Cast in Flame (43 page)

“Which Dragon?”

Evarrim’s smile was unpleasant. “I do not believe he is a member of the Dragon Court; he is outcaste.”

* * *

Why,
Ynpharion demanded,
do you insist on cursing so constantly?

Why,
she countered,
don’t you?
She could figure out who the other two Dragons were: the Arkon and Tiamaris. Tiamaris, who had spent a good deal of time exploring the Towers and the Shadows in the fiefs before he’d claimed one of those Towers for his own.

She didn’t bother asking what they’d discovered; there was no way that information would be given to Evarrim. The other members of the Dragon Court might know—but it didn’t help Kaylin now.

The Barrani had found the ghost of a word. Kaylin hated the description; she wanted something solid and factual in its place. But true words didn’t lend themselves to solid facts. They never had. And she was sitting in the dead center of Helen’s heart; she presided, in utter blackness, over the words that the researchers had attempted to reach—no doubt to pillage or destroy for their own purposes.

They had been full of the light she associated with them when she had started her attempt to heal Helen. They had guttered the moment she’d placed the last of the six words down. Before she had put the last rune in place, nothing had changed. She couldn’t understand why the last one drained all light out of the rest.

And she could not ask Evarrim for advice or explanation. She would never, ever be rid of the bastard if she did; Helen would always be at risk.

“We consulted with sages,” Evarrim was saying. “We consulted with those among our people—and outside of it—that might give us some clue to the meaning of this rune; some clue to its function and the ability to call that function.”

“That is not how true words generally work,” was the Consort’s cool reply.

“It is not how true
names
function,” the Arcanist countered. “But there is general agreement that the words that serve as names are almost linguistically distinct from the words that serve as ancient descriptors. Over time, the researchers gleaned what they felt was enough information to at least begin; they assembled a reasonable force and entered the Tower.

“They attempted to speak the word itself. It is possible their conjectures were entirely in error, but I have seen some of their work; I do not believe it was.”

“They attempted to speak the word at the center of the Tower?” the Consort asked.

“They could not,” Evarrim replied, with barely concealed impatience, “reach the Tower’s center.”

“So they spoke this word within the confines of the Tower to no effect?”

“Indeed.”

“Thank you, Lord Evarrim. I believe you are wanted in the upper reach.”

Evarrim looked as if he wanted to argue.

Lord Evarrim is not the most controlled or measured of Barrani Lords. He is not unlike you in that fashion.

Kaylin knew Ynpharion meant no insult, but was insulted anyway. She watched as Evarrim left the chamber. He was escorted by two of the High Lord’s men; only the High Lord, Ynpharion, and the Consort remained. That, and the ghost of a complicated word.

The Consort did not likewise dismiss Ynpharion. Instead, she turned to face him. “I know,” she said, in weary Elantran, “that this isn’t your fault. Had you been responsible for waking the ancestors, you would already be dead.”

“I’m in the Ashwood Tower’s heart.”

“Of course you are. Where else would you be? I don’t understand your affinity for buildings. At the moment, I’m trying to be grateful for it.”

“Can we go back to the Dragons?”

Ynpharion helpfully added, “I believe Lord Kaylin refers to the mirror’s view.”

“No. What I do here may be the only aid I am able to tender anyone in this fight.” She raised her chin and said, to her brother, “I’m sorry. But I must ask you to leave.”

“Lord Ynpharion will bear witness to anything that is discussed.”

“Yes. But his presence is a necessity; he is the only conduit I have to the Chosen.” She exhaled and added, “If I cannot trust you, my Lord, there is no purpose to trust at all. But our best chance of escaping to join the fray is in the upper reach; the power of the ancestor does not seem to be as concentrated above the ground. There is a reason that the Dragons have not chosen to land.”

The High Lord reached out to touch his sister’s cheek. He then turned to Ynpharion. Kaylin was certain he meant to threaten his Barrani liege, but he did not speak.

Does this mean he’s going to kill you later?
Kaylin asked.

