Cast in Sorrow

Chapter 7

In general, Barrani were more likely to be impressed if Kaylin was introduced as a rabid, three-headed dog. Kaylin stumbled, and righted herself on the side of the tree. She glanced at Barian, whose eyes were predictably darker in shade.

“Barrani do not require sleep,” he said. “In that, you are correct. Frequently, when in the sleeping Hallionne, my kin will do so; it passes time. Sleep is therefore not a foreign concept. We are not often visited by either dream or nightmare in the mortal sense; I believe, in cases where sanity is not in question, sleep is required for mortals to experience either state.”

“You have nightmares when you’re awake?”

“In a fashion. We do not seek the nightmares of the Hallionne for the simple experience—although there are those among my kin who might for the novelty of it. The Wardens absorb the nightmares of the Hallionne in part because they are, and have been for centuries, our only contact with Alsanis.”

Kaylin concentrated on the descent, her hand hugging bark, her forehead growing permanent furrows. “Why are the Wardens the keepers of the Hallionne?”

“If you mean to ask why the other Hallionne have no visible keepers, I commend you on your observation. The answer is twofold. I will give you the common and accepted variant. The Warden tends the green. The heart of the West March is the heart of the green; it is where the ancient stories are remade and renewed. Ancients once lived in the West March; the forests and the environs were their creation.

“It is said that the Ancients who created our race chose to dwell here.” He fell silent until the descent ended, once again, with solid floor. Kaylin, by dint of lessons with Diarmat, had learned to wait; she didn’t press him for the second explanation.

“The Lord of the West March has said little about the battle surrounding the Hallionne Orbaranne. What I know is this: many of the men and women who set out into the forest at Orbaranne’s urgent request were lost. Those who returned spoke of the transformed, and a forest infested with the particular danger they posed.

“They thought the unthinkable, when they arrived within range of Orbaranne: that the Hallionne had fallen.”

Kaylin said nothing. She knew, better than anyone, how close that had come to being the truth.

“I have also been told that the danger passed, and only when it had—and miles of forested land had been utterly leveled—did you exit the Hallionne at the side of the Lord of the West March. You did not enter it by his side.”

“No.”

He paused again, falling silent as the Barrani often did when they were sifting through their perfect memories. “You spoke of the brothers of the Hallionne Bertolle.”

She nodded.

“They were, at one point, kin to the being that ascended. They were, in a loose sense, his family. They remained with the Hallionne, asleep in the heart of his domain. Did you likewise see Orbaranne’s kin?”

She shook her head. “Orbaranne didn’t have brothers—not the way Bertolle once did.”

“Did you speak with the Hallionne Orbaranne?”

She hesitated. He marked it. But she finally said, “Yes. We waited together for the Lord of the West March. I think she knew he was coming; I certainly didn’t.”

“Did anything about Orbaranne strike you as unusual?”

“I’m not Barrani. I don’t generally enter the Hallionne, and as far as I can tell, the Barrani don’t really like them. But now that you ask, yes. Orbaranne seemed almost human, to me. I’ve been inside other buildings that have personalities and voices. Most of them can appear human, but they’re really not.” He led and she followed, thinking. “The transformed tried to destroy Orbaranne.”

“Yes.”

“Iberrienne kidnapped hundreds of humans in order to do so.” She hesitated again. “When they failed, she kept the humans within the Hallionne. She said they wouldn’t be able to remain for long—but they were her guests.”

“And guests are the reason for the Hallionne’s existence.”

Kaylin nodded, her frown deepening. “Is it possible that she was mortal, when she chose to become Hallionne?”

“That is a question only the Ancients—or the Hallionne herself—could answer. Did you note anything else about Orbaranne?”

Had she? Kaylin remembered the last glimpse she’d had of the Hallionne.

Hallionne were buildings, like Tara was a building. They could hear what anyone within their walls was thinking—and their walls could be immense; the outer dimensions didn’t confine the interior at all. Within their realms they were like small, distinct gods; they could change the furniture under your butt if you thought it was uncomfortable. They could re-create—down to the smallest of details—an apartment you’d lived in for most of your adult life, even if you couldn’t remember them as clearly yourself.

So it wasn’t a surprise that Orbaranne could re-create the festival gates of Elantra. It wasn’t a surprise that she could map out the streets and the buildings—in varying states of repair—that girded them. But she couldn’t create the people.

