Chapter 12

12

"I fail to understand your question," the Wevaran replied, his eye color implying that Kaylin had surprised him. No one else was surprised; they knew what Kaylin had seen when she looked at Mrs. Erickson's ghosts. But they knew, as well, that Mrs. Erickson didn't see them that way.

"True Words are the source of life, of life force, for the Immortals. Things I've seen in ancient Records imply that they were the source of life for the Ancients as well—almost their literal blood."

Bakkon stilled, but said nothing, waiting.

"Blood isn't alive, but it's part of being alive. I assumed True Words were sort of like that. Or like a heart. The heart doesn't exist separate from us unless we're dead—but at that point, it's not beating. But did the Ancients once have a language that was actually alive? Were words sentient in some way?"

"Why are you asking this question?"

Kaylin opened her mouth and closed it again. "I think you should speak with Starrante," she finally said. There were follow-up questions that Bakkon was likely to ask that she didn't want to answer. And it was her own fault for asking the question she'd asked, for thinking out loud without considering possible consequences.

Ghostly words led to questions about Necromancy, which was fine, and possession—of Dragons—which was not.

"You understand that the purpose of True Words is communication. It is, among those who can speak and hear the language, a way of making meaning completely clear. These words exist outside of cultural contexts and the social enclaves that arise around them. Were these words to somehow have a sentience, a life, an existence of their own, how could they serve that function?

"What lives knows change. In the case of the Immortals, that change is slow and oft cumbersome—but life is change. Think: if you cannot change, you cannot learn; knowledge alters our views, our understanding, our grasp of the world." His tone was slightly condescending, which Kaylin had to struggle not to take personally.

"The Ancients were not hoarders of knowledge; they attempted to teach their creations. Our ability to understand what they taught, to even perceive it, was flawed. Were Ancients to walk now, it would remain flawed; we are not what they were. We cannot be what they were; it has been tried. The results have never been good."

"That is true," Evanton said, cutting the conversation short. Or shorter. "If you have investigations to make that do not require our assistance, we have investigations of our own. We will leave you to your work and continue with ours."

Serralyn looked to Kaylin, who shrugged. "Evanton's always like that. Do you want to stay with Bakkon?"

She hesitated, her expression shifting at what was clearly an internal conversation. "Yes. I'll stay with Bakkon."

"Meaning we're stuck with Terrano?"

Her smile was sunny.

Evanton, growing more impatient by the minute, led the way. Azoria's front foyer was grand, the floors perfect gray marble, the ceilings very high; light was cast by the chandelier that occupied the ceiling's height. If it fell, people would die. There were no paintings in the foyer. Evanton wanted to see the paintings, or what remained of them after Mrs. Erickson's first visit. But he paused at the two statues, facing each other from the sides of the foyer. He frowned.

"You didn't mention statues." He turned to Terrano. "Were there statues present when you arrived the first time?"

Barrani memory was better—by far—than Kaylin's, but it hadn't been that long.

"I don't remember statues," Terrano replied, his tone utterly neutral. His quiet response chilled the mood in the foyer. Completely.

The statues appeared Barrani, although they were pale, almost alabaster, the color of skin and hair made irrelevant by the material the sculptor had chosen. Both had long, flowing hair; both wore robes that seemed almost rustic; both wore slender crowns of leaf and vine, not the jeweled tiaras of the powerful and the rich. The robes were voluminous; it was hard to determine gender. Both stood, hands by their sides, chins level, as if they were looking at each other. Or looking for each other.

Mrs. Erickson said, "Azoria is dead."

This wasn't much of a comfort. Mrs. Erickson understood that death wasn't necessarily the end.

Evanton glanced to the side. "You believed that Azoria's research had something to do with the extensive use of the dead."

"Oh, I don't know very much about her research," Mrs. Erickson replied.

Kaylin grimaced at the Keeper. "We're not certain what the goal of that research was. Azoria was Barrani; she had eternity, if she were careful."

"And?"

