Cast in Flame (38 page)

She drew closer to him as he spoke. Close enough to feel the burning edges of his shame and humiliation; it was not nearly as suffocating as it had been when she first made contact with him, even this evening, but she understood how much effort it took on his part. Everything in him screamed to fight; everything except the reason he had made contact with her.

Her eyes blurred as her vision shifted to the familiar audience chamber—which was mostly forest and a bit of clearing—in the High Halls. She could see the High Lord; he was not seated; she could see the Consort.

It was the Consort who looked directly at Kaylin. She could hear the formal tones of High Barrani, wrapped in the urgent pragmatism of a war band. For now, for tonight, all bitter political rivalries and plotting would be set aside, as if they were of no consequence.

“Lord Kaylin,” the Consort said. Kaylin froze. She could hear and see the Consort so clearly she might have
been
Ynpharion for that moment.

She didn’t speak, but realized suddenly that she
could.
Ynpharion had moved aside; he had opened himself up entirely to her intrusion. The Consort spoke again, but her words were drowned out by the roaring of a Dragon.

No, Kaylin thought, freezing in place. Not
a
Dragon. More than one.

Where are they?
she asked Ynpharion.

They have not yet arrived. Do you—

Yes. Bellusdeo is definitely there. I bet she flew straight from here.

She was with you.

Yes. We’re in—we’re in as safe a spot as we can be, given the danger. The High Halls are not like the Hallionne or the Towers in the fiefs; we weren’t certain what the—the Barrani ancestor could do. Bellusdeo flew out to rouse the Dragon Court; my guess is she didn’t bother to land. There is
no way
the Emperor would have allowed her to fight for—and in front of—the High Halls. Not after the assassination attempt.

She is not alone.

No—she’s not. I don’t understand Dragon speech; I can feel it more than I hear it. If she’s flying around the High Halls roaring for aid, the Emperor will probably send the
entire
court. He’ll probably join them. Whatever you do, don’t attack her. Don’t let
any
of the Lords attack her.

You will not tell the Consort yourself.

...No.

Even if she is aware of your presence.

No. Because then
everyone
will be aware of it. I
know
this is bad for you. It looks bad. It’s a mark of inferiority. All that crap. But she has to understand your mettle, here. Yes, in theory I could have forced you to carry word. I could have used your name against you. But...I didn’t have to. You were willing to risk the loss of everything you’ve struggled to build in order to save your people.

You seem surprised.

I am. Tell her what I’ve said. Bellusdeo will not harm you; the Emperor will not. But—

Lord Kaylin? Lord Kaylin!

The wall cracked and a section the width of two men toppled inward.

* * *

Kaylin was on her feet before the dust had settled, daggers in hand, small dragon around throat. Severn’s chains were now a sheen of translucent circles, although he held the end blade in his left hand. The Ferals had no need to try to leap in through the shattered window’s frame; a path had just been made for them.

The Ferals were no threat to Teela. The man—who definitely would be—hadn’t followed the Ferals in through the gaping hole he’d made in the building’s side, and Kaylin risked a glimpse out the jagged opening. He was still on the street-side of the fence. The fence, without dragon wing to translate the visual image, was battered and dented; the tops of the tines which were well above Barrani heads had been damaged enough they now curled—or dripped, which was disturbing—toward the ground.

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.”

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.”