And for a brief time, she didn’t have to. She had guests—she’d called them guests—in the form of over a hundred humans who had been taken, marked, and dramatically altered by Barrani. They couldn’t leave; Orbaranne knew that. But she couldn’t keep them, either. While they were willing to stay, she provided them the comforts of the best parts of home.

Which was the duty of a Hallionne.

But it wasn’t why. Kaylin knew. She’d seen the expression on Orbaranne’s Avatar. Orbaranne was happy. She had company.

“I think—I think the Hallionne get lonely,” she finally said. She expected Barian to say something dismissive; if Teela were here, she certainly would have.

But he said, with a pained half smile, “Yes. Even Alsanis. We would visit, as very small children. My earliest clear memories are of Alsanis. He was always bemused by infants, and there were so few. He expected us to be able to assume adult form instantly, and at will.”

“Alsanis was like Bertolle?”

“I do not know Bertolle. I have never spoken with him. But I believe you would find them similar. The hospitality of the Hallionne was not, of course, required by the denizens of the West March; we did not go to his halls for protection or escape. We paid our respects. We listened to his stories. Ah, no, not the regalia—but stories of a bygone age, in which nothing in the universe was solid or fixed.

“Imagine a world in shape and form like the Hallionne: ever-changing, always responsive, always both ancient and new. The second duty of the Wardens, and the duty that is only rarely referenced, is that: we were his distant, lost kin. We kept him company. It is a small thing; to most of my kin, who see the Hallionne as fortresses in times of war, it is insignificant.

“Children are lonely. Children crave affection and company. Yes, Lord Kaylin, even Barrani children. But it does not, and cannot, define them. They do not speak of it; it is a weakness. But if it is a weakness, it is one I believe the Hallionne share, and in just the same fashion. It does not define them, nor does it define their duties; it is a yearning.”

He had led her to the entrance of the hall, and offered her an arm. “Lord Severn, will you wait or will you return to the halls of the Lord of the West March?”

“I will accept your counsel in this,” Severn replied, which almost shocked Kaylin. The small dragon was seated, rather than supine, and he turned his tiny head and clucked at Severn. He didn’t appear to be angry.

“I have offered you the hospitality, and therefore the protection, of my home. It is a protection that does not extend beyond my halls, but none of those who serve me will act against you, except at need.”

“Lord Kaylin—”

“Will go, with the dreams of Alsanis, to the Lady’s side. She may well go beyond, to a place where neither you, nor I, may follow. I leave the decision in your hands. But I offer this: I will protect her with my life. I play no games. I little care for the politics of the High Court in this single instance. While Lord Kaylin is within the West March, I will offer her the full protection of my line.”

“No one will harm me while I’m in this dress,” Kaylin said.

“You are almost entirely correct,” Lord Barian replied gravely.

“It’s considered almost treason to hurt this dress.”

“Ah, no. That is your interpretation, and it is not entirely correct. It is considered treason in the West March to act against either the harmoniste or the Teller. It is considered treason,” he continued, “to subject children to the regalia. I invite you to consider why.”

“Because it was tried, and it was an unmitigated disaster.”

“Indeed. We are a practical people, Lord Kaylin. I understand that you consider our manners complicated to an extreme, but there are reasons for the laws we hand down.”

Kaylin was exhausted, but she was good at working through exhaustion; if she hadn’t been, her work at the Guild of Midwives would have killed her. The thought of the midwives and their infrequent emergencies made her throat tighten. She’d had time to inform them that she’d be traveling outside of the city for at least six weeks. She’d also seen the look on Marya’s face as she received the news.

Marya wasn’t above using guilt as a lever when things were desperate—and things could get desperate, as the midwives guild itself was not a high-powered guild with golden pockets. But if Kaylin didn’t pay dues to practice under the auspices of the guild—and she didn’t, as she couldn’t afford them—she didn’t charge for her services. Being called at all hours of the day or night seemed a small price to pay for the opportunity to save the lives of women and their newborns.

She was aware that the midwives guild did charge for some of the services she provided, but she’d made absolutely clear that there was to be a sliding scale—with zero on the poor end of the scale. Deadly emergencies weren’t particularly snobbish; they came to people in all walks in life. The people who couldn’t afford her services were Kaylin’s chief concern.

