Chapter 11

11

Bellusdeo arrived punctually; Kaylin was just finishing breakfast. Mrs. Erickson had cooked it—she liked cooking, and Helen was perfectly happy to see the kitchen used. She looked better this morning, less exhausted and fragile.

"The ghosts were quiet last night?"

Mrs. Erickson smiled. "I wouldn't say quiet is the right word, but they were far less anxious, far less upset, than they were a few nights ago." She looked up as Bellusdeo entered the dining room; the Dragon was wearing actual clothing, which meant she'd more or less walked.

Maggaron had accompanied her. Before she'd moved out, he spent much of his time in the larger-than-human-size rooms Helen had created for his use; since she'd moved out, he lived in the Tower, although Bellusdeo said he spent much more of his time with his people, the Norranir. His height and build marked him clearly as other, and people were generally apprehensive when confronted with the differences between their builds and his; had he been a dwarf, it wouldn't have caused issues.

But the phrase gentle giant suited Maggaron perfectly. Because the Norranir had moved into the fiefs, to be near the border of Ravellon , people in the rest of the city just hadn't gotten a chance to get accustomed to Norranir in the city streets.

"I won't be accompanying you to the Halls of Law," Bellusdeo said. "But I thought I could visit Mrs. Erickson while you were working. It was her suggestion," she added, sounding a tiny bit defensive. "And Maggaron needs a break from Karriamis and Emmerian."

Maggaron, as usual, was silent, although he did smile and nod in Kaylin's direction.

Hope was once again on Kaylin's shoulder as she left home.

The workday had only one interruption. Marcus called her to his desk, which was never a good sign; his eyes were dark orange, which emphasized the lack of great distress. But when he spoke, he spoke first in choice Leontine, adding a couple of scratches to the latest attempt at a new desk.

"You've been sent a message," he said.

Kaylin had her own mirror, which meant the message had come from some variant of on high.

"Lord Lannagaros has requested your presence at the Academia." Which would explain Marcus's mood. He had never been happy at interference from the Dragon Court.

"Did he say it was an emergency?"

"He has indicated that while it is not a matter that directly requires active duty at this time, it might become one. He did not speak as the chancellor of his fancy school; he spoke as a Lord of the Dragon Court. Unless and until it is considered of import to the Halls, you will visit his school on your own time."

"I can't go tonight. I have an appointment I can't miss after dinner."

"Not our problem."

"Yes, sir."

"I expect not to hear from the Academia in future unless there is a need for intervention from the Halls of Law. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir. Permission to speak?"

"Lack of permission has never stopped you."

"Please inform the Arkon that my visit will be delayed tonight at the request of the Keeper. He'll understand what it means."

She understood why the former Arkon was worried. She truly did. But did he really need an intermediary when he was dealing with Bellusdeo? Bellusdeo liked him, trusted him, and listened to him as much as she was willing to listen to anyone. Kaylin wasn't an expert in anything; the librarians were far, far more learned. He probably just needed someone to absorb grouchiness because he never snapped at Bellusdeo.

Severn chose to accompany her home.

"Do you think something's going to go wrong?"

He glanced at her. "You're taking Mrs. Erickson, with the Keeper, to her former home. I'm certain Evanton wants to examine Azoria's mansion. What could possibly go wrong?"

Kaylin grimaced but accepted this. "Terrano and Serralyn are coming as well. And Bellusdeo."

You're worried that Terrano will be the usual agent of chaos. And Bellusdeo is not quite herself.

Kaylin shrugged. It was true. "We could ask Terrano to stay home, but he wouldn't do it, and we'd just end up with even more of the cohort joining us. Mrs. Erickson does seem to like them, and when they interact with her, they've been good, but I'm not sure Evanton won't object. If it were up to Evanton, no one but he and Mrs. Erickson would be going."

"And you."

"He's not certain Mrs. Erickson would be comfortable on her own. He wouldn't want me, otherwise. He thinks I'm like Terrano."

"No comment."

"You're coming, too, right?"

"I'm your partner."

"We're not going as Hawks."

"I'm your partner," he repeated.