"It's mostly mortals who break things in an attempt to become Immortal. I don't think she was necessarily trying to extend her life."

Terrano coughed.

"You think she was?"

"I think she was, what's the word? Intrepid. I think she was intrepid. She was willing to experiment."

"Clearly."

"With her own life. With the source of her life force: her name. She wouldn't be the first. If mortals go down the wrong paths in their desire to be Immortal—and they do—Immortals, taking immortality for granted. They don't want eternity because they already have it.

"They want freedom. They want the security of an existence free from the threat of enslavement, which is what True Names represent. If that wasn't her goal, forbidden research—at least among our kin—revolves around that. How do we get names that no one else can bind us with?

"Even if she wasn't looking for that directly, if she performed other questionable research, that would form the underpinnings of any extrapolation."

Evanton exhaled. He walked toward one of the statues; it was taller than anyone present; it might have been taller than Maggaron. Kaylin's frown deepened. The foyer of Azoria's home hadn't been this large, had it?

She turned to Mrs. Erickson; when Evanton approached the statue, Mrs. Erickson had failed to follow, her hand sliding off his arm and falling to her side.

"It's probably a good idea we're here," Terrano said, in an uncharacteristically grim tone. "The foyer wasn't this large the first time. Serralyn says it's possible that without Azoria's will to shape it, the building is slowly transforming."

"This doesn't look like drift to me."

"Not to us, either. I think Bakkon's worried."

"The dead aren't supposed to have power. This can't be Azoria, can it?"

"I'm not the person to ask, and before you continue, I have no idea who is. But Sedarias is now worried."

Great. Just great.

"She's not mad at you—not yet; she was certain Azoria was gone as well."

"What if it's not Azoria?"

"I think that's what she's worried about."

"Her worries can be explained on your own time," Evanton said. He'd left the statue he'd approached and was walking a straight line to the second statue, which brought him in range of their conversation.

"What do you think he's looking for?" Terrano whispered, when Evanton stood in front of the second statue, chin lifted, hands clasped behind his back.

Kaylin shrugged. Severn?

The statues look the same to me as they look to you through Hope's wing.

The rest of the foyer?

The same as well. Hope clearly thinks there's something here that might require visual aid—but whatever it is, it's not in the foyer.

She watched Evanton's back and posture. I'm not so sure about that.

Evanton stood in front of the second statue for at least five minutes; it felt longer, but she knew when she was forced to be inactive, time seemed to elongate. She'd become better about not fidgeting over the years, mostly because it annoyed Teela.

"You said there was a gallery?" Evanton asked.

"There was. It was where the ensorcelled paintings were hung."

"Do you believe it to still be in the same location?"

Kaylin shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

"Two," Terrano said, grinning. He vanished.

Bellusdeo glared. To be fair to her, she was glaring at everything that happened to cross her gaze, it was just that Kaylin was the last person it reached. "I didn't object to his presence, but I hoped you could keep him in line."

Mandoran coughed. A lot.

Bellusdeo's eyes narrowed, but their color didn't darken. "Will he be safe?"

"He's Terrano. Nothing's managed to kill him yet."

The gold Dragon exhaled steam. "Tonight might be a first." But she glanced at Mrs. Erickson. "Or not. This place looks different to you, doesn't it?"

"My memory isn't very good," Mrs. Erickson replied. "And we were in a bit of a panic the last time I was here. But...yes. It looks different. The ceilings are different, and I'm not sure I like the look of that light." She gestured in the direction of the chandelier. "But I like Terrano—I don't want anything bad to happen to him."

"If it does, it won't be your fault. You had nothing to do with this place."

Mrs. Erickson nodded as if she agreed. She didn't. The dead here, the ghosts of the children who had been her lifelong friends, the artist and the boys and girls who had become permanent interior fixtures—they had been entrapped by Azoria because Azoria's interest in the very young Imelda Erickson had been so focused.

