritate certain people enough that they’d turn it into a test of courage, because that’s what people were like.
“And you believe that this man entered the fiefs through Candallar?”
“I have no idea where he entered the fiefs. Spike was not with him at the time, and therefore does not have a visual display of his entry. What he has is a display of his exit.”
“Spike,” Kaylin said quietly.
Spike dutifully began to re-create the Barrani lord’s exit from Ravellon.
“Can you tell us,” Kaylin continued, “why you met the man?”
“I was ordered to go to where he would be.”
“By who?”
Spike’s answer was a sound, a physical sensation, a burst of lurid color. He could see—somehow, since he didn’t appear to have eyes—that Kaylin didn’t understand the reply, and tried again.
Helen stopped him from making any more attempts. “My apologies,” she said to the guests.
But Terrano’s face was twisted in a ferocious frown. He was concentrating very hard and, at Helen’s apology, lifted a hand as if to wave her words away. Helen looked to Kaylin, and Kaylin managed to stop herself from shrugging.
Spike, however, did not repeat himself.
The Consort, blue-eyed and as steely as Sedarias at her worst, said, “Why are you certain that the intrusion into the fiefs is so intimately involved with the failure of the Test of Name?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? “I’m not.”
“You don’t speak with any lack of certainty.”
“No. But... I’ve learned with time to trust my instincts. I think that the Shadow beneath the High Halls was contained because of the danger it posed—but I think that Shadow poses a threat that is linked, always, to Ravellon in some fashion or another.
“We know that the Dragon outcaste lives within Ravellon—and we know he can leave it as he desires. The Towers don’t seem to acknowledge him.”
“I do not believe he is working at the behest of the Shadows,” Bellusdeo unexpectedly said.
“I don’t think he’s working at the command of the Shadows,” Kaylin countered. “But he’s home there, and that has to mean something. He uses shadow as power. He has his own goals. But power comes from somewhere, always.”
“And you somehow think that that power is sentient?”
“Why wouldn’t it be? Fire is sentient if you summon too much of it. Same with the rest of the elements. The reason fire magic is difficult isn’t the summoning—it’s the control of what’s summoned. But the fire has will and desire of its own.”
“Mostly to burn everything in its path, yes.”
“I don’t think Shadow is different. I mean, it doesn’t want to burn everything in its path, but it has sentience and will of its own. I just think it’s more subtle. And the more power you summon, the more that sentience grows.”
The Consort’s nod was grave; it wasn’t final. “Arcanists have attempted, for some time, to draw power from Shadow; it was originally intended to weaken the enemy. This does not immediately lead to the enemy beneath the High Halls.”
Kaylin glanced at Spike. “From what Spike said after we freed him—”
“Freed?”
“He was operating under compulsion. I’d imagine it’s very much like what you can do with True Names if you hold them and you have more power.”
Spike whirred. “It is not.”
“What’s the difference?”
“It is complete, Chosen. What those with enough strength can do is retain their memory and sanity; the whole of their being is otherwise some part of the thing that controls them. Your Dragon outcaste is not Shadow by nature; he is flexible in some fashion. He is named, but his name is complex and difficult; some parts of it have been massaged, but the whole has proved resistant to the extreme changes that would otherwise occur. And he has power of his own.”
“You have power.”
“I have a power you do not have, yes. And in the layers between states, that power is greater than yours; you are wed to your world and your physical presence in it. It is both a strength and a weakness. Helen might be able to explain it; I am...learning...but it is difficult to communicate clearly.
“The Shadow that rules exists in the heart of Ravellon, which exists in all spaces. You saw it in what you call the outlands or the portal paths. You see it here. You would see it were you to make the trek to a different world. It is the anchor that binds all things together.”
“But why?”
“Why?”
“Why is Ravellon the anchor that seems to tie everything together? Why do we even need an anchor?”
The question confused Spike, to judge by the noise he emitted. It also confused Helen, or appeared to confuse her.
“It is confusing,” Helen admitted. “Neither Spike nor I fully understand your question. There has always been a point of continuity—perhaps that’s a better word than ‘anchor’—and reality of many kinds have drifted around that center. When you have a stack of papers and an open window, it is likely that the papers will be blown about the room. If those papers were given you by Lord Diarmat, you would wish to prevent that, yes? Ravellon is the spike that is driven through those papers—each in their correct order—that prevents that drift.
“There is, of course, no Lord Diarmat, and perhaps that was an unnecessary part of the analogy. But if those papers, in total, have a meaning, that meaning might be lost or fractured should they be disordered. Ravellon was considered the heart of all worlds—and peoples of various races and various worlds could overlap there without harm.
“That changed,” Helen continued. “You know this. Shadow gained a foothold in Ravellon. We do not know why or how. There are discussions—or were—about the Ancients, the Lords of Law, the Lords of Chaos. We feel that these are inexact terms, at best.”