Evanton was punctual. Mrs. Erickson and Bellusdeo were not. They did come down for dinner, but on the late side, and both were silent. Bellusdeo was copper-eyed; she took the chair next to Mrs. Erickson, who looked at her with open sympathy—something Kaylin wouldn't have dared.

Evanton didn't join them for dinner. He waited in the parlor, with Helen.

Terrano did join them; Serralyn sat beside her cohort member, her eyes the blue of worry as she gazed at Mrs. Erickson and Bellusdeo.

It was a really silent dinner, the awkward kind of silence where everyone trapped in it is trying to think of something—anything—to say that won't make things worse. Kaylin hated it. She hated feeling useless. Her friend was clearly in pain, given the color of her eyes, and she should be able to do something. But making a joke to lighten the mood? No—that would probably be seen as not caring. Saying anything sympathetic when there was nothing practical she could do? Not helpful. Saying anything seemed so fraught; saying nothing made her feel helpless.

Mrs. Erickson didn't say anything, either. Maybe she'd done all her talking during the day, while Kaylin had been scowling at Margot's storefront on Elani street. Maybe her presence, the fact that she was the link between the dead and the living, was all of the comfort required.

Kaylin concentrated on her food. She wasn't certain that anything that happened tonight—and she was silently crossing her fingers hoping that nothing would—would change Bellusdeo's situation. What they needed to do was find some way to free the dead who were trapped. At least Jamal and the rest of the kids had been trapped in a house; Bellusdeo's sisters were trapped, in isolation, by Bellusdeo herself. She had no say in it, and neither did they.

She cleared her throat. "I received a message today. Well, no, Marcus did."

Bellusdeo lifted her gaze.

"The chancellor wants to see me."

"Have the Arbiters found anything more useful?"

"The message was sent to my sergeant—or possibly the Hawklord—so I didn't have a chance to ask questions." Kaylin grimaced. "I'm to arrange a meeting and head there on my own time. For now."

"For now?"

"I think the subtext was: or the Dragon Court will second my services if I'm tardy. Which, predictably, Marcus hates. I did ask that the chancellor and Arbiters be told that ‘tardy' in this case is due to a direct request from the Keeper. That should keep them off my back for at least a day."

"Optimist."

"I'm not certain that Evanton will care to be blamed for this," Helen's voice said; her Avatar was with Evanton in the parlor.

"Is any of it a lie? I didn't complain about Evanton at all. I just said—"

"I heard you, dear. Very well. We can't change the past. I will inform Evanton that there is rather more pressure on your time than anticipated."

"He's important," Kaylin said, voice flat. But he was important because anything that could give Mrs. Erickson any hint on how to use the powers she was born with would help Bellusdeo.

"Do not be certain of that," Helen said, her voice a private whisper.

Mandoran, of the cohort, was fondest of Bellusdeo. Kaylin wasn't surprised when he joined them. Evanton wasn't pleased, but didn't argue, probably because it wouldn't have done any good. Mandoran was easier to ditch than Terrano, but not by much.

The sun was in the process of setting as they made their way to Mrs. Erickson's home. Her absence had not caused weeds to run amok on her lawn, which made Kaylin wonder who'd cut her lawn when she lived in the house. Maybe she'd done it herself. Maybe the neighbor had done it until Azoria had interfered with his mind.

Mrs. Erickson hadn't decided what she would do with the house she no longer inhabited. She had no Swindon relatives to whom she might leave the bungalow, but it had been her home—hers and the ghosts'—for all of her life. Yes, she'd moved in with Helen, but Kaylin was almost certain she would have stayed in the familiar confines of her house if not for the current Arkon and her new ghostly friends. She wasn't ready to let it go, yet.

Until Helen, Kaylin had never owned a home—had never really dreamed of owning one. She'd had no advice to offer. But she suspected that if she were Mrs. Erickson, she'd hold on to the home, even if she couldn't live in it, for as long as she could.

Evanton noted the size of the houses to either side of Mrs. Erickson's, but it was polite, perfunctory conversation; the moment his foot hit the narrow walk that led to her front porch, his gaze rose to the roof—and above it.

Kaylin poked Hope, and Hope, disgruntled, whacked her face with his wing, but left it in place. In the growing evening street light, she could see the faint trace of another building resting above and beside Mrs. Erickson's house.

