“She bears more words than you yourself house,” the familiar replied. He glanced, briefly, at Mandoran, and then more pointedly at Kaylin. She flushed and turned her attention back to her hands, to the Shadow that surrounded them, to the Shadow that had already invaded them and was seeking further entry.
She felt no pain.
No wonder Bellusdeo hadn’t noticed the injury.
The familiar’s gaze was fixed on the outcaste. “I will ask you, once, to cease what you are attempting.”
“And if I do not?”
“I will not ask again.” The familiar rose. His wings were spread, but he didn’t actually move them; he didn’t flex them; he didn’t flap them.
Mandoran’s hair was beginning to stand on end. In this world, where color was skewed, he still looked pale and nauseated to Kaylin’s eye. She looked at her own hands and froze; her skin was translucent. The Shadow wasn’t. But this Shadow didn’t sprout random eyes or mouths. It had no voice that she could hear. It moved, yes—but it moved the way fire might, if there was nothing to get in its way.
Mandoran hissed. It was an almost catlike sound. He yanked his hands back, and strings of Shadow followed. Without looking up, he said, “Breathe on it.”
This confused Kaylin for half a second, until she realized he was speaking to the familiar.
“I am not certain that’s wise.”
The Shadow strings thickened, becoming both irregular in width and almost mucus-like. Kaylin saw that although the Shadow continued to attempt to snake its way up the inside of her arms, it was also attached in the same way to Mandoran.
“Wise?” Mandoran almost shouted. “Just—do something with it—get it off!”
The outcaste smiled. It was almost, but not quite, gentle. “If you are as you appear to be, it will not harm you.” He frowned as he glanced at Kaylin.
“You’ll pardon me if I don’t take your word for it,” Mandoran said.
“My pardon is irrelevant.” He was staring at Mandoran now.
Kaylin was staring at the Shadow. Those tendrils that had wrapped themselves around the words on her skin—even the flat ones that should have had no dimensionality—were different. The transformation was subtle, and it had happened slowly. They were becoming transparent, just as Kaylin’s skin looked transparent to her eyes.
The outcaste didn’t appear to notice.
She could move her hands. She could control her own movements. Knowing what had happened to Margot, this wasn’t a given. As she moved them, she noticed that the Shadow tendrils didn’t move with them. This was more disturbing.
Mandoran and the outcaste seemed to be more solid here. Mandoran, who had accidentally gotten himself stuck in a wall. A wall. Mandoran could travel in ways most people who lived in the city couldn’t; he was learning how not to do that.
“Shadow,” the outcaste said, “has much to offer you and your kin.”
“My kin are dead.”
“That is not what I meant by the word kin. This world—her world—is confining. It is a narrow cage. We accepted its boundaries. We tried to remain within them. But it is not natural, to us.”
“It would have been,” Kaylin interjected, “for Mandoran and his cohort. Without the ceremonies performed at the heart of the green, it would have been.”
“Does it matter?” The outcaste looked at Mandoran. “What was done cannot be undone. I perceive you now: you are trying to limit who you are and who you can be in order to live a diminished life. You are trying to adapt to the rules of people who will not—and cannot—adapt to you.
“Do the Barrani even understand what you are?”
“I’m Barrani.”
“Is that your decision? Is that your choice? Unlike almost all of the people you know, you have other options.”
Kaylin thought of Terrano then. Of the cohort exposed at too early an age to magic they could not reject, Terrano was the only one who had had no desire to come home. He was happy in the outer worlds that people like Kaylin couldn’t see and would never be aware of.
“Why,” she asked the outcaste, “are you even here?”
He did turn to look at her then.
Kaylin’s translucent hands clenched in fists. “One of Mandoran’s friends chose not to come back. He could see the name he had once had. He could see that it didn’t fit him. He wanted the full range of possible lives he could live. He didn’t have a lot of interest in the Barrani or their politics or their wars. He wanted his friends to have the same choice—but he let them make a choice he couldn’t make.
“Why are you here at all, if you have all of that? Why didn’t you just walk, or fly, away?”
There was silence for one long beat, and then the outcaste roared.
* * *
This roar, unlike the attenuated and oddly distant roars of the other Dragons, reverberated. Kaylin shook with it; the ground beneath her feet shook with it.
The familiar, in his winged and almost human form, roared back in response. It was, note for note, the same sound as the outcaste’s, as if sound could be mirrored exactly. She felt it the same way.
But the Shadow that loosely bound her to Mandoran responded differently.
The outcaste’s eyes rounded; they lost some of the midnight blue that was characteristic of Barrani. No normal Dragon color replaced it. Here, in a world that was very like the real one, but sapped of color and almost transparent, he began to change shape.
Kaylin had watched Dragons shift from their mortal to their Draconic forms. It was interesting in a way that destroyed appetite the first time; it was almost natural to her now. Watching the outcaste reminded her of the first time.
