She could feel her arms and her thighs. She could feel them as if they were furrowed, living stone; could feel the shape of words engraved there that she still didn't understand, and usually did her best not to think about.
But she thought about them now because they were almost her only sensation in this place, and sensation reminded her that she was somewhere. That she was, in fact, alive.
And as she did she heard words that sounded entirely unlike language. Not chanting, although she couldn't say why, because it seemed to be carried by a multitude of voices. She felt cadence in those voices, but she couldn't make out syllables; they spoke, and spoke, and spoke.
As they did, she became aware of physical sensation, a deepening of the odd tingling in her limbs. It moved, darting back and forth. As if—
As if she was being read. Literally read.
And judged. She had endured judgment in her life; had come to expect it. Some of it angered her because it came entirely out of profound ignorance. Some of it shamed her because it didn't. But none of it stood so far beyond her that she couldn't react.
The last word, the last word she heard. And felt. It resonated not across her limbs, but within her, as if it had been struck, as if she were a bell. It had a noise, and a shape, a sharpness and a sweetness, that she had experienced before—but it had been outside of her then.
Her name. The name she had chosen.
She held on to it ferociously. It took no thought, no deliberation, no active decision; it was far more primal than that. It was like fear, except that it defined fear. She felt vulnerable in ways that she had never felt vulnerable. As if this word could be riven from her, and everything she knew, thought or felt could be sucked out of it, leaving her with nothing.
She spoke it to herself, again and again, as if repetition made it more familiar. Or as if it made it hers.
But if this was what Nightshade had felt, if this was what the Lord of the West March had felt, she wondered how they could have given her what they had: how they could surrender their names to her keeping. And decided that Barrani acting lessons? She wanted them.
Easy to think of those things. Easy to think of Marcus, and his Leontine ability to be utterly himself. He wouldn't need a name, and even if he had one, it wouldn't make a difference; he couldn't be anything other than Marcus.
Easy, as well, to think of the Hawklord, his wings spread, his feet upon the ground. To think of his name, which wasn't a name, and to feel it profoundly as if it had the same meaning.
She was Kaylin. She was Elianne. They had been her identity long before she'd taken the word that was supposed to define her and give her life, and she suddenly found that the syllables of her name—her two names—replaced the ones that she had taken. She spoke these, or felt them, not as magical things, but as something more profound. Herself.
Her true self.
If she didn't understand the whole of that self, if that self changed—and it might, given it had once—it didn't matter. What she was now, at this minute, was in those two words.
The darkness parted.
She wasn't spit out; she didn't get dizzy; she wasn't disoriented; she felt it open, and then saw it open, as if it were a great curtain in which she'd been entangled.
And she saw, as it opened, that Severn, Andellen, and Samaran were standing beside her; they were ashen. The light from Andellen's hand had banked.
"I will not follow you here again," he told her gravely. His breath fell like mist from his mouth, although it wasn't cold here.
"I won't ask it." She meant it.
Samaran said nothing.
Severn shook his head once, as if to clear it, and looked up; his hands were on his chain, and his knuckles were white. But she knew that if she had to come here again, he would follow. And she knew, as well, that she would let him.
She turned from them, and looked into darkness.
"Andellen?"
"I do not know if light will come here."
"Try?"
He nodded, gathering himself as Severn had done. His sword was in his hand. She could see that, and wondered how.
But in his other hand, light did come. It hovered above the hand, rather than trailing away, as if the hand itself were a torch.
"Still not a mage?" she asked him softly.
He raised a brow but said nothing further.
They were standing in a cavern. Or half a cavern. It was bisected in the middle by something that looked like a dark gap. One that went down a long way. There was, however, a bridge. If, by bridge, one meant an outcropping of slender rock that had no guardrail, and looked like it might collapse if enough weight passed over it.
She nodded. They began to walk toward the bridge, and out of the chasm, mist rose in response, growling and snarling with familiar hunger. Voices, she thought, contained there. The mist had form and some substance; as they approached, it seemed to solidify. But it remained dark and ghostly.
Dark and ghostly feral packs. Not pack. Not just one. She started to count, and gave up at fifty. She wondered how far Severn had got, if he tried at all; the visual cue was enough. If these were real—if they became real, counting wasn't going to be a problem. There were more than enough to mean death; the particulars didn't matter to corpses.
"The answer to your question, Kaylin," Andellen said softly. He moved, but gave the impression of being transfixed. "About where ferals come from. Remember this—not all questions are meant to be asked. You may receive the answer."
"You have these in the Castle?" she asked casually.
"Not… these," he replied. She wondered if he was even aware that he had. She filed it away for future use because she desperately wanted there to be a future.
The cavern seemed to stretch out forever on either side—and the chasm followed it. Stone here was dark, and almost red in tint.
"This is why the High Halls were built," she told them all. Mostly because she was talking to herself. She approached the chasm, and saw that it was much wider than it had first looked. She stopped at the edge of the mists, and felt the ice of jaws snapping at her feet, her arms. They passed through her, and her dagger passed through them. Detente. Of a sort.