On the other hand, her presence in the guild had done much to increase the money coming in. She considered charging a fee, but she was beyond lousy at negotiating on her own behalf: she would have to put a price on her services, and to do that she would have to evaluate them objectively. There were doctors in Elantra, some of whom Kaylin privately considered to be quacks, but none of them had Kaylin’s talent.

None of them had Kaylin’s marks.

The marks had been the indirect cause of deaths across the city. Deaths of children who had the misfortune to be about the same age as Kaylin had been at the time, and who had also had the misfortune to be poor and unprotected. She hadn’t killed them. But if these marks hadn’t existed on her skin, they wouldn’t have died.

Doing volunteer work at the midwives guild was an act of atonement. She couldn’t go back in time to prevent deaths from happening—no matter how desperately those deaths scarred her. Death was death. But she could be there at the start of a life; she could be there to stop death from arriving. The marks themselves implied a power that she had never fully understood, but she’d come to understand one thing well: she could heal. She couldn’t bring the dead back to life, for which she was grateful; if she could, she would have had to move out of the city—in secret—change her name, and go into hiding. The requests from the bereaved would never, ever stop.

If her ability was an open secret in the upper echelons of the Halls of Law, it wasn’t taken completely seriously by those on the ground floor; most of the old guard saw her as the angry thirteen-year-old she’d been when she’d first walked through the doors. They’d never seen her power at work, and couldn’t believe that it wasn’t somehow an exaggeration. And she’d learned—over time—to appreciate that.

The Barrani had never doubted her ability.

But only the Barrani had seen her use it to kill. Even Marcus had only seen the end result, not the death itself. The Barrani considered murder to be an extreme form of politics, rather than a gross miscarriage of justice. Flamboyant murders—such as those that involved the Arcane arts—were considered variations on a theme. If you could kill, the implements didn’t matter. The information about methods used was useful as a counter, no more.

It was really hard to outrage the Barrani when it came to big things; they’d seen it all. Healing, which would be considered a blessing by most, was an act of aggression and intrusion; squashing a bloodsucking insect was clearly so outrageous that an entire war band could fall completely silent while staring daggers at any part of her body that wasn’t covered in dress.

She was reminded of the fact that the Barrani could be outraged—coldly—by the most unpredictable things when the Lord of the West March appeared at the head of eight armed and armored men shortly after she arrived at his hall with the Warden in tow. The eagles chose to land before the doors were slammed in their faces.

“Warden,” the Lord of the West March said, in a tone that implied the difference in their respective ranks.

“Lord Lirienne,” the Warden replied, in a tone that negated that difference. Kaylin desperately wished that Severn—injured and recovering—had not chosen to remain behind. If he wasn’t at home among the Barrani, it didn’t show, but Severn had never been self-conscious.

“Lord Kaylin.”

“I’m—I’m sorry to bother you. I know it’s late.”

One of his brows rose; the corner of his lip twitched. In Barrani, this was indicative—in this situation—of riotous laughter. At her expense, of course. She glanced at the Warden, and saw a similar, if more pained, expression on his face. She didn’t enjoy the humiliation of being the object of hilarity, but was old enough now to appreciate the way it cut the tension between the two men.

“This was Lord Kaylin’s request?” the Lord of the West March said, his tone softening.

She willed him to say yes; it wasn’t as if the Barrani considered lying a crime. Given the length of time it took to respond, she thought he’d considered it. “It was not entirely her request, no.”

The eagles, silent until this moment, turned the intensity of their focus upon the Lord of the West March; they might have been puppies, given his reaction. “We asked. If we have transgressed, forgive us. We had hoped to have more time.”

“You will not remain among us.”

“No. We do not know how long we have, but the pull to oblivion is strong. The Chosen said that the Lady absorbed three of the nightmares, and has since remained asleep. Has she awoken in the Chosen’s absence?”

“No.”

“We would like to see her.”

All of the Barrani in the hall except the Lord of the West March tensed.

For no reason she could think of, Kaylin said, “I’ll be with them the entire time.” This would not have brought much comfort to most of the people she shared an office with.

“With your permission, I will also remain,” the Warden said. It sounded like a genuine offer, not a demand.

“It will be a very crowded room,” Lord Lirienne replied.

“Lord Kaylin is your kyuthe, Lord Lirienne. I have not asked the circumstances that drew her to your attention; I am sure there is a story behind it, when we have the leisure to indulge in them. I know, however, what drew her to mine: she touched the nightmares of Alsanis, and the eagles woke. We have argued long about the fate of Alsanis—but the dreams speak with his voice; they see.”