Evanton frowned at Hope before he transferred the frown to Kaylin. He raised a brow, as if to ask if she could see what he could see; she nodded. "You are certain she is dead?"

"Absolutely certain."

Mrs. Erickson let them into her house. "I'm sorry," she said. "Let me find a lamp."

Kaylin shook her head. "I'll handle lighting for now."

"Oh?"

"I've been reminded I need practice."

"And you listened?" Evanton asked. "I'm almost impressed with your teacher."

"He's a Dragon."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Bellusdeo demanded. She had left Maggaron with Helen, given the size and composition of their unusual party. Maggaron attracted attention from much farther away than the cohort or Bellusdeo herself. Kaylin felt bad for him. His height wasn't his fault. The effect he had on people wasn't his fault, either. But there was nothing he could do about it. She'd've brought him along. She'd assumed he'd be joining Bellusdeo.

Bellusdeo insisted on being practical.

Maggaron accepted it. Kaylin knew she'd've been either hurt or angry, or probably both, in his place.

"He isn't worried for me," Bellusdeo had said. "The Keeper and the cohort, as well as the Chosen, will be my escorts and guards should the need arise."

"But what about him? What about his place?"

Bellusdeo hadn't understood the question. To be fair, it didn't seem like Maggaron had, either. Maybe it was just a human thing.

She rethought her position when she entered Mrs. Erickson's house; the ceilings weren't of a height Maggaron could easily manage without walking on his knees.

"This is where I lived," Mrs. Erickson said, almost apologetically. "I know it isn't much."

"It is larger than my own humble home," Evanton replied. "The storefront takes up much of the living space, and your halls are wider."

"And less creaky," Kaylin muttered.

Evanton asked no questions until Mrs. Erickson opened the closed door to what had been a family room or a parlor. He did, however, reach out to place a staying hand on the old woman's shoulder. "Corporal."

Bellusdeo said, "Let me check."

Hope squawked. Loudly.

"You realize she's mortal, right? The marks of the Chosen don't change her essential nature?"

Squawk. Squawk.

"Fine. Your familiar wants you to look first."

"That might be a problem," Serralyn said, in a quiet voice.

Bellusdeo exhaled smoke. "I honestly do not understand how Terrano has survived. Were I Sedarias, I would have strangled him by now."

"She'd have to catch me first." Terrano's cheerful voice came from the interior of the darkened room. Kaylin had chosen to lift a mark from her skin and send it ahead of where they walked, at roughly chest height. It had been a steady, and strong, source of light, until she'd reached this room.

"She's too busy avoiding assassins," Mandoran added. "If any one of us could murder Terrano, it's Sedarias."

"I don't understand," Kaylin said, as Mrs. Erickson and Evanton stepped aside. The hall wasn't large, and jostling for position took a bit more time. "Azoria's dead."

"You have experience as a Hawk," Evanton said. "You are aware that there are enchantments that survive their creators. I believe you have even encountered them." He wasn't impressed.

This was true. But if Kaylin died this second, she was certain the light in the house would be extinguished. And she knew if summoners died, their summoned elements would vanish. It was only if the summoner lost control—and survived it—that the elements raged wildly.

"It's simple. Some magic is like carpentry. If the people who built Mrs. Erickson's home died, the home would not collapse; it is a house. Time and wear occur naturally, and if a home is not kept in decent repair, it will eventually crumble—but its existence is not linked to its builder's life force. Again, you have had experience; you should know this. I begin to wonder what kind of teacher the Arkon is."

"Rather, wonder what kind of student Kaylin is," Bellusdeo said.

"Ah, yes, I forget myself. It is a habit of the old. Perhaps the Arkon is struggling with the raw materials available. Very well. There was an issue with this room—or so I was told—and I would like to examine the structure of this particular enchantment."

Kaylin nodded. "We're going to need a different lamp, though—my light might not cut it here." She turned to Serralyn, whose eyes were blue. "Has Terrano stumbled into anything dangerous?"

"Not yet. Sedarias is arguing with him now."

"Tell him to listen—Mrs. Erickson's home isn't large, and I don't want angry Sedarias to descend on us all. Again."

Serralyn sighed. "It's Terrano," she added. She'd really gotten good at employing the fief shrug. "He says the enchantment is still present."