Mrs. Erickson was mortal. It was clear—somehow—that Azoria could inhabit living bodies, the bodies of the people she'd imprisoned. It was also clear that the spirits, the souls, the essential nature of the living people, had been ejected from those bodies, as if the body was a simple vehicle. If Azoria had suspicions about Mrs. Erickson's power, Kaylin didn't understand why she hadn't chosen to eject Mrs. Erickson from her own body and take over.

But she hadn't. Perhaps her control of the bodies frayed, or her sense of self disintegrated with the passage of time; the physical body of each of the children in Mrs. Erickson's house had eventually been executed for a series of brutal murders, all occurring roughly at the age of twenty-five.

It wasn't guaranteed that the inhabitant of those bodies had been Azoria; it wasn't guaranteed that it hadn't.

If she'd considered Mrs. Erickson's power possibly useful, she must have been trying to make certain her tenure in that body would be stable. But Mrs. Erickson's body was mortal, like Kaylin's, and Mrs. Erickson was, well, old.

Evanton is also old , Severn pointed out.

Yes...but Evanton is the Keeper. I'm sure there are enchantments that have extended his life while he looks for the next Keeper.

Which implies enchantments can extend mortal life.

Evanton's been around forever. Don't you think if it were that obvious, every mortal Arcanist ever would be flocking to his shop to attempt to kidnap and dissect him?

The Arcanists wouldn't. There are enough Barrani in the Arcanum that the role of the Keeper would be protected. There's no point in immortality when the world has been destroyed.

Kaylin wasn't so certain. There was an annoying breed of mage that believed that rules only applied to other people; that they were, and would remain, the exception. Reality—even reality as strange as the garden—was for other, lesser beings.

I don't think Azoria would've been foolish enough to remove the Keeper. She would've certainly been aware of his existence.

"Terrano says the gallery is still here. Sort of," Mandoran informed them.

Kaylin frowned. If Azoria intended to occupy Mrs. Erickson's body because of Mrs. Erickson's innate power, she had to know that Mrs. Erickson would age and die, just like the rest of the mortals.

Severn nodded.

That means the question of mortality suddenly becomes relevant, no?

It does. Perhaps some of her experiments with the spirits of the living were an attempt to preserve their innate power.

Kaylin shook her head. I'm not sure that's the way it works.

I agree—but Azoria was not a woman given to acceptance of that fact, especially where mortals were concerned. Mortals lived without the need for a True Name.

Yeah, but we can't live forever.

The ghosts could. Had Mrs. Erickson passed away, the children would have been trapped for eternity.

Kaylin flinched.

The gallery, as Terrano had informed them, was not the same gallery through which they had walked previously. Paintings hung across its walls, and statues adorned its alcoves. The statues were new, which was concerning, but it was the paintings that drew the eye.

Azoria had created paintings such as these in the High Halls; it was in such paintings that she had trapped—and suspended—living mortals. If stasis could be considered immortality, Amaldi and Darreno had effectively been Immortal. They just hadn't experienced the passage of time, unless and until they were released from their prison.

Kaylin had sometimes wondered why people were obsessed with living forever. What kind of lives had they led that made eternity seem appealing? When she'd first come to the Hawks, she'd wanted the exact opposite: an end to what seemed unending pain.

Severn tapped her shoulder.

Sorry. You know I don't feel that way now. She shook herself and returned her attention to the paintings. They had been portraits, at one point. Paintings of mortals. But the frames were so dark they might have been composed of obsidian—and the images were no longer of people. Had the paintings simply become the backgrounds that Azoria had painted, it wouldn't have been so disturbing.

They were landscapes, yes—but not the landscapes or interiors that had graced Azoria's work. Some were almost like the building they were currently investigating, but some were not. The only similar thing she had seen was in her brief foray into Ravellon . Which made things far worse.

But here and there were verdant, brilliant greens—trees or very tall plants, beneath oddly colored skies. And some were the gray, roiling clouds of the outlands.

The paintings looked almost like windows.

Kaylin lifted a hand to touch a canvas; Hope squawked. Loudly.

