Cast in Flame (51 page)

The netting dropped by the Hawks landed in the basin. Where it touched ground, fire instantly guttered. Kaylin had never seen anything like it. Then again, she’d never seen a full mobilization of the Swords and the Hawks before—certainly not as backup for Dragons.

The Arkon roared; the ground shook. Kaylin ducked instinctively, curling over the words in her hands although magical fire and Dragon breath wasn’t going to harm
them.
The ancestor gestured; strands of net parted. The Arkon roared, and Diarmat shouted in response.

Kaylin wasn’t privy to their plans. She set the words loose and looked up as the Consort’s voice banked. The Consort herself had not moved or shifted position; nor had Ynpharion. But both wavered slightly in the air before Kaylin; the Consort looked vaguely transparent. So did Bellusdeo.

Hands empty, Kaylin rose. She covered the uneven ground in striding leaps, reaching for both Bellusdeo and the Consort. Ynpharion’s eyes widened; the barrier surrounding them let Kaylin through. She caught both women by the arm, and as she did, the marks on her arms began to glow an even, bright blue.

What are you doing?
Ynpharion demanded.

Keeping them both
here!

The Consort continued to speak as if neither Kaylin nor Ynpharion were present; as if the ancestor was not struggling to either reach her or put her out of reach—possibly permanently—of the names that he used for power. Kaylin had weakened him. She would need another hour at a conservative guess to free the rest of the names.

The Consort wouldn’t. She didn’t appear to need to touch the individual words; she only had to speak. This left Kaylin’s hands free; she tightened her grip on both Dragon and Barrani as the ancestor spoke again. The ground tilted.

Although Teela, Tain and Severn were moving in concert, none of their blows seemed to land. Some were deflected, but most were simply sidestepped. Maggaron’s luck was no better, but he was slower than either of the Hawks, and the ancestor landed a kick that sent him flying. Bellusdeo cursed softly, but didn’t move.

“I don’t think he can crack your protections,” Kaylin said, surprised.

“That is the hope.”

“But I think he
can
move the ground they’re centered on.”

“I noticed a shift in the texture of the landscape—but he’ll kill her if I move. I don’t think whatever it is he’s doing is guaranteed to end in our deaths.”

“Have you ever been in the outlands?” Kaylin shouted.

“I wandered the heart of the shadows.”

“I don’t think it’s the same.”

“No.” Bellusdeo sucked in air. Ynpharion had time to shout a warning before he was thrown clear with a metallic clang; no one could see what struck him. Bellusdeo tensed, clenching her jaw; she fell silent. The Consort raised her voice; the ancestor attempted to speak over her. Both spoke deliberately, slowly, evocatively—but the ancestor was doing it on the move. He was fighting on two fronts, one of which couldn’t be seen.

Kaylin felt another surge of magic; she could
almost
hear Evarrim’s voice. It was weak, attenuated—and she wasn’t at all certain it was because he was out of phase. She looked up to see her familiar flying in a tight circle over the edge of the basin in which the fighting was taking place.

I cannot,
he told her, before she could ask,
go to your Evarrim. Not without you. And you serve as anchor for your Consort. Evarrim will not be fighting alone for much longer.

Kaylin frowned. She started to ask what he meant.

The shouted
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY BROTHER?
told her all she needed to know. Annarion had arrived. She looked across the basin to Teela, but Teela was occupied; her cheek was bleeding, and she had drawn her left arm to her side. She could wield the sword one-handed, but was wielding it far more defensively than she had been. It was a greatsword. If she was aware of Annarion’s presence, she said—and did—nothing that indicated it.

The ancestor stumbled; Severn’s chain seemed to actually clip his arm; sparks flew.

“Teela! Is Annarion with Evarrim?”

“Yes!”

From the heights, another net fell. It had about the same effect as the first; strands were cut before they landed. This time, Kaylin watched where they fell. The netting wasn’t rope; it was metallic. It didn’t ensnare the ancestor; nor did it trap Teela or Severn. It hit the ground and lay there like a necklace snapped and lost in transit.

White fire leaped across the pit; red fire followed. The fire had come from Bellusdeo. She could, apparently, breathe and maintain a spell at the same time. Her eyes were—and had been since her arrival—crimson-red. They still weren’t as disturbing as the Arkon’s.