"The painting?"

"Yes. I thought it would change, but it hasn't. He can see the flowers in young Mrs. Erickson's hair clearly—but they don't look like flowers. Not the way he's examining them."

"What do they resemble?" Evanton asked.

"Vines, maybe? Nothing you'd consider normal vines, though. Tendrils."

"Terrano is unharmed."

"Yes, but...he's not quite here. The room and the painting were designed to be active or effective here, where we're standing."

Evanton cleared his throat. "The corporal has her familiar, and the marks of the Chosen. I would like to examine the painting with my own eyes."

Serralyn swallowed all further argument and nodded.

Evanton entered the family room, closely followed by Kaylin. Hope could, in an emergency, erect a potent barrier against magic, and she wanted to make sure the elderly Keeper was within range if it went off. The shield was always centered on Kaylin.

Evanton didn't notice—or if he did, he kept his usual dour remarks to himself. He moved toward the painting of the Swindon family—mother, father, and twelve-year-old daughter, Imelda. Around the room lay shallow wells of darkness; if they'd been light, they'd be pooled at the foot of a standing lamp. She frowned as she considered this. What would the equivalent of lamps be like for darkness?

Thinking this, she looked up.

Hope squawked.

Above her head were circles of darkness, more distinct, more sharp-edged; the darkness on the floor seemed more like inkblots in comparison. "Terrano, can you see the ceiling?"

"If that's what you want to call it, yeah. What can you see?"

"Black circles. They seem to be evenly spaced, and I think they match the dark blotches on the floor."

"Can you see anything near the painting?"

She shook her head. "Not besides Evanton, no." She moved around—or as much around as she could—the dark areas. The floating mark she was using for light dimmed as it crossed the blurry perimeter of the dark patches. She still hated this room.

"Is it safe for Mrs. Erickson to come in?" Bellusdeo asked; she stood in the doorframe, Mrs. Erickson behind her.

"No," Evanton replied, before Kaylin or Terrano could. "You said the children were afraid of this room?"

"They were," Mrs. Erickson replied, her voice soft. "Not at the beginning, but toward the end. They couldn't even speak of it unless they thought I was going to open the door or enter the room. I found their reaction heartbreaking, so the room was neglected while they were alive." She coughed. "I mean, when they were still with me."

Kaylin understood the mistake. Mrs. Erickson didn't see the dead as dead—she saw them as people.

Perhaps because she first saw the dead—invisible to almost all of the living—when she was a child and she couldn't tell the difference between them and the living, she'd learned to treat everyone as if they were a person, even if they were invisible to the eyes of most.

"They were exceedingly fond of you," Evanton said, his voice so soft Kaylin almost missed it. "Did they tell you why they feared this place?" He stood in front of the painting itself, and an odd glow enveloped him; had he been walking in daylight, it would have been too subtle to notice.

"No—as I said before, even mention of it would cause them to freeze in place. They wouldn't come back from terror unless I could change the subject. They pretended that I didn't know, and I pretended that I wasn't worried—it was much harder in the later years."

"The painting appears to be a family portrait. Are you attached to it?"

"I barely remember what it looks like after all these years," Mrs. Erickson replied—untruthfully, in Kaylin's opinion.

"It is not, as you must know, a regular painting. There are obvious magical elements—I shall call them pigments for the moment—involved at the heart of the family portrait, but even absent those pigments, there is magic in the weave of the canvas itself."

Bellusdeo's voice was a draconic rumble. "What type of magic?"

"I am not a scholar, Lord Bellusdeo. I am fully capable of sensing the magic; I am, in some circumstances, capable of working with it. Were this painting not rooted in place, I would suggest that you take it with you to the Academia, where actual scholars might better answer that question." He turned toward the door but didn't otherwise move. "I do not believe this painting can be preserved. The manner of its creation is entwined with every element of it, and given the painter, I do not believe it is entirely safe."

"Could you take it to the garden?" Kaylin asked.

"It is true that if it is contained in the garden, it would be safe—but I am uncertain that it would be wise. There are things this painting is rooted in that do not belong in any garden."

"Can you uproot it?"

"I can, but it is not without danger."