"Do not make me breathe fire," Bellusdeo said, her voice louder than Hope's.

"I just wanted to see if they were still canvas."

"See with your eyes."

"I don't know why people say I'm reckless," Terrano, invisible, muttered. "I wouldn't touch these with gloves, armor, or a ten-foot pole."

Kaylin rolled her eyes. "We believe you."

"I don't," Mandoran said, his words overlapping Bellusdeo's.

"I was being polite. Terrano, what does the painting at the end of the gallery look like?"

"It's the only one that looks the same—but it's a fair ways off now. I don't think there are more paintings, but...there are more sculptures."

Kaylin nodded; she could see that. The sculptures were similar to the ones that now graced the foyer.

"These sculptures were not here the first time you had the misfortune to visit?" Evanton asked.

"No."

"I would like the Barrani boys to pay attention to every detail in this mansion, their memory being better than ours. Or," he added, glancing in the direction of the Dragon, "Lord Bellusdeo could do the same. I feel hesitant to command her as if she's a simple errand runner. I'd have you do it," he added to Kaylin. "I pay taxes. Taxes pay you. But your memory is worse than mine."

Bakkon and Serralyn had not entered the gallery; that left Mandoran and Terrano as the errand boys. No one in this hall felt safe. Azoria was dead, in theory, but the hall had changed. Either something else had moved in, or the hall was somehow reverting to an earlier shape and form.

Kaylin doubted it was the latter; the hall was larger, and far grander, than the home that Azoria had constructed; she couldn't imagine that the Barrani lord would have gone through the effort of deliberately creating a lesser space.

Evanton's expression grew more remote as he walked, purposefully and slowly, down the gallery.

Kaylin risked one question. "Are these paintings no longer paintings?"

"In my opinion, they are not. But they were never paintings. Azoria's magic relied on altering both canvas and paint. It was delicate work, and likely time-consuming; whatever she built here was a long time in the planning. I do not sense her presence in this place, but it is not empty.

"I would remain, but I cannot be too long from the garden. I will need to confer with the elements—they are likely to be unsettled."

"Do you understand why?"

"No. I am unwilling to speculate without further research. There is one last painting I wish to see."

"The self-portrait."

Evanton nodded. His face was disturbingly expressionless as he looked down the gallery, his eyes slightly narrowed.

Hope was now rigid as he stood on her shoulder. "Mrs. Erickson?" Kaylin asked, voice softer. Although the old woman had entered the building by Evanton's side, she had fallen behind. Kaylin joined Mrs. Erickson; she and Bellusdeo walked to either side of her, as if she was the only person here who needed protection.

Her eyes were too wide, her shoulders too slumped; her hands seemed to tremble slightly.

"Imelda," Bellusdeo said, her eyes dark orange, her voice very gentle. "What do you see?"

Mrs. Erickson shook her head, mute, as if to deny that she could see anything. But she didn't say the words, because they would have been lies. Maybe living with children for all her life had made honesty so instinctive she couldn't lie, except by shaky omission.

Evanton lifted a hand before Bellusdeo could ask again. He'd glanced at Mrs. Erickson, but it was brief; that glance, even given his lack of familiarity, took in everything Kaylin had seen.

"My apologies, Mrs. Erickson. I have perhaps been too demanding. I wish to view the final painting, after which I must do research of my own. Thank you for your patience." He approached her and once again offered her his arm.

She put more of her weight against it as she accepted.

Terrano was visible in the distance, dwarfed by the large frame that had once contained the self-portrait of Azoria An'Berranin. She was no longer in the painting, but the painting persisted, its frame unchanged. The absence of Azoria had initially left the gray, almost cloudlike landscape of the outlands. It had been both window and door. Now the landscape was different.

Clouds persisted, but they occupied the height of the painting, as natural clouds occupied parts of the sky. From the height of clouds, spokes of light fell on a slant, toward the ground. There, trees stood—or plants that resembled trees at this distance; had they not been so small, she wouldn't have had any doubts.

