Michelle Sagara - Cast in Silence

He raised a brow, but nodded.

“It was supposed to be the heart of a city. There was supposed to be a library there that was bigger on the inside than—” her eyes widened slightly “—the outside. You think—”

“Yes?”

“That the library did exist. And that it existed in a space between worlds somehow.”

He said nothing.

“It was supposed to contain all of the knowledge about anything that had ever, or would ever, exist.”

“Yes. That was the legend.” He glanced out the window. “And for the sake of that legend, many have died.”

She nodded. “Knowledge is power,” she said softly, quoting someone, although she couldn’t remember who. Probably an Arcanist.

“Yes. But power is not entirely unaligned,” he replied. He rose. “And what once lay at the heart of Ravellon—and Ravellon is not a traditional fief name—may or may not now exist. What exists around it, however, in layers we cannot pierce magically or by mundane means, is shadow. We do not know if the shadows came searching for what we sought. We know only that they are now rooted there, and we cannot unseat them by any means we currently have in our possession.

“You’ve seen ferals, no doubt.”

She nodded.

“You’ve seen, by all accounts, worse.”

She nodded again, glancing at Sanabalis.

“It is for that reason, Private Neya, that we are prepared to allow you to investigate. You have experience with what you might find along those borders—or within Barren as it now stands—and you have, better yet, survived. You do not seem, to my admittedly inexperienced eye, to be insane. Nor, if your last involvement with the Courts was an indication, have you developed a love of power, and the casual indifference that comes with it.

“Therefore it is felt that you might approach—approach, mind—the borders.” He reached into his robes and pulled out a crystal. She grimaced. “You recognize this, no doubt. You are expected to carry it with you wherever you go in the fiefs. It will record what you see.”

“But I—”

“There is some magic involved, yes. I have heard that you have some sensitivity to magic, and it may cause you some discomfort. You will live with it. Come here.”

She cringed, but rose and held out her palm.

He placed the crystal firmly into that palm, and then caught her wrist. He spoke three words—three loud, thunderous, Dragon words—and all of her hair stood on end. She barely felt the stinging pain of the crystal’s edge against her palm, her ears hurt so much.

By the time the ringing had cleared, the Arkon was seated again, his hands folded in his lap; the crystal, with its sharp and unpleasant edges, was gone. “I am expected at the library,” he told her almost curtly. “And I will endeavor, for that reason, to be brief.

“What we know with any certainty about the fiefs is due to the investigations that Tiamaris, in part, undertook some time ago. He was not always the most careful or fastidious of investigators, no doubt a deficiency in either his teaching or his aptitude.”

Sanabalis and Tiamaris now exchanged a silent glance. The Arkon did not appear to notice that he had casually insulted them both. “However, what we were told,” and this time he did pause to give Tiamaris a pointed glance, “was that the fiefs pass from one ruler to another when a new ruler takes over the central building. If this was, indeed, the case, then the fief of Illien would never have become the fief of Barren. Yet it did.

“You are tasked with finding out why.” He paused, and then added, “Anything of use you can discover about the nature of the fiefs will also prove valuable at this time.” He rose. “I must return to the library. I have left instructions, should I be unavailable, that you are to be granted entry—with or without Lord Tiamaris—should the need arise.

“Familiarize yourself with the rules of my library,” he added gravely. “At the moment, breach of those rules would have unfortunate consequences.”

Great. On the other hand, what she recalled was pretty straightforward: touch or break any of his stuff, and die horribly. Not much leeway there for accidental errors.

He walked to the door, and then paused there again. “There was some discussion about your role in this investigation, Private Neya. I spoke in favor of it, but I have misgivings. I am not,” he added, as she opened her mouth, “about to explain them again. The explanation would probably deafen you, because I am now old enough that I find certain complications difficult to discuss in anything but my native tongue—a tongue which, by Imperial decree, is to be used sparingly in public places.”

“Wait!”

He froze there, and she was reminded, by his glacial expression, that there were forms she was expected to observe. “Arkon,” she said quickly, bowing. This did not, judging by his expression, mollify him much. “What did the Outcaste find? He said he found—”

The Arkon frowned at about the same time Tiamaris stepped on her foot.

“He found shadow. Possibly the last resting place of the Old Ones. If the library existed at all, it was no longer his concern. Do not be arrogant, Private. Your marks—your existence—might afford you some protection, although what that entails, and what its boundaries are, none of us can say. But what he could not do in safety, you cannot do. Do you understand?”

She swallowed, remembering the great, black Dragon, his name so large and so intricate that she could not even begin to say it, although she could see it clearly. “Yes.”

“Good. Tiamaris, Sanabalis.” He nodded curtly, and this time, she didn’t call him back.

“Lord Sanabalis or Lord Tiamaris, however, may feel free to enlighten you.” He glanced at both of them. “I assume at least one of them was paying attention.”

Tiamaris’s grimace waited until the door had closed; Sanabalis’s expression, however, did not change.

“I think I like him,” Kaylin told them both, as she settled back into her chair. “What were his misgivings about me?”

The two remaining Dragons exchanged a glance. “The Outcaste,” Sanabalis said quietly, “went to Ravellon. What he found there changed him. He was not without power. He is not without power now.” They both hesitated. Kaylin marked it.

“Why did he want you two to talk about this? He could—”

“He dislikes caution in speech.” It was Tiamaris who replied. “And he dislikes politics. His definition of politics involves anything of consequence that occurs outside the boundaries of his library.”

“Oh.”

“There are matters that the Eternal Emperor does not consider suitable for public consumption. Public, in this particular instance, involves anyone who lives or breathes that is not Dragon and does not serve him.”

“Meaning me.”

“Meaning, indeed, you.”

“So…there’s something they’re worried about, and whatever it is, he can’t tell me because I’m not a Dragon.”

“No. There are many things that are discussed. A few of them have bearing—at least at this juncture—on our duties in the fiefs. But sorting out which of those things can be touched upon and which can’t requires the type of conversational care that the Arkon finds taxing. Left to his own devices, he would not emerge from his library at all, and his concerns would lead him to discuss certain historical issues which the canny—and you are that, at least—would then dissect.”

Kaylin made a face. “Just tell me what I need to know.”

Sanabalis chuckled. “It’s a pity you’re human. I believe you would find some sympathy in the Arkon, otherwise.” Fingers playing through his slender conceit of a white beard, he watched her in silence. After a moment, he said, “Tiamaris.”