“I have never argued that Alsanis is dead,” Lord Lirienne replied. “Nor has the High Lord.”

“You have argued that he is altered beyond all recognition. The Hallionne has not opened its doors since the day of the betrayal; were he so transformed that he did not prize the safety of his guests—”

“His guests are not confined to the Hallionne,” Kaylin said, in anxious High Barrani.

Lord Barian stiffened and turned to face her after glancing briefly at the Lord of the West March. What he saw confirmed Kaylin’s words.

“If you’re speaking of the children who were lost.”

“We are. You cannot comprehend Alsanis’s sorrow,” he told her softly. “Although he was Hallionne, the children confined within his walls killed all but a handful of the Barrani Lords who had traveled with him. He could not protect his guests; the minds of the lost children were too chaotic, too unordered. They thought all things simultaneously—and none. He offered what warning he could; he closed whole wings in an attempt to contain the lost.

“And he closed his doors entirely to the Wardens, and my line. Only through the dreams of Alsanis could we speak to him at all. He chose to sacrifice himself in order to prevent further deaths; he could not offer hospitality in safety to any.”

“Except the lost children.”

“He did not consider it hospitality—but he could not immediately destroy them. He tried,” he added softly. “They were anathema to the green.”

“They didn’t leave through the front doors,” Kaylin told him softly. “They left through the portal paths. When they attacked Orbaranne—and they were involved, I’d bet my eyes on it—the brunt of their attack was on the portal paths.”

“They fielded a large force on normal roads, as well—but I concur. They did not slip out through the literal front doors.”

She turned to the silent eagles. “Did Alsanis grant them permission to leave?”

“They did not leave,” the eagle on her arm replied gravely.

“They did—”

“They are not as you are. They did not leave the Hallionne.” He turned to the eagle that now rested upon the Warden’s arm, and they conferred in their lilting and entirely unintelligible language.

“Are they at war with Alsanis now?”

“No.”

“Are they at home?”

“Yes.”

The Lord of the West March raised one hand. “That is enough, Lord Kaylin. If you have come to offer aid to the Consort, we must not tarry.”

Not a word was spoken as they traversed the great halls, not even by the eagles. They might have been part of a funeral procession, given their expressions. What the eagles meant to Lord Barian, they clearly did not mean to Lord Lirienne, but the almost open suspicion with which they’d been greeted at the doors had been set aside.

No, kyuthe, it has not. Avonelle’s questions this eve were an open act of hostility available only because you are both mortal and foreign. Had Lord Barian’s brother succeeded in his test, it is likely he would now be Lord of the West March.

But—but that’s a hereditary title.

Heredity, like any other custom, is subject to the demands of power. If I could not hold the West March against her son, I would not deserve to rule it. Her son failed.

She frowned. You liked him, she said, in some surprise.

It is not relevant. Had he become a Lord of the High Court, one of the two of us would not have survived.

Lord Barian didn’t take the test.

No. His brother’s failure was vindication for his cowardice.

Kaylin frowned. I don’t think he’s a coward.

No?

No. I think he feels responsible for the West March. He can fulfill those responsibilities as Warden. He can’t, if he’s dead.

He is not like his brother; he looks inward, rather than out.

I don’t think the green cares.

“The green does care,” the eagle on her arm said.

Lord Barian’s brows rose slightly; Lord Lirienne’s expression did not change at all.

This is why you don’t care for the dreams of Alsanis. Kaylin grimaced.

The Lord of the West March laughed. It is one reason among many. At the moment, I am enraged by their existence.

To Kaylin’s surprise, this was true. He made no attempt to hide the depth of his fury; it opened up in front of her like a door.

I do not know what Barian told you, he continued when she failed to find words, but my sister cannot be woken. We have tried. Lord Nightshade and Lord Evarrim have been by her side since dinner. She does not respond to touch, to sound, or to the enchantments it is safe to cast. Barian allowed her to take the burden of his responsibility upon herself. If she fails to wake, I will kill him. I will not kill him quickly. I may be moved to allow his mother to live.

Kaylin glanced at Lord Barian. Swallowing, she said, I’ll wake her.

You are so certain you are capable of it?

She wasn’t, and he knew it.