But above those trees towered pillars—or what Kaylin assumed were pillars—that almost seemed to hold up the sky, the clouds; there was no roof, no upper limit to the structure. The pillars were wider by far than the trunks of the trees that seemed almost minuscule in comparison.

The sky was an odd shade—a sunset shade of crimson and violet with streaks of gold from one side of the frame to the other.

"Mandoran, what do you see?"

Mandoran described what Kaylin saw almost exactly.

"Bellusdeo?"

The gold Dragon failed to answer.

"Evanton?"

"I see what Mandoran claims to see," the Keeper replied. His tone was neutral, almost stiff.

Do you see what I see?

Yes. But Evanton's reaction implies that it has a meaning to him that it doesn't to the rest of us.

Kaylin didn't ask Mrs. Erickson. Instead, she said, "What does Terrano see?"

"He can see what we see."

"And?"

Mandoran nodded. "This was one of Azoria's paintings. There are elements to it that aren't visible to normal eyes."

Terrano's eyes were not normal. They were far too large, and far too oddly colored; they took up half of his face. "Serralyn says Bakkon is done for now—they're going to close up and head back to the Academia through his portal, if that's okay."

Kaylin nodded, distracted. She walked more quickly to reach the painting, and stopped in front of it. Hope squawked loudly.

"I know," she told him.

"What do you know?" Evanton demanded, his tone the sharp snap he seemed to reserve for disappointing Hawks.

"The pillars," she replied, without looking back. "There are words engraved on them."

Silence.

You don't see words?

No.

"Does anyone else see the words?"

More silence.

"Terrano," Evanton said, in the same sharp tone. "Does this painting still serve the function of a portal?"

"I think so. Before, I could see a door. I can't see one now, but it feels like a door is here. And closed."

"My apologies, Mrs. Erickson. My eyes are not as good as the eyes of the young here, and I need to be a bit closer to the painting to examine it properly. I will leave you with Lord Bellusdeo, but ask that you keep your distance. I am not at all certain that the painting is safe to approach."

"Then why are you approaching it?" Kaylin demanded.

He glared in her direction.

"I mean it. Severn and I are here, and we're Hawks. You're the Keeper, Evanton—and you don't have a successor. Bellusdeo is a fieflord now, and Towers don't function well without a captain."

"I'm not a fieflord, and I'm not a Keeper," Terrano said, grinning—which was very disturbing given the composition of his eyes. "Neither is Mandoran. We can do what you want."

"No, you cannot," Evanton replied, ignoring them.

The natural respect—even awe—that some of the cohort felt for the authority and position of the Keeper was entirely absent. Then again, it was Terrano; Mandoran wasn't being cheeky. He'd been on almost suspiciously good behavior since they'd left the house—so much so, it was almost like he wasn't here at all.

"Hope—please please please keep an eye on Evanton."

Squawk.

"Do not even think of landing on my shoulder. Your master is far more tolerant than I will ever be."

Squawk.

"I understand that. But if I were the type of person to hide behind someone else's familiar every time there is a possibility of danger, I would not have survived my apprenticeship, and I would have failed in the garden. I am not reckless, and I lack the impetuousness of youth."

"I don't think it's a good idea," Terrano began.

"You do not strike me as a young man who recognizes good ideas. Be silent. I need to listen."

Had Evanton been a foundling, Kaylin would have said you listen with your ears, not your hands the minute he lifted an arm. She tensed, glancing at Bellusdeo. Bellusdeo had retreated down the hall with Mrs. Erickson, as if Mrs. Erickson was the only person of value in this place.

Kaylin would have done the same had she not been standing as close to Evanton as possible. Severn had quietly taken up position on the other side of the Keeper, to one side of Terrano, who remained by the painting.

It was hard to gauge his expression because his eyes were so unnatural, but she thought he, too, was alert—and he was looking at things she couldn't see.

"Terrano—do you see words?" Kaylin asked, voice low.