"To whom?" Bellusdeo asked; she was annoyed. She knew, intellectually, that Evanton was the Keeper, but she also knew he was an older man. Older, and far more fragile than a Dragon, or even a Barrani.

Evanton turned back to the painting, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. "To anyone who resides within this house—but that would only be the start." He exhaled. "I believe this room should be locked for the moment, but if anyone was wondering whether or not Azoria's former abode is still active, I can say with certainty that it is. You said that you entered her home when you attempted to leave by the front door, yes?"

"Yes," Kaylin replied.

"Part of the grounding for this painting, in this place, is in that abode. I believe we should examine it."

"I'm not certain the door will open into Azoria's mansion."

"Ah. I believe it now will." Kaylin didn't like the sound of that.

Serralyn, silent until that moment, said, "Bakkon would like to join us, if that's okay."

Evanton frowned. "The Wevaran?"

"Yes. Arbiter Starrante contacted him. He came to the Academia. He can arrive here, without passing through the city streets, because I'm here; he attached a thread to me. He won't interfere if the Keeper doesn't wish it, but there are things he would like to examine. We didn't have a lot of time the last time he was with us."

"Given our current company, I cannot see how it would be harmful," Evanton replied.

"Have you met a Wevaran before?"

"No. I am aware of the Wevaran, of course, but I have not personally encountered one before. I find their language taxing. Come, let us continue."

Kaylin accepted that her understanding of what a Keeper did was imperfect. Worse than imperfect. She should have guessed some of it; Evanton had enchanted her daggers. Enchanting daggers had nothing to do with the husbanding of the elemental garden—and that control was imperfect; she'd been in his shop when it suddenly flooded. But... Evanton knew Wevaran? Evanton could see magic of a type that Kaylin couldn't see? Kaylin was very sensitive to magic, to magical sigils, to the traces of the work of mages; it was one of her biggest strengths as an investigator where magical crimes were involved.

Evanton's entire posture had changed by the time he left the family room; he had insisted that the door remain locked—and implied that it was fine with him that Terrano was stuck inside the room. "That boy gives me a headache."

Terrano, of course, wouldn't remain stuck in the room for long—if he'd even remained inside it. Hope's wing trembled against her eyes, but he didn't lower it; he stood, alert, on her shoulder as Evanton made his way to the front door. "Do not tug the Wevaran thread until we've opened the door into Azoria's mansion."

"I'm not sure it will open into the mansion." Mrs. Erickson's voice was soft, but her hands were clasped together as if in prayer. "It's only ever done that once, when Azoria was still alive."

"I am certain it will," Evanton said.

"Oh? But why?" The old woman was curious in spite of her anxiety. Or perhaps because of it.

Evanton's expression gentled instantly when he turned to answer her. "A strand in the magical weave that surrounds the finished painting is meant to open that door. I caused it to activate."

He hadn't touched the painting. He hadn't lifted a hand.

"What activated the door the last time it opened?"

"Azoria, of course. She had far more control over her creation than a simple old man like me." Evanton approached the door and opened it. To no one's surprise, it opened into the foyer of Azoria's mansion.

He turned to Mrs. Erickson, and offered her his arm. Mrs. Erickson accepted it. They stepped into the mansion together. Evanton then turned back. "Serralyn, it is safe to call Bakkon now; I am uncertain that he will be able to track his own thread after you cross the threshold."

Serralyn nodded, lifting a hand to touch a slender, glimmering thread Kaylin was certain she wouldn't have seen without Hope's wing. The light brightened beneath her fingertip.

Bakkon, the Wevaran who lived in Liatt's Tower, appeared, his legs landing so silently he might have been weightless. He lifted his front legs, waving them delicately in a more complex than usual Wevaran greeting.

Evanton nodded, rather than raising his arms in turn; one was occupied by Mrs. Erickson.

The Keeper moved farther into the foyer to allow everyone else to enter; if the door that led to Azoria's former home was magical, it hadn't increased in width.

"I am Evanton, the current Keeper," he said to the Wevaran, in Barrani. "Can you make certain the door remains open?"

"I am honored to meet you, Keeper," Bakkon replied, a faint click between syllables as he lowered his body almost to the ground. "I will do what I can."