She continued to walk toward the bridge. "This is what they contain, or keep contained. This is why the Barrani rule here." Her brain raced ahead, and her mouth kept pace, but only barely.
"This is why they have to rule here. This is why the Emperor tolerates their Court in Elantra. Because if they don't rule, if they don't command the High Halls—"
And out of the chasm, mist rose, touching the midsection of the bridge. It roiled there, curling in on itself, and she could see distinct shapes and forms pass in that mass of movement; a hint of face, of fang, of claw; an arm, several arms, eyes that were too large and far too numerous.
But they fell way, all these extraneous bits, and what remained was like a giant, a thing of mist, something that might be human or Barrani writ large. They watched it take form, and the form grew distinct, although Kaylin could still see through it.
But the distinct form was no longer possibly human; it was Barrani. Tall, dark, elegant—the heart of arrogance, of all their arrogance, combined. It was anchored to the bridge they were approaching, which made approaching it seem a lot less wise.
Kaylin, not known for her wisdom, stopped walking anyway. She recognized the man. Even though the mists were dark, and the cast of his features was ebon.
The Lord of the Green.
Andellen froze then. Samaran took a step back. Severn held his ground. They were noticed, but the gaze that swept past them didn't stop until it reached Kaylin.
"Yes," it said then. "The High Halls contain them."
"You," she said automatically.
He raised a brow the color of his skin. "I am not contained," he said softly. He gestured, throwing both hands wide.
And the growling and snapping right beside them grew suddenly very real. Severn was already in motion; Andellen and Samaran were ri
ght behind him, even though Barrani were in theory faster. Kaylin's daggers were up.
She kicked the feral closest to her, and it staggered back, across the lip of the chasm. The mists swallowed it. Severn's ferals—both of them—fell headless; his chain in motion spread blood across his comrades. Andellen and Samaran were not in danger, but they followed Kaylin's example; they used the cliff's edge, and sent the ferals back into the darkness.
The darkness grew dense.
And other shapes loomed above those of the ferals.
Andellen said a single word. Kaylin had never heard it before. She didn't want to know what it meant but knew anyway; he recognized at least one of those shapes.
"Can we fight it?" she shouted.
His expression made the answer clear.
She turned to the Barrani upon the bridge. To the Lord of the Green.
"You're not Barrani," she said calmly.
"And you are not Barrani, but you are here. Why? Why have you come at the behest of these creatures who care so little for your kind? They have hunted and destroyed you in number, and they have done far, far worse in their history. I have seen it all. Would you care to witness?"
"Not really," she told him. "I believe you."
"Believe, then, that the Lords of these Halls have been tricked. They are not the masters here—they are the victims. They have been devoured, who dared to come here. They have been absorbed. They have been born, and lived their pathetic centuries, and have led themselves to us like sheep to slaughter, and we have taken them all."
"Not all," she told the Barrani.
"Some cleave to the Halls," he said with a cold shrug. "Some choose a life of service. It is a form of slavery, is it not?" He turned, then, to Andellen. "I have tasted your name," he said quietly, taunting. "I have felt your passage.
"And you have escaped once, who come again. To me. What was your reward for your service? What was your reward for your vigilance? Your name. Your servitude."
He seemed to realize that he was blathering, and drew himself up. And up. Kaylin was annoyed.
But his voice was lower and sweeter when he spoke again; it was almost paternal. She hated it.
"We were never meant to be your chains. We have been. But there is freedom from servitude, and freedom for your people, if you have but the courage to grasp it. Do you not believe that you are slaves?"
Andellen did not reply.
"Then let me show you."
The chasm rumbled.
"Let me show you what you have failed to see."
And rising from the mists, again, rising and writhing as if in torment, came not monsters, not ferals, not creatures with faces too bizarre to be faces. Barrani rose. And if the ferals had been beyond her ability to count, the Barrani here were ten times their number. A hundred times. A city was here, and a city of far greater significance than the one above. She had never, ever seen so many Barrani gathered in one place.
And these—ah—these—
Andellen was bracing himself. She could see it, although nothing about his stance seemed to change. Samaran, on the other hand, had fallen to his knees, his eyes round and so dark a blue they were almost—almost—black. Without thinking, she put a hand on his shoulder and pressed it down firmly.
He said, "My father." And lifting a hand, he pointed. "My father." In Barrani. In broken Barrani.
And one of the many thousands of Barrani turned at the single word, and he made his way through the crowd, mist dissolving and re-forming where it made contact with other mist. He walked until he stood within the ranks of the ferals that suddenly seemed so sparse.
"Samaran," he said.
Kaylin flinched. And held on. But she didn't accuse the darkness of lies. Not here. Not in the face of what she could suddenly see so clearly.
Samaran was mute.
"I came to the tower," his father continued. "When you were of age, I came. For you," he added. "You were not the son of a Lord of the High Court. And you could not be part of the Court otherwise."
