Chapter 21

21

The marks that she saw as large, floating runes began to shudder in place; it took her a few seconds to realize their movements matched the tremor of the ground beneath her feet, beat for beat. Hope, translucent, seemed to become almost attenuated, the lines of his body that were clear and hard softening, as if he would be absorbed by the outlands in his entirety.

Hope roared, a note of disgust in the sound. Kaylin swallowed, understanding his meaning: She was to focus on the Keeper. Not Hope.

She let go of Severn's hand; she thought he would remain with her. She was no longer going anywhere. If Mandoran was right, if she walked between planes without realizing that was what she was doing, she'd meant to take him with her as she walked. But this was where she had to be, and he was here.

He unsheathed both of his weapons; they seemed almost transparent, but the chain that bound them wasn't. He then turned to Hope, to Evanton, planting his feet firmly in the space that they occupied. He didn't approach the Ancient, that towering giant who seemed, standing as he did above Evanton, like a world unto himself.

Evanton's feet remained submerged in the pale, gray loam, and he struggled to maintain his footing.

No, she realized. Not his footing. He was struggling to maintain his control over the miasma of potential that was the outlands. She wondered, for the first time, if the elemental garden was formed from the same material. It would explain what Evanton was now doing: he had control over some element of that potential because the garden was necessary, and the garden required a Keeper.

What she didn't understand was the presence of the green.

Severn's certain identification of the flowers she couldn't see without Hope's wing made clear that somehow the strands Azoria had woven so delicately and carefully so as to draw power of some kind from the green—without also drawing attention—had altered. Maybe the connection required control, and Azoria, dead, had none.

Maybe the green had become aware of Azoria's incursion.

But if it had, why was its power now prevalent here? Why did her marks somehow reflect the green? And why had the miasma that she'd seen when she'd stepped beneath the first arch remind her so much of Shadow?

Did it have something to do with death, with the dead? With what the Ancients became when they died? Was that what Evanton was trying to contain?

Kaylin!

Right. What Evanton was trying to do wasn't her responsibility. What she was trying to do, was. It was the only thing she had control over, the only thing she could do that might somehow help. The usual problem applied: she had no idea what she was doing, what she was supposed to be doing. Hope believed she could do something. Evanton believed it.

And the Ancient believed it as well.

Being with the Hawks had taught her to assess, to research, to investigate; had taught her that knee-jerk reactions weren't always the answer. Sometimes knee jerk was emotional, personal, a reaction—not an instinct. She'd trusted her instincts, but separating them from her reactions had always been difficult.

Now? There was no knee jerk if she didn't count panic, and she didn't. There was nothing to take personally; the only thing making her feel small and inadequate was herself—and she didn't have time for it. Second-guesses and self-loathing could come later, if there was a later.

That left only instinct.

It was the instinct that had guided her early attempts at healing. It was the instinct that she fell back on every subsequent time she had struggled to use her power to save a life—even an ungrateful, resentful, Barrani life. She wasn't healing anything, but she felt that same instinct guide her.

And that instinct had always been defined, not by Kaylin, but by the injured person. The injured body. The outlands, as far as she knew, was not a body. It wasn't alive. But the marks, in their ivory-edged green glory, seemed, as the ground continued to shudder in an oddly rhythmic time, to want to somehow take root there, as if this was where they belonged. This place, this time, beneath Evanton's feet. And the Ancient's.

Marks had left her skin before; she wondered if these marks—all of the visible ones pulsing with the same color—would leave in the same way. She closed her eyes, as she often did when she tried to heal the injured.

She could still see the marks; they were the only thing she could see.

She hadn't expected that she would hear them so clearly; she could. They should have been a cacophony of sound; they were a chorus instead, voices blending across syllables that seemed to merge into notes that were so harmonious it seemed impossible. Each voice was distinct, its own, but part of the greater whole and inseparable from it.

She had thought of the marks as words, individual words with fixed and absolute meanings. She had heard their voices before, but never like this.

Her own lips began to move, as if to join what was now a song. She'd never been able to carry a tune; even if she wanted to sing, to be part of a choral song, she knew it was better for everyone else if she kept her mouth shut.

Here, it didn't matter. It wasn't about whether or not her notes were sharp or flat; it didn't matter if her voice was too soft or too nasal or too toneless. She wasn't singing; she was speaking. She was speaking True Words, and she felt them as her truth, even if it wasn't her own words, her own tongue, expressing them.

The words grew larger, brighter, louder; she was surrounded by them as they grew farther and farther from their resting space on her skin. The light they cast across her arms, her body, became a deeper green, brighter and richer than the heart of a leaf could be.

She knew the color then.

She knew the color because it was the exact shade of green she had worn in the green, when she had been selected—by that mysterious force—to take part in the ceremony the Barrani called the regalia . She had been chosen. She hadn't been all that happy about it at the time, but she was grateful for it now, because she could feel the green here, in this place. She could feel the green beneath Evanton's feet, and she knew—without knowing—that it was the power of the green that had shored him up in his attempt to contain the Ancient.

She'd worried about its presence, but she couldn't remember why.

Eyes open now, she once again surrendered herself to her role, raising her arms, her voice; giving voice to the marks of the Chosen in a way she hadn't the first time she had worn this dress. Because she was wearing the dress now. She was clothed in emerald; she was, for the moment, standing in the heart of the green.

Harmoniste. She was the harmoniste. She would never be able to describe the tale she told; how could she? But she felt the marks leave her skin, leave her; they extended, not to the Ancient, but to Evanton, there to surround him and Kaylin in a shield of ivory and green.