Probably.

Then maybe you shouldn’t stay.

We are not faring well against one of these ancestors,
he replied.
If you do not succeed in whatever you now attempt, we will face two. I would not grieve at your death; it is not for your sake that I am willing to take this risk.

“I don’t want Ynpharion to die for this,” Kaylin told the Consort. She spoke, of course, with Ynpharion’s mouth.

“If you were willing to actually take control of him, Lord Kaylin, if you were willing to
use
the power of his name as any one of my people
would,
it would not be necessary; I would not have to trust Ynpharion; I would only have to trust you. But you are not immortal; he is. Even if you gave me your binding, blood oath, it would last only until you died. And then, Ynpharion—with this knowledge—would be free.”

“Then don’t give him the knowledge. I’ll work it out on my own.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

White brows rose. To Ynpharion, the Consort said, “You understand the difficulty Lord Kaylin poses?”

“I would not have believed that she would be difficult in this precise fashion had I not experienced it so completely. But yes, Lady. I am willing to take this risk. Lord Kaylin, however, does not consider it a risk; she feels that she is demanding— or rather presiding over—my execution.”

“She is naive; she is not a fool.”

Kaylin, for the first time since this fight had begun, attempted to force Ynpharion to move. To move toward the doors that lead out of the chamber and away from the secret that the Consort was willing to share—with her.

She cursed him in four different languages when he fought her for control of his body; pain blossomed behind her eyes. Had she not been crouching, she would have fallen. In the dark. Onto stone.

The Consort chuckled. “She is trying to force you to leave.”

“Yes,” Ynpharion replied, through gritted teeth.

“And you are fighting her for the chance to serve—and die.”

“Yes.”

“She does have that effect, even upon the Lord of the West March. Her touch is light, Ynpharion—but if she is determined, you will both suffer. I am not entirely certain that she will win—but I am not certain that she will not. With Kaylin, incentive changes everything.”

“She despises me,” he replied, his voice far less smooth than it had been.

“Yes. And you despise her. But she is a Hawk, and she has learned that even people she despises are worthy of both life and the protection the Laws grant.

“Lord Kaylin, let me make this easier for you. I can read this word.”

Kaylin froze.

Ynpharion, unhindered by the driving force of her will, turned once again to face the Consort. She felt his surprise. No, it was more than surprise; it was shock.

“Its form is not clear
enough
that I can read it with certainty; there is some chance that I am in error.”

“You can—you can
read—
”

“Yes. It is a truth that is never acknowledged. Were it, I might be master of every single child that I chose to waken. Every one. You understand why Ynpharion’s life is now in danger. Why I sent even the High Lord from this room.”

Kaylin did.

“Understand, then, that there is a reason that it is a difficult and arduous process to find someone who might replace me. Any man or woman of power can rule. But to wake the children, to give them life, to let them go without binding or constraining them—no. To
see
the names and the meanings, to
choose
them, and to return them to their parents without ever speaking the words that will bind them forever in servitude and slavery, is no simple thing for people of power.

“Not among our kin. I am not certain that even among yours it would be so simple—but your births and ours are not the same. You can stop attempting to assert your will, now. Ynpharion knows.”

“It has long been suspected.” Ynpharion’s voice was soft, hushed.

Does she know
all
your names?

Do not ask, Lord Kaylin.

“I do not know all the names,” the Consort continued, as if Kaylin had spoken. “To speak a name, to absorb the whole of its meanings and workings, is not the same—for the Consorts—as choosing one. It gives us intuition; it gives us hope. But if you are afraid that I might look at any of the children who have left my arms and speak their names, it is both a reasonable fear and unfounded.

“And Evarrim is correct. True words are not true names. There is a difference in their function. When words such as the words at...Helen’s...heart have served their purpose, they do not return to the Lake, wherein they might, in the fullness of time, wake to life again. I will tell you the story of this word.”

“Is it a name?”

“No. No, and yes.”