“They are inexact,” the Arkon said quietly. His expression was strikingly similar, at the moment, to Terrano’s. “We have stories of the beginning of worlds—but those are gleaned from the ancient Keepers in their discussions with the elements they make a home for in their gardens. And many of those distant, unknown worlds were not unknown to Ravellon. I do not believe any worlds exist which did not have doors that lead to Ravellon; any attempt to remove those doors, to remove access to Ravellon, have not met with success. And sometimes the failures have been catastrophic.
“We do not know why. But Ravellon was built as it was by beings who left no records that we could read. Perhaps Spike could, if he could access them, but I do not believe he could impart that information to those of us who might be likely to know of it. Ask why Ravellon, but ask, as well, why mountains or rivers or Dragons. Why Barrani. Why mortals in all their different compositions. Why birth, in fact, when birth seems messy and leads, often, to death. There are too many things about life itself that make so little sense there are no reasonable answers. At least not to an old and exacting scholar like myself.
“What is of interest to me is Spike’s contention that there is one lord, or one ruler.”
Spike whirred. Helen’s eyes turned obsidian, as they did when
she was concentrating; having eyes that appeared normal apparently required a good deal of effort, and her eyes were often the first thing that shifted when her thoughts were turned in a different direction.
“Not here,” Helen finally said. “And not now. I will entertain the possibility when we do not have guests to endanger.”
Spike continued to whir and click. More disturbingly, Helen joined him. The familiar on Kaylin’s shoulder squawked. To the familiar, Helen said, “Are you certain?”
Squawk.
* * *
“Is it possible,” the Consort finally said, “that the Shadowlord of whom they speak could be in control of Spike but not in control of the man who retrieved him?”
Kaylin thought about it. “Yes, I think it’s possible.”
“You do not think it’s probable.”
“I think there are two possibilities. One: the man in question is like the Dragon outcaste. He believes on some level that he is master of his own fate. If that were true, he wouldn’t be involved with, or beholden to, the creature beneath the High Halls. But he wouldn’t be the first person to—” And here, she stopped. There were some things it was not safe to know, let alone discuss. She started again, and stopped because mentioning Iberrienne in front of Eddorian, his brother, caused the latter pain.
“Sorry. Two: he failed the Test of Name, but could withstand the touch of the creature beneath the High Halls; he left the Tower having, in theory, passed that test. If it’s the latter, and if Spike is right—or if he’s saying what he means in a language most of the rest of us can understand—the creature beneath the High Halls is, in some way, in league with the Shadowlord, if that’s what you want to call him. Or her. Or them. Whatever.”
“That is incorrect,” Spike then said.
“Which part?”
“Shadowlord. That is—” Squawk. “Ah. Apologies. I find your language inexact and frustrating. I have now absorbed the entire lexicon, but it is extremely difficult to match it to actual meaning. Your peoples use the same words to mean entirely different things. I do not see how you communicate clearly. At all.” This was more than Spike generally managed to say.
“Is Dragon any better?”
The Arkon cleared his throat. Loudly. “Perhaps you will attempt to focus on the very serious topic at hand. You may interrogate him about the inferiority or superiority of other languages at a different time.”
Kaylin turned toward the Arkon. “If it’s easier for Spike—”
“It is not easier, and the only people who would understand a majority of what was said if it were are Dragons. We are guests. I have a multitude of questions I wish to ask Spike, and if I, a guest, refrain, you have a duty as host to do so, as well.”
Right. Kaylin reddened, but one glance at Bellusdeo made clear that the Arkon was the only thing in the room that could lighten the color of her eyes at all.
She exhaled. “So what you’re saying,” she said to Spike, “is the creature in the High Halls is in league with the ruler at the heart of Ravellon.”
“I do not believe that is what I am saying,” Spike replied.
Kaylin wanted to be closer to a wall so she could pound her head into it. She managed not to shriek in frustration and considered that an etiquette win.
“I am of Ravellon,” Spike continued. “And I am no longer entrapped. Because of you, Lord Kaylin.”
“I am not...” She exhaled. “So you’re saying whatever is at the base of the High Halls is, or could be, like you? That it’s not entrapped or enslaved?”
“It is difficult for the ruler at the heart of Ravellon to enslave your kind. They do not generally survive the attempt.”
“Do you mean it is difficult to enslave mortals?” the Consort asked. “Or do you refer to any of us?”
“To me, you all seem similar,” Spike admitted. “But no, in this case, I meant mortals.”
“Because we don’t have words at our core.”
“Because you lack True Words, yes. Some of the words can sustain life even under the weight of Shadow—but not many, not when the words are singular or less innately attuned.”
“Can you tell, by looking?”
“Of course not. No more can the Shadow at the heart of Ravellon. But Ravellon is contained, if imperfectly. I do not know what lives at the base of the Tower you have referenced. But there were, in Ravellon, those with a sensitivity to the language of the Ancients, and a mastery of its speech.”