"No. But the pillars don't quite look like pillars to me—not right now. I can see what Mandoran is looking at; it's not the same."

"Are there similarities?"

"The frame is the same in either view. What do you see through the wing?"

She poked Hope, who grumbled but adjusted his wing so it covered only one eye. The painting looked the same. It wasn't Hope's wings that made the graven words clear. It was probably the marks of the Chosen.

But those marks weren't glowing. Nothing about them indicated that something was wrong or strange. "It's the same." She wanted to see what Terrano could see, but she couldn't melt her face the way he did.

"Evanton?"

Hope stiffened and let loose a volley of squawks in the direction of the Keeper. Evanton was close enough the noise should have been momentarily deafening, but he failed to hear it at all. His left hand, raised, faced the painting's surface; his fingers spread, fingertips touching what was no longer paint.

Beneath his hand, the painting darkened; shadows spread out from the tips of his fingers, flowing in five separate directions. Kaylin turned to the Keeper and reached immediately for his left wrist.

Her hand bounced in midair.

Kaylin tried again, but Severn had already begun to move; he was unwinding his weapon chain. The weapon served as a spellbreaker in times of need. As Kaylin watched in growing horror, she realized that it wasn't shadow that was spreading from Evanton's fingers; it was the illumination of the painting, the paint itself, that was being absorbed by Evanton's hand.

That light, dim at first, brightened; Evanton's eyes narrowed, but he didn't lower his hand.

"Can you let go?" Kaylin shouted.

"It appears I cannot," the Keeper replied, as if he were talking about mild weather. "My apologies. I believe I now understand the nature of the upset in the elemental garden. I believe it would be best if you—if all of you—left."

"We can't just leave you stuck to a painting!"

"Ah, perhaps I was being overly polite. Leave now." His voice sounded like an earthquake. Kaylin looked up; the hall was unaffected. It was all Evanton. "Lord Bellusdeo, please escort Mrs. Erickson from this manor immediately."

Kaylin turned to Hope. "Do something! Don't just sit there!"

I cannot, master. The price you would have to pay for the intervention would exceed your life force, and as such is forbidden.

"Why? Can you just build the barrier around him?"

There are some powers with which even I cannot safely interfere. It is possible I could intervene—but I cannot guarantee that even the Keeper would survive. If that power is aware of my interference, you would certainly not.

"Serralyn's coming to join us," Mandoran said. "Bakkon asks us to do everything we can to hold on to the Keeper until he arrives."

Hold on to him? She couldn't even touch him.

"Tell them both to stay where they are; there is nothing they can do here," Evanton snapped. He was annoyed. Or in pain. Maybe both.

Severn had blades in both hands; he passed them above Evanton's arms, not to wound, but to see if the barrier that had prevented Kaylin's touch would repel them. It did. He sheathed the blades, took the chain between two hands, and struck the barrier with more force; the chain bounced.

Whatever magic this was wasn't a magic the chains had been created to break.

It was brighter as well; Evanton's arms, face, exposed skin, all began to glow.

"You should go," Terrano said. "Like, now."

"That is what I suggested," Evanton said, through gritted teeth.

"Kaylin." Bellusdeo's voice was a booming sound, caught by the architecture and magnified. In case the magnification wasn't enough, she then repeated the word in full Dragon voice.

"But—but the Keeper!"

"He's certain he'll survive. He's also certain most of us won't. Move." Bellusdeo had picked up Mrs. Erickson—literally. She began to run back the way they'd come, as if Mrs. Erickson weighed nothing. Mandoran joined them.

"Terrano!"

"I'll be fine!"

Mandoran offered no further argument. He turned to race down the hall, catching up with the Dragon; Severn caught Kaylin by the arm, turned her around, and began to sprint.

Kaylin looked back over her shoulder; she could no longer see Evanton; she could see an almost blinding flash of light, as if light were exploding. It didn't shatter, but it began to fill the hall, spreading from its center, which was Evanton.