Can we just move a piece of furniture over the doorjamb? It's what we did last time , Kaylin said to her partner.

We can, if you think that's wiser. Severn didn't trust the door, either.

Everyone except the Wevaran entered the foyer; Bakkon's body was large enough that the door was a tight squeeze until he turned sideways. Kaylin had expected him to portal between the two living spaces. "I apologize for intruding. I wish to examine this space for my own reasons."

"What might those reasons be?" It was Evanton who asked. Fair enough; the Wevaran—like the Barrani and the Dragon—seemed to hold the Keeper in high regard.

"When Azoria was alive—if that word can be applied to what she had become—the space felt very familiar to me."

"Oh?"

"It felt like a breeding ground. A Wevaran crèche, if you will."

Kaylin grimaced. A Wevaran crèche was a place where many, many small spiders hatched, their sole purpose to eat their brethren until only one remained.

"Do you believe Azoria found one, or do you believe she created it?"

"I am uncertain. I believe it must be created; our birth homes existed for one purpose only. I could not now return to mine; none of us could, once we emerged. We believed—without proper research, I confess—that our emergence destroyed the area."

"Did all birthing grounds produce a Wevaran?" Kaylin asked.

Bakkon's eyes swiveled in her direction—well, two of them.

"It is a worthy question," Evanton said. "I would be pleased to hear your answer."

"No. Perhaps one fifth failed to produce living Wevaran."

"Did the spaces collapse? I assume they failed because the final Wevaran killed each other." Kaylin's tone was full-on Hawk.

"They did not vanish; they did not become unmade. We do not know whether or not all of the hatchlings died. We simply knew that they had failed to produce living kin."

Kaylin's frown deepened. "Did you have birthing grounds? Places you laid your...spaces?"

"Not in the sense that the Dragons did. Understand that we did not lay eggs. We created spaces in which the very young might be stirred to life. But those spaces might be, on the interior, very like this one."

"What do you mean? Wait, do you remember the place you were born?"

"I do. I admit it did not resemble the Barrani architecture of these halls, but it was not a place of darkness; it was not restricted. We are not like humans; our young are not carried and ejected when they are viable. We find spaces, cracks between planes, and we lay our eggs there. We are not like human families; we are not like Barrani families. We do not number our descendants, nor do we prioritize them.

"If they emerge, we treat them as kin. If they do not, we do not grieve."

Kaylin turned to Evanton. "Did you know this?"

Evanton frowned. "Was it relevant to my duties?"

"Probably not."

"Have you finished?"

"I just have one more question."

"Then ask it; Wevaran are notoriously patient with genuine questions, regardless of their practicality."

Kaylin nodded. "When you lay these eggs, do you lay them in the outlands? Is that the crack between planes you mentioned?"

Bakkon chittered in Wevaran, which no one present could understand, but it continued for a couple of minutes before he stopped. When he spoke again, it was in Barrani. "I am not familiar with the word outlands as you use it, but I believe I understand the question.

"You are speaking of the potentiality from which the Towers, the Academia, the Hallionne, and all sentient buildings draw their reality and assert it?"

"Yes."

"The answer is yes. Yes, we do. I am aware that Wevaran biology is not well understood by most races, and certainly not modern races. But birth is complicated for both the child and the parent. The laying of...eggs, in your analogy, is not a simple act. It is not a compulsion to procreate or create, as it is for many living beings. We require words—True Words—to become. We require True Words to emerge."

So did all of the Immortals. But the Barrani had the Lake of Life. The Dragons... Kaylin wasn't certain what the Dragons had; she knew they had to achieve their full name to become adult, but she'd never carefully considered the how or the where; they had no Lake of Life in the fashion the Barrani did.

"True Words don't just exist in the outlands, do they?"

"No, of course not." Bakkon paused. "Tell me, Corporal—or any of you who are not my kin—what do you think the outlands is? We called it potentiality for a reason. You speak. You communicate. You use words. But True Words and your words are not the same. There is a power in True Words, a subtle tapestry of immutable essence and life itself. True Words are not alive."

Kaylin glanced at Mrs. Erickson. Mrs. Erickson's ghosts looked like words to Kaylin, like True Words.

"Bakkon, were True Words alive once?"