“Before or after the Shadow consumed Ravellon?”
“Both before and after,” Spike replied, the words almost tentative.
“And those could see the True Words at the core of the Barrani and the Dragons?”
“Not as such, and not immediately. But they understood the tone and the feel of the words; they understood the...attenuated vibrations, and therefore found it easier to convince those who held those words to surrender them.”
“What did they look like?” Kaylin asked.
Helen immediately raised a hand. “Do not attempt to answer that question,” she all but snapped. “My apologies,” she added to the guests. “But Spike’s attempts to answer questions sometimes cause difficulty. I do not think it will cause harm, but I cannot be certain.”
Fair enough. “Spike, would you recognize a significant Shadow if you could only perceive what we perceive?”
“I am uncertain.”
“Perhaps,” the Consort said quietly, “I may be able to help. I assure you,” she added to Helen, “that any attempt I make will not cause the disturbance—the unintentional disturbance—that Spike might.”
Helen said nothing.
The Consort closed her eyes.
Ynpharion was grim, but silent; his Lady occupied the whole of his attention. He watched, discomfort and anger blending as the Consort lifted both hands and placed them, palms down, on the table. The dishes that had, moments before, decorated her place setting vanished; nothing remained between her palms and the polished, gleaming wood.
“Lady,” Teela said, her voice sharpened to an almost lethal point.
The Consort wasn’t listening. As she concentrated, Kaylin’s skin began to tingle. It went straight from tingling—which was slightly uncomfortable—to pain. In that moment, Kaylin remembered that the Consort, like many of her Barrani compatriots, was a mage. If her magic was odd and not immediately identifiable, it was nonetheless of a kind that made Kaylin’s magical allergies, as she called them, flare.
Above the tabletop, hovering inches from her hands, an image began to form. As if the Consort had summoned a Records mirror, it began in a whorl of fog and smoke, but that amorphous cloud began to condense and, as it did, to harden into an actual, visual image.
Kaylin was certain that there were things she would never forget, but memory at a distance was not as visceral as memory aided by images she could no longer clearly recall. And she recognized this one, understood Teela’s sharp tone and held her breath.
The cavernous roof opened first, as if the image itself needed to be contained, the lines of a cage drawn first. No one spoke; nothing but breathing could be heard, and most of the cohort, as Kaylin, appeared to be holding their collective breath.
Beneath the uneven surface of rock, lit only by torches, figures emerged.
To anyone raised in the fiefs, these figures were familiar nightmares: Ferals. They took the form of dogs—giant, dark dogs with faces full of fangs that made their heads seem slightly unbalanced. They formed slowly, the hints of their bodies a tangle of dark smoke that solidified as she watched. At their bristling backs, she could see other shadows embroiled in the darkness, waiting their turn—as if the Ferals were heralds.
She knew what would follow. She knew what she’d seen.
But she was wrong. The shadows behind the Ferals didn’t immediately merge; nothing bearing the face and form of a Barrani man
came to greet them. She said, “There’s a bridge,” half speaking to herself. The Consort’s illusion shifted, pulling back as Records mirrors could, to reveal the bridge of which Kaylin had spoken.
All of the Shadows were on the far side. The Ferals. The mass behind them, waiting to take shape and form. Kaylin had seen the first of the forms offered: that of a Barrani man. And she had seen—Oh. The Consort hadn’t finished. Sweat beaded her brow now, and her lips were thinned as if with pain. As if? No, Kaylin thought, there was pain. It wasn’t physical, but for someone like the Consort, that might have been easier.
The dead, in lighter fog, lighter smoke, began to fill the cavern on the other side of the bridge. The light in the darkness was contained entirely in them, and shed by them: they were pale, luminous, ghostly. And they were all Barrani.
Someone’s breath came out like a cut of sound, the swing of a blade.
The Consort did not speak. Kaylin did. “They’re all still there—everyone who failed the Test of Name. They died,” she added, as if it were necessary. When she’d seen them, it almost had been; they had seemed so full of pain, of fear, of life. “They were bound by their names, and whatever it is that lies at the base of the High Halls holds those names; none have returned to the Lake. None have been returned to the Barrani.”
“All of the dead are there?” It was Sedarias who asked.
“All of the dead who chose to take the Tower’s test—and failed.”
“And what is at the heart of the Tower?”
The Consort had not spoken a word; the whole of her reply was contained in the images she had set in motion. The shadows at the back of the Ferals shifted and twisted, and in the end, they disgorged the perfect image of a Barrani man. A man Kaylin recognized.
Teela stiffened. Severn stilled. Ynpharion’s voice froze—it shouldn’t have been audible, but was, anyway. Kaylin was certain that the second guard felt exactly as Ynpharion did. They were seeing the current High Lord. The man who had been called the Lord of the Green, and would be called that until an heir to the High Seat was born.
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