Here, the mechanics of the shift in form were far less fluid, far less natural—if that kind of change could ever feel natural to someone who was stuck in a single body. He did not transition in one flowing movement, flesh becoming small scales, small scales gaining both color and size. The scales did come, but everything about their appearance was jerky; it wasn’t so much transition as...building.
But his scales here were black. They were black like dark opals; they were glimmering and iridescent, scattered through with oddly bright colors. Those colors moved from scale to scale, as if the body was landscape or canvas.
“Kaylin,” Mandoran whispered.
She turned, mouth half-open, toward him, and froze. Again.
The Shadow whose incursion she had all but halted had spread up through his arms to his shoulders, and across them. To get into Kaylin, the Shadow had to work. To invade Mandoran in a similar way, it clearly didn’t.
She reached out to touch him; realized her hands were still webbed with Shadow. It was thinner now; the bulk of it had traveled to Mandoran.
The familiar roared again, and this time, when the outcaste used his Dragon voice, the rest of his body matched it. She assumed. She was staring at Mandoran, at the Shadow.
It had no name. It had no will that was not the outcaste Dragon’s will. She had no way of calling it back, no way of diverting its attention; she would have, if it were fire. Fire’s name, she knew.
Shadow had no name. No single word to define it.
Annarion appeared by her side, sword in hand; he tried to cut through the strands that bound Kaylin to Mandoran. The familiar roared at him, and his blade stopped an inch above the webbing. Kaylin didn’t understand what the familiar said; Annarion clearly did.
He was afraid.
Mandoran was afraid.
It was why she couldn’t really think of either of them as Barrani: they were too open, too honest with their emotions and reactions. Teela would have been impassive. Tain would have been the same.
Ynpharion, she shouted.
I am here.
Ask the Consort what I should do—how do I stop this? How do I save h
im?
Silence. A beat. Two. Kaylin stopped herself from repeating the question at greater volume only with effort. She had no intention of giving in to panic.
Of giving in any more than you already have. Even his condescension was better than silence. The Consort says she does not understand what, exactly, you face. She does not understand your compatriot. She would like to meet him in future, he added, in a tone that implied he strongly disapproved, but for now, she has no advice to give you.
Kaylin wilted.
She says, however, that in your position, she would plead her case—very quickly—before the praevolo.
What?
Very quickly.
* * *
The familiar and the outcaste—both in Draconic form, and neither actually Dragons—clashed. Scales sparked, scraped; the air moved as they roared. Kaylin turned to Annarion, who was ashen.
“I can’t touch him,” she whispered. “And you shouldn’t. We need to find Moran.”
“Moran? What can she do?”
“I don’t know. But she’s the praevolo, and this is the Aerie. Do you know where she went?”
“I was kind of busy,” was his curt reply. “But I’ll find her now.” He was gone before Kaylin could argue. She was grateful. In the meantime, she gritted her teeth, grabbed the strands of Shadow, and pulled.
* * *
Some of the strands were solid enough that she could. They were the strands that had wound themselves around the marks on her arms, slightly dimming their light. They hadn’t changed those marks; Kaylin assumed the Shadow hadn’t been changed by them, either.
But that, she saw, was wrong. They were more solid. She could—and did—loop them around her own palms. She had control of her hands. Mandoran had lost voluntary control of his. His eyes were wide; he clearly hadn’t lost control of his mouth, because he was cursing. In Leontine. Kaylin found this a comfort.
Hands bound by specific lines of Shadow, Kaylin put her weight behind them and pulled.
Mandoran flinched. He didn’t scream. He didn’t demand to know what she was doing. “Teela’s swearing at me.”
“If that’s all she’s doing, you’re fine. She swears at everyone.” She wound the lines as tightly as she could, and said, “Sorry about this.” She pulled again. She could see his face stiffen, his skin pale. And she could see that some—not all—of the Shadow tendrils were retreating.
She wondered if she wanted that. If somehow these strands of Shadow had been altered or changed enough, maybe she didn’t want to leave only the unaltered Shadow to do its work.
This wasn’t like healing. She was afraid to touch Mandoran because there was Shadow in and around her hands, and it had clearly done him no good.
“Annarion’s found Moran.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Good and bad.”
“Just give me the bad part.”
“Some of the Caste Court is trying to kill her.”
Kaylin cursed. “Give me the good part.”
“She’s got a Dragon on her side.”
The Emperor was with Bellusdeo in the cave. “Which Dragon?”
“How in the hells would I know?”
“What color is the damn Dragon?”
“Blue. Oh, no, wait, I was wrong.”
“He’s not blue?”
“There’s more than one.”
“How could you miss a Dragon?”
“I have other things on my mind at the moment. And before you ask, the other one is also blue.”
* * *
Blue meant Diarmat, which was bad, and possibly Emmerian, which was neutral. If the Aerians were stupid enough to attack Moran while she was being defended by Dragons, they deserved the death that was coming. Kaylin viscerally felt they deserved it anyway, but that wasn’t the Hawk speaking, and she’d learned the hard way to let the internal Hawk make the choices.
“Umm,” Mandoran said. It was almost a hiss of sound, without the sibilants. “There might be another problem.”