“How much longer?” Bellusdeo shouted at Kaylin.

Kaylin looked at the visible words. There were fewer than there had been when Kaylin had started to gather them; they were less substantial to the eye—or at least to hers. Kaylin was certain the Consort could see them. She thought that the Arkon might. “You can’t see them?”

“No.”

“Keep up the protections you’re casting—whatever they are—and I think we’ll be clear to move—” which meant pulling up stakes and fleeing as quickly as humanly possible, “in maybe five minutes. Whatever the ancestor is doing, he’s not as strong as the Consort.”

Bellusdeo snorted. Loudly. With smoke.

“It’s not as strong as what
she’s
doing
with the words.
Better?” She looked at the Dragon and added, “You fractured something.”

“
I
didn’t fracture it. Blame the ground or the ancestor. Don’t even
think
it. I can stand. I can’t run. I can’t fight
well.
But I am not mortal. I am not frail.”

“Your wing—”

“Yes. And it
cost you,
Kaylin. You would have made a terrible, terrible soldier. If we lose here, it’s the battle—and quite possibly the war. I can’t do what you’re doing—whatever it is. Do not weaken yourself further until it’s done.”

“And if I—”

“I’ll heal.” The second syllable in the sentence expanded into a roar.

She would. She would, Kaylin thought. She looked up to see Teela and Severn. They had both taken injuries in Helen’s dining room; Teela’s left arm looked broken now. But they
moved
as if injuries were minor insults—there, but not life-defining. Not life-ending. Tain was not injured—not yet; he formed most of the offense. He was wearing the Hawk and it glittered in the light of multiple spells. His eyes, at this distance, were black, as if the pupil had expanded to take up all the space.

Above them, a third net fell—a third, final net. The Aerians were far fewer in number, and Kaylin felt her throat constrict. At this distance, she could see the Hawklord. She could see Clint. She could see—of all people—Moran.

If I don’t make it, they will.

It brought her a peculiar peace, a little bit of calm. She was very, very tired.

“Kaylin—” Bellusdeo shifted in place; Kaylin felt an arm slide around—and under—her shoulders. She heard a soft Leontine curse—Leontine, from a Dragon. “You idiot.”

She was. She knew it.

“Do you think you’re invulnerable?”

Kaylin shook her head. Or Bellusdeo shook her; the motion was similar.

“Lady,” Bellusdeo said, to the Consort. “Are you finished?”

She was. Kaylin could see proof of it in the ancestor, whose movements had slowed. He was still far faster than she was; he was still stronger than the Dragons in their human forms.

The Consort’s voice receded. She turned for the first time since she’d arrived. “Yes, Lord Bellusdeo. I am in your debt.”

“It is never wise to accrue the debt of the Barrani—or so it is said.”

The Consort’s smile was tired, but sharp. “You understand.”

“Lannagaros!” Bellusdeo roared. She lifted Kaylin bodily and, to Kaylin’s humiliation, hoisted her up onto her left shoulder.

The Arkon was silent.

“We need a lift!” Bellusdeo spoke in Elantran. She moved to the edge of the basin, grimacing at the climb; she walked slowly.

The Arkon appeared at the edge of the basin—in his human form. He was, to Kaylin’s shock, bleeding; his forehead was scored, and his cheek; his armor—like Bellusdeo’s—was dented. It was worse. But his eyes were only crimson, now. “I am not,” he said, “capable of carrying you all at the moment; I do not think I could even lift Private Neya.” He glanced beyond them, his smile sharpening.

“But I do not think we need fear the ancestor anymore.” He gestured, his hands grasping air and twisting it sharply, as if the air were somehow solid.

Kaylin could only barely turn her head. “Bellusdeo, put me down.”

“Don’t,” the Arkon said, before Bellusdeo could properly ignore her. “Lady. It is time to leave.”

Ynpharion?

I am alive. I was thrown some distance, and I believe my leg is broken. I am, if the Dragon is concerned, out of the area of effect.

What area of— Oh.
The nets.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Speed is to be desired,” the Arkon added, in a pinched voice very much like his library voice.

Kaylin turned her head, which was difficult, given how she was being carried. “Teela and Severn are still fighting him!”

“Yes.”