"Father—"
"And here, I lost my way, and my name, and my life. And I have waited these centuries for a time when I might find it again."
They cried out in number at his last words, this host of Barrani, these dead.
She had thought the undying were bad. This was so much worse; she felt their pain. She knew them as real. She could almost call out names, they were that clear to her.
"And you have come at a time when we might almost be free," he whispered. "Will you wait for me? Will you deny me?"
Kaylin put her other hand on Samaran's other shoulder, and stood behind him. He had not faced the tower, and now she knew why. But the fact that he hadn't was infinitely more significant now.
She'd led him here. She'd led him here without thinking, without worrying, without counting the possible cost. And she had known that she would face, in the end, the darkness that the High Halls had been created as fortress against.
But she hadn't known what it contained.
And telling herself that? It didn't make her feel a whole lot better. Because ignorance was not an excuse.
"Andellen." She whispered the word.
It carried anyway, and he turned to look at her, as if for once he could find some sustenance from the merely mortal.
"You recognize them."
"I do," he said with bitter wonder. "They are—were—my people. Some of them were my kin. Some were my enemies. They are one now." And then he shrugged, and the tightness about his mouth relaxed. "They are dead."
She stared at him; could feel her jaw go slack and her eyes round and her brows stretch up to her hairline.
"They're dead?" she shouted, half shaking poor Samaran. "Look at them!"
"I can see them," he told her calmly.
"They're not dead—they're trapped!"
"They are dead," he replied softly. "The price of their freedom is too high." And he turned away.
Samaran let out a noise that Kaylin had never heard from a Barrani before; she'd heard it from other humans. Other mortals. But in Samaran, it was wrong. "Andellen—"
He joined her instantly, just as Samaran rose and attempted to throw off her hands. He was taller than she was, and he dragged her up with him as he unfolded.
Andellen hit him, hard, with the butt of his sword.
Samaran folded slightly.
"Do not let them beguile you," he snarled. Gone was neutrality; gone the icy distance that was the usual Barrani expression of anger.
Beguile? Kaylin wanted to shout. They're not trying to beguile him—they're trying to—
And she stopped.
Because it was true. They weren't trying. They were the sum of centuries spent here, in this horrible place; this was hell. And the hell was written plainly on their faces, at the core of their identities; it was their fate.
Unless someone could lead them out.
Oh, the desire was strong and terrible. But the uneasy sense that what followed would be the ferals and the other creatures was sharper.
She looked at the Lord of the Green. The only one of them—the only one—that seemed out of place. And she spoke to him, her voice shaking in fury. "You aren't Barrani," she snapped. "You're trapped here, but you aren't Barrani."
"I am almost as you see me," he said with a smile. And he lifted his gaze. "And the time is coming when I will be more." The smile shifted; his expression grew remote. Or bored.
She knew then.
"Andellen, grab Samaran. It's time to leave."
Severn, silent, watched the creature that was not quite the Lord of the Green.
"You, unfortunately, are an unexpected interference." He dropped his hands in a plunge.
And a creature stepped out of the chasm, gleaming—as the door had gleamed—ebon. Nothing about him spoke of mist; he was substantial, as the ferals had been. If "he" was even the right pronoun.
"Andellen, what is it?"
Andellen, sword in hand, said wearily, "One of the firstbor
n."
"Firstborn what?"
"The Lords of Law were not the only Lords to attempt to create life. But the Lords of Chaos were less certain, and their creations, less biddable."
"This one seems—"
"Run, Kaylin." He lifted his sword. "Run quickly." And he turned and shoved Samaran into her arms. The creature drifted toward them. It had eyes. It had too many eyes. They weren't really facing forward, or rather, they were facing in every damn direction. It had limbs, of a sort, and claws that were as long as bent swords, and it defined the color black.
It almost reminded her of a Dragon. But a hideously distorted and warped dragon, without the wings.
She would have run, but her knees locked. Some animal part of her mind told her that if she stood very, very still she could escape its notice. She wasn't significant, and she wasn't a threat. But she raised her pathetic daggers anyway, and she stood her ground. The knees not bending was a larger part of that than she wanted to admit.
It came and passed over the ferals, crushing the few who were too stupid to move out of its way. The fact that they weren't actually solid made the feat more impressive. The Barrani ghosts—it was the only way she could think of them and still be sane—fell silent, watching. They bore no weapons, no armor; they had only their voices, and those were silenced.
Severn's blade was in motion; the chain caught the light Andellen hadn't doused. The fact that it was no longer cupped in his palm didn't seem to make a difference; it was bright now.
But Severn's blade clattered against the claws of the creature; if it seemed to amble, it was damn fast. Too fast. He drew it back just before the creature severed the chain links.
Andellen raised his sword, and let out a cry that filled the cavern.
Hell was a very dark place.
But there was fire in hell. A blaze that singed hair and curled cloth; that melted the damn rock. It erupted around the creature in a glow so bright Kaylin lost sight of the rest of the cavern for a minute.