* * *

The ghost of a word rotated. Kaylin squinted, as if squinting would make the trailing strands of mist more solid. Ynpharion was predictably unimpressed.

“You have done this before,” the Consort continued.

I haven’t.

Ynpharion didn’t repeat her disagreement.
What you can do with almost unforgiveable impunity, I cannot.

“I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have. If you had not, Ynpharion would not be in this room, and I would have no way to reach or speak with you. Ynpharion did not surrender his name to your keeping.”

It was true. He hadn’t. Kaylin had physically
grabbed
it. She had reached for it, in the strangely metaphysical interior of the Hallionne Orbaranne. She had held it in her hands, and she had spoken what she held without ever deliberating on
how.

“This is not a true name—not in the Barrani sense.”

“Dragons have—” Kaylin bit back the words.

Ynpharion was shocked anyway.
How is that you have managed to survive thus far?

“If you are correct, and you are standing in the heart of the Ashwood Tower, the Tower itself is—or was—willing to allow you entry. She will not work against you deliberately; she may have defenses that will act without conscious intent. You will not have
time.
”

“And if I—if I speak this word the way I spoke the other names—”

“Yes. If you speak this word in that fashion, you will invoke it. I do not think you will have control over what you have invoked—not in the way names give control—but you may have access to them. Or you may give the building itself access.”

“The building was damaged—Evarrim is right about that.”

The Consort lifted a hand. “No more. Listen, now.”

And Kaylin did.

* * *

She didn’t expect to hear singing, but the Consort sang, lifting her arms as she began. She adorned syllables with length and depth, elongating them and extending them. Kaylin had seen her do exactly this on their journey to the West March. She had, once, joined her in song at Nightshade’s behest. But he’d been singing harmony, and she’d been following it; his voice was much, much stronger than hers.

Pretty much anyone’s was; the best Kaylin could say of a good singing day was that she’d mostly stayed on tune. She understood what the Consort wanted. Reaching out— carefully—she cupped a word she could no longer see between the palms of her hands. To her relief, it was physically there. What she couldn’t see in this darkness, she could still touch.

She closed her eyes to listen; Ynpharion’s, however, remained open. The word in the mirror didn’t shift or change—but it wouldn’t. It was a Records capture of a moment in time. She wanted to know
how
the Barrani Arcanists—they had to be Arcanists—had found it at all, but didn’t ask; she concentrated, at last, on the song, and the way it made her feel.

Ynpharion was surprised—or outraged. He attempted to mostly keep this to himself. He kept this distaste for her very, very inadequate mimicry of the Consort’s song to himself as well, although she could sense its edges. This was the worst thing about having his name: no one wanted to feel self-conscious on the inside of their own head.

And she couldn’t afford it. The ground shook. The tremor beneath her legs told her it wasn’t the High Halls this time. She could hear Mandoran’s raised, furious voice: it held desperation, and a touch of fear.

What she heard, his enemy could hear.

And she needed to focus, now. On the song. On what the song said to her. On what she made of it on the inside of her thoughts. She needed, nasal, off-tune voice notwithstanding, to
sing
it. To sing it as if she meant it.

She hadn’t done this with Ynpharion. She hadn’t done it with Nightshade or Lirienne. Bellusdeo, and the recreation of her name hadn’t required it either, although she no longer even knew what Bellusdeo’s name was.

But the Consort had sung a similar song to the Hallionne, and it was the song of their awakening. Helen was a building. Helen was not, as the Hallionne had been, asleep—but the Hallionne Kariastos had been theoretically asleep when he’d lifted the water from the riverbed and taken the form of an elemental Dragon. Making dinner for a handful of guests was probably nothing in comparison.

Kaylin sang. Yes, her voice was thin and scratchy, and yes, it didn’t have the fullness of the Consort’s—but she was alone in a dark cave. No one was going to throw stones at her to get her to shut up. She had Mandoran’s voice for company, and it was dangerously intermittent. She hoped the small dragon was helping. Somehow.