“If it’s not safe for us we can’t leave them—”

“Private.”

“Bellusdeo—
put me down.
”

Bellusdeo did as Kaylin asked. But not until she had climbed up to stand by the Arkon’s side. She kept one hand on Kaylin’s arm as Kaylin turned toward the pit.

“Corporal!” someone shouted. The Hawklord. There were three corporals standing in the ice and stone of the ruined street, fighting. Only one of them looked up: Tain. “Now!”

Tain drove his
sword
into the ridged, malformed stone on which he’d been standing.

The strands of cut netting that lay across the ground like scattered decorations began to glow. To glow, Kaylin thought, and to
move
. They reminded her of smaller, finer versions of Severn’s weapon chain; they were delicate, and—as the ancestor had already demonstrated—easy to sever. She turned to the Arkon; he appeared to be
sweating.
Kaylin couldn’t recall ever seeing a Dragon sweat before. His hands were out, palms toward the ground, fingers bent—and moving.

He reminded her, in that moment, of a puppeteer.

And the chains responded as if he were; they rose like slender, flashing snakes, twisting and spinning in place. Fire bounced off them, as it did off Severn’s chain. Severn had one. The chains on the ground, finer and more fragile, were many. Tain shouted Severn’s name, and Severn shook his head; his own chain was in motion. Kaylin understood that he meant to retreat, and that he meant Tain to grab Teela and make a run for it.

Since grabbing Teela without her express permission or desire was courting a different kind of death, and the Hawklord was shouting orders, Tain settled for second best: he caught her, shifted his grip and tossed her over the edge of the basin that fire and magic had formed.

He then leaped up himself. This left Severn. Only Severn.

Kaylin held her breath.

She looked up to see her familiar, tracing the same circumference in the air that the basin occupied on the ground. A giant, translucent dragon was impossible to miss—but none of the Aerians in the air, none of the Hawks on the ground—and the Hawks were here, if Tain’s presence was any indication— seemed to notice him.

No one but Kaylin noticed when he suddenly dived, folding wings and plunging groundward. No one flew into him, and he struck no one on his way down—but the Aerians avoided the flying masses of the Emperor and Sanabalis; they didn’t alter their flight paths to avoid the equally spacious familiar. The Hawks on the ground did feel the earth shudder as he landed in the center of the basin, which seemed to Kaylin’s eye to be a field of slender, spinning stalks. The ancestor’s magic, severely interrupted, didn’t burn Tain; it didn’t—more importantly, and she felt guilty even thinking it—harm Severn.

Severn could see the familiar.

So could the ancestor. His back, black hair unimpeded by anything as everyday as knots, was turned toward her; she couldn’t see his expression. She could hear the silence that fell across the basin as he lifted his head and faced the familiar.

The familiar roared.

The ancestor spoke in a language Kaylin didn’t recognize. She wondered if it was a language that could be taught to the merely mortal, or if only Dragons—and possibly Barrani—could speak any part of it.

The familiar replied. This time, his voice was modulated; it sounded—to Kaylin’s ear—like Elantran did when pushed through a throat the size of a cart horse. A Dragon’s voice.

The ancestor spun, turning, his eyes bright and widening as he met Kaylin’s steady gaze. He continued to speak, his voice high with disbelief. The Arkon grabbed Kaylin by the shoulders and spun as fire enveloped them.

“Put me down!” Kaylin shouted. The Arkon didn’t seem to be impervious to this particular fire; his beard was singed. His hair. Barrani hair, she was certain, would have been untouched. Kaylin wondered at the differences between immortal hair—and at her own unbelievable stupidity in even thinking about it at a time like this.

Her arms were awash with blue light. She reached out and grabbed a handful of the Arkon’s hair, and the small fires guttered against her palm, as if they were the weakest of candlelight.

“Yes,” the Arkon said, releasing her—although he didn’t look happy about it. “He is your familiar. But Kaylin—” He shut up before the rest of the warning could leave his mouth. “Go. Go while our protections still have effect.”

* * *

She stumbled into the basin, legs shaking. She cursed. She drew the first dagger of the evening, although she was pretty certain it would be useless, here. She wasn’t even sure why she had entered the basin until she heard Annarion’s voice.

What have you done with my brother?