To her surprise, Lord Evarrim and Nightshade were still in attendance when they at last arrived. The Consort lay between them; they stood watch. Evarrim noted Kaylin’s presence with a grim nod that all but screamed distaste; Nightshade offered her the nod that passes between equals. Neither man spoke, but as she approached the Consort, they stepped back to give her both room and their silent permission.

Evarrim seemed ill-pleased by the presence of both Barian and the eagle that rested, weightless, on her arm. As it was clear that the bird was there with the Lord of the West March’s permission, he said nothing.

Lord Barian seemed entirely unconcerned that an Outcaste wore the Teller’s crown.

Kaylin knew the Consort’s skin shouldn’t be the color it was. Barrani skin was generally flawless and pale—but this had a sallow, green tinge that looked worse than unhealthy. She stopped herself from checking for a pulse, and then realized it didn’t matter. The only person present she would have spared her sudden fear already knew what she was feeling.

She knelt by the Consort’s side, and very carefully touched her hand. It was cold. Morgue cold. “Lord Barian,” she said, in High Barrani, “if you have anything of import to tell me about the nightmares of the Hallionne, now is the time.”

“I can tell you less about the nightmares than our companions can,” he replied. “They are one.”

She resisted the urge to snap something rude in Leontine.

“He is not wrong,” the eagle on her arm said. She released the Consort’s hand and attempted to remove the bird; his weightless claws tightened. “Do not be foolish. We have accompanied you for a reason, Chosen. If you set us aside, how will you speak to the nightmares?”

“Probably the same way I’m speaking to you,” she replied. “But less politely.”

The bird spoke to its companion; their voices rose.

The Barrani found their discussion fascinating. Kaylin, hand once again touching the still iciness of the Consort’s, found it annoying. She closed her eyes and counted to ten; she made it to four, and not for the usual reason.

In the silence of watchful Barrani, in the darkness behind closed lids, she could hear the eagles speak, and the language that sounded so painfully familiar took on the tones and the range of sound she associated with song. There was a distinctive cadence to the words, a stretching and thinning of syllables that speech didn’t normally contain.

Music—even wordless music—had a feel to it. It evoked emotion. There was a simple harmony to the speech of these creatures, although she couldn’t quite place how—they seemed to take turns, to be singing different parts, and their voices were distinct. They didn’t overlap. But there was no point in expecting dreams in the shape of eagles to actually make sense.

“Lady.” Kaylin’s voice was rough and tuneless in comparison.

The Consort didn’t answer—no surprise there.

Kaylin inhaled, exhaled, and then reached out with the power that she used to heal the injured. If there was nothing wrong with the Consort physically, there would be nothing to heal.

The dreams of Alsanis continued their song, and as Kaylin listened, she understood why it sounded so familiar; she had heard something similar before—but never in voices like these. The Consort had sung something with the same feel, the same tone, when she had been forced to wake the Hallionne Bertolle. There was a yearning, a desire, and an emptiness to the song of the dreams of Alsanis that reminded Kaylin very much of the Consort’s song of awakening.

She started to tell the eagles that the Consort wasn’t a Hallionne and couldn’t be woken that way, but stopped. She had no idea whether or not that was true, anymore, because something about the Consort was subtly different from the other Barrani she had healed. She almost forgot to breathe, the panic was so sharp.

But it was hard to hold on to it; the song of the dreams of Alsanis was too insistent, too urgent; there was a warmth—a heat—to the urgency. She felt it pass through the Consort’s hand into her own. As it did, she heard a second song.

If the first song was the conversation of the dreams, the second was the construction of the nightmares. It should have been cacophony. It wasn’t. Somehow, the two disparate songs overlapped and blended; they were distinct, but they were—as the eagles had said—part of a single piece.

Kaylin’s arms began to burn. So did the back of her neck, her legs, and a small spot in the center of her forehead. She knew the marks that adorned over half her body were now glowing. Lady, she thought, squeezing the Consort’s hand. Wake.

There was nothing wrong with her body. There was nothing to heal. But Kaylin knew, as she listened, that the Consort wouldn’t wake without intervention. Barrani didn’t require sleep, but even Barrani could starve to death.

The small dragon bit her ear hard enough, she was certain, to draw blood. She let loose a volley of Leontine as she opened her eyes and grabbed for him with her left hand. Her right remained tightly clasped around the Consort’s.

“Lord Kaylin, your ear is bleeding.”

“I kind of guessed that. I don’t suppose you have a cage?”