Of course. Of course there was. “The Caste Court isn’t normal.”
He nodded. “Whatever the pretender did, it’s spread. Annarion has gone back for the Arcanist.”
“What good will the Arcanist do? This is probably all his fault.”
“He probably knows exactly what was done. Look—I’m not any happier than you are. But—keep pulling.”
* * *
She didn’t watch the two non-Dragons fighting; she couldn’t help but hear it. She did look up, once, when one of them cried out in pain; it was the outcaste. In the thinner color and light of this cave that was a half step removed from the cave everyone else seemed to be occupying, she could see that the outcaste was bleeding.
His blood was not, as she half expected it would be, black; it was red. It was a bright, scarlet red.
And she remembered that Teela had come with a sword. She didn’t know the sword’s name, and it didn’t matter. Teela wasn’t here, she was there. But Kaylin was positive that the wound that was bleeding here was also bleeding in the real world. Or in Kaylin’s world. This one was also real—but it wasn’t hers. It wasn’t where she belonged.
It wasn’t where Mandoran belonged, either.
“Can you get out of this place?” she demanded.
“I can’t move, no.”
“I mean—not get out of the Aerie, but get out of where we are.”
He stared at her as if he couldn’t understand her words. She asked again in High Barrani. He still stared.
“Look—am I in the big cave with Bellusdeo and the Emperor?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, am I there right now?”
“Yes. I don’t understand your question.”
“Can Teela see me?”
“No—and before you ask, she’s a bit busy right now.”
“Can anyone but you see me?”
“I can’t exactly take a poll.”
“I want you to go to where Severn is.”
“We’re in the same cave, Kaylin.”
“We’re not in the same cave to me. I can only see you, the familiar and the outcaste. I saw Annarion—but he didn’t stay.”
“You told him to find—”
“Moran, yes, I know. I can’t see Severn. I can’t see Teela or Tain or the Hawks. I’m here—to me—with you, and only you. I want you to try to go to where Teela or Severn are.”
“It’s the same place,” he replied, in obvious frustration; the pain probably didn’t help. “Just because the others can’t see you and we can doesn’t mean we’re not in the same place!”
She yanked at Shadow, and the tension slowed its spread. Slowed. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to stop it. Behind that fear there were other fears; she knew what would happen if she failed. Or rather, she knew what would happen to Teela, to Annarion. She knew that Helen would be upset.
She wanted her familiar to help her somehow—and that was unfair. He was helping. He was fighting the Dragon. She had no hope of surviving—or winning—against a Dragon.
“Annarion’s found Moran,” Mandoran said.
“You said that.”
“I mean, he’s trying to talk to her. It’s chaotic up there. One of the Dragons has just tried to reduce him to ash,” he added, frowning in something other than pain.
“That would be Diarmat.”
“The other Dragon is speaking—shouting—at the first one. Oh. So is Moran. She recognizes Annarion,” he added, as if this were necessary. He laughed.
“That’s funny?”
“No—what she just told the first Dragon is funny. The first Dragon has just told her that most Barrani don’t appear in midair without warning.”
“That’s wh
at he said?”
“No—what he said was longer and politer. And more annoyed.”
Definitely Diarmat. It was a bad day when she found anything about Diarmat comforting.
“He isn’t trying to toast Annarion. He is trying to toast some of the Aerians—but she’s not defending them. Annarion’s telling her that you need her help.” He winced. “She says she’s kind of busy.”
“That’s how she worded it?”
“Yes. But shorter. She’s really angry at the Arcanist.”
“What is the Arcanist doing there? He can’t fly!”
“I told you—Annarion went to get the Arcanist. He then went to get Moran. The Arcanist just shouted something in Aerian—I don’t understand most of it, but the Aerians do. Even Moran.” He paused, winced again. “Especially Moran. She’s...angry.”
“She’s always angry.”
“No. Not like this. She is really, really angry.” In spite of the pain or the fear, his eyes were round. He was looking at Moran through Annarion’s eyes, and whatever it was he saw robbed him, momentarily, of words.
There was a thunderclap of sound. It was louder than Dragon roars—here, or there. It was louder than any thunder Kaylin had ever heard—but thunder described it best: it was the heart of the storm, and it was suddenly here.
* * *
She could not make herself heard in the wake of that sound. She turned to Mandoran, and saw that his jaw had kind of joined his eyes; it was wide open. She shouted to catch his attention, but no sound escaped her mouth. Or maybe it did—her throat felt raw—but none of it reached her own ears. None of it appeared to reach Mandoran’s, either.
The light in this quasi-cavern changed. The colors that had appeared faded brightened considerably as a hole opened up above Kaylin’s head and sunlight flooded in. Or at least she assumed it was sunlight. But there was no falling rock that implied natural—or unnatural—disaster; there was simply light. It was radiant.
She half expected the Shadow wrapped around her hands to burn. It didn’t. But the Shadow around Mandoran’s hands began to smoke as if it were on fire. She expected him to relax, but he stiffened until he was completely rigid.