The small dragon squawked. He batted her face with surprisingly heavy wings as he pushed off her shoulder, roundly berating her in his unintelligible bird-speak.

Except what she heard was cadence. Rhythm. Nothing in his lizard vocal chords evoked music, but she realized that he was trying to sing when both of the eagles fixed their gaze on him. Their voices rose; she was caught instantly by the shift in their song, as if it were current and she was almost drowning.

Her very frustrating companion squawked back. It was a harsh noise; it blended with nothing. If he’d tried to coax notes out of a drum, he’d have had an easier time. As if he could hear the thought, he then turned his attention back to Kaylin, and this time, his voice was softer and almost plaintive, although it wasn’t any more musical.

“You want me to sing?” she asked.

He nodded with his whole body, bobbing up and down in place.

“Only because you’ve never heard me.” She glanced once, apprehensively, at the gathered Barrani lords. Singing off-key and out of tune in the West March was not the same as singing with the foundlings in the foundling halls, and that was the only place she readily joined a group song.

But the small dragon landed on her shoulder and nudged her cheek, and she knew he not only meant her to sing, but meant to join her. How much worse could she sound?

“What,” Nightshade said sharply, “do you intend to sing?”

“Badly, and probably off-key, whatever it is,” she replied. “But not on purpose. The eagles are singing,” she added, “and I think small and squeaky wants me to join them.”

“The eagles are not singing,” the Lord of the West March said.

“But they are,” Lord Barian said. The two men’s gazes met, and both fell silent.

Kaylin wanted to ask Lord Lirienne what he heard, but the eagles’ voices had grown higher and more urgent, and she turned to listen, closing her eyes and concentrating on a song that was two parts. Two parts, and what seemed like a dozen. There was no room for her voice in the throng.

She made room. She wound her voice—dissonant, unmusical, and uncertain—around the squawking of her small dragon, finding words that spoke to what she heard, even if there were no similar words in the music of the dreams and nightmares of a Hallionne. Feeling self-conscious made her voice even weaker than it usually was, but it wouldn’t be the first time she’d made a total fool of herself.

Her arms ached. The burning, she was used to—if one could ever get used to that sense of skin being seared. But they also trembled, as if she’d been carrying way too much for too long. She looked at the small dragon; he was watching her, his squawk gentled to a croon.

She wished she could understand him. For now, it was enough that the eagles seemed to. The only two people caught in this song that couldn’t were Kaylin and the Consort herself, because as Kaylin found voice and exposed a ridiculous vanity, she heard the Consort singing.

But the Consort lay unmoving, her eyes and lips closed. Her skin, sallow, was now beaded with perspiration—but so was Kaylin’s. It made it hard to keep the grip on her hand. She changed that grip, entwining their fingers and tightening her hold.

She didn’t know what the birds hoped to wake, and in the end, that wasn’t her problem. What she wanted—what she needed—was to wake the Consort. She needed to make herself heard over the beautiful storm of sound that occurred when dream and nightmare clashed.

The dragon batted her cheek and shook his head.

The marks on her arm were a gold-white glow; she had to squint to read them. Not only were they on the edge of tear-inducing brightness, they seemed to be moving as she watched.

Gripping the Consort’s hand tightly enough she started to lose feeling in her own fingers, Kaylin reached out with her free hand, passing it over the brilliant lines and dots that formed runes on most of her skin. They were warm, but not searing, beneath her callused palm—but they weren’t solid. She felt resistance as her hand passed through them. The small dragon was bouncing up and down, although he didn’t stop his noisemaking; nor did he vary its rhythm.

Still, she understood that he meant her to do what she was trying—and failing—to do: take them in hand. Lift them.

No, she thought. Not them. One. Just one. In the past, she had lost marks before: to the trapped spirit of a dead dragon, to the Devourer, to the small dragon hatchling. But the marks had lifted themselves off her skin; she hadn’t chosen. She hadn’t had to choose.

She had no idea why they were hers; someone immortal, someone older, wiser, and more knowledgeable—someone like the Arkon—should have been chosen instead. She didn’t know what they were for. She had no idea why a word was necessary now—but she understood, watching the marks, that it was. And that this time, the hand of the Ancients wasn’t going to make the choice for her.

Her hands shook, and not because she was nervous. She closed her eyes.

Eyes closed, she could still see the marks, but the light didn’t burn her vision. Her body didn’t impede it, either. It wasn’t just the marks on her arms that were slowly beginning to rise.