She looked at Evanton; his eyes were closed, his face raised. Across his brow, she saw, to her surprise, that he wore the crown of the green. The emerald was the same color as her dress, and she realized that she'd seen it before. She then turned toward the Ancient; he had fallen silent. He was the audience for which the regalia was performed.

What meaning would it have for the dead?

What meaning did death have for the Ancients? She came back to that question, time and again, and perhaps the question threaded its way through her voice. But the words that surrounded both Kaylin and Evanton began to expand, to reach, the shape of the shield changing as the elements of the words rearranged themselves to form not a wall, but a bridge, a stream of words.

She knew the words she had carried were gone. She knew that this was where they were meant to be, somehow.

But she felt, as the sound of the words dimmed and silence returned, that it was not enough. Evanton's knees buckled; Kaylin reached for him, but it was Severn who caught him before he fell.

"We are not done here," the Keeper said, voice weak and almost breathless as he confirmed her suspicion. "The Ancient is contained because he was willing to be contained—but he is lost, Kaylin. Had Azoria never found him, I am not certain what would have happened. What I can do, I have done, but I had unexpected aid. And by that, I don't mean you. I feel you took your time."

Of course he did.

"The Ancient is not asleep, but he is calm now. Can you see the difference in the environment?"

Kaylin turned to look back down the path they'd walked. She could now see dirt; there was no white-or black-flecked miasma. Hope returned to her and flopped across her shoulders; he lifted his tiny head, and she realized she'd lost sight of him. Given his draconic form, that should have been impossible. He squawked, the sound weak and ineffectual.

Walking down the tree-lined path toward Kaylin were familiar companions.

Teela took one look at Kaylin, and her eyes narrowed to slits. Kaylin knew why. She was wearing this dress. It was a dress Teela herself had worn, and this was not the place any Barrani would have expected to see it. Tain looked more impressed.

"Evanton—what happened to Terrano? Did he not follow you?"

Evanton nodded. "I told him to leave. He was not of a mind to obey."

"I don't see him."

"No. I'm uncertain that he understood what was happening, but he could see something, and he felt he could be of aid."

"What something?"

"He did not say, and I was, I admit, a bit too preoccupied to perform the service of a babysitter."

"Did you see where he went? His friends are looking for him and they're getting worried. And yes, An'Teela is one of those friends."

"I believe he went to converse with the Ancient."

Kaylin muttered a Leontine curse and turned to face her companions again: Emmerian, Teela, Tain, and Larrantin. Larrantin was utterly silent, his gaze fixed upon the giant that seemed to take up most of what passed for sky.

Teela was more practical. "Terrano's not here." Not a question.

"Evanton said he went to try to do something with or to the Ancient."

"I forgive your use of extremely rude Leontine; I'm of a mind to add to it." Teela didn't ask what Terrano had intended; she knew him well enough to know that it was a pointless question; Evanton wouldn't know.

"You said you'd know if he was dead, right?"

"Yes."

"So he's not dead."

"He's going to be dead when I get my hands on him. Sedarias, as you can imagine, is...extremely worried. She's not the only one; she's just the most demonstrative. Has the Ancient spoken?"

"Not since we arrived—Severn and I, I mean."

"It is best that he does not speak," Evanton said. "Make no attempt to disturb him. And yes, that applies to you as well." These words were meant for Larrantin. Evanton was clearly familiar enough with everyone else that he didn't expect them to be reckless or foolish.

Larrantin didn't hear the Keeper the first time.

He heard the Keeper the second time. The Ancient wasn't asleep—nothing could have slept through the sharp crack of Evanton's syllables. He could give a Dragon a run for his money.

Larrantin turned to the Keeper. He offered a perfect Barrani bow. "Forgive me, Keeper. I am a scholar; I was born when Ravellon had not yet become the center of all worlds—well before its fall. We studied Shadow when we became aware of its existence; we studied, we warred, we destroyed whole sections of Ravellon in an attempt to save some parts of it; we failed.

"Tools were created, spells learned, defenses developed—but always imperfectly because we did not understand Shadow; we did not understand where it came from, why it spread, how it corrupted. We knew that it was sentient; we knew it could control and enslave as well as transform. At first, we thought it was an attacker from a different world, but no; we came to realize that it spread from ours. From Ravellon .

"Were there warning signs? There must have been. Something we missed. Something we overlooked. Some change in the environment, some twisting of essential mana. We had theories, of course. The Ancients created the Towers, as you well know. But they did not answer our questions—and their answers might have saved lives, might have preserved great pillars of learning, of knowledge, of study. Whole areas of your faded, ruined city might have continued to shine, to grow.

"I am not interested in the power of the Ancients, but in the lack of answers, the lack of guidance, the lack of information that they must have had if they could create the Towers to stand sentinel against what remained in the heart of Ravellon . You said that the Ancient, dead, nonetheless spoke to you; that the Ancient, trapped in the outlands, had become a conduit of power for Azoria.

"But dead, the Ancient has taken Azoria's halls, has transformed them. Dead, he has disturbed the elements in their garden—the garden was perhaps the strongest and most ancient of their great works. And in this place—not the research rooms, but these...halls—I can detect the faintest of traces of a familiar and fell magic."

"I can't leave you here," Kaylin said. "And we have to take Evanton home."

"I am in need of rest," the Keeper said. Kaylin noted that his robes remained, just as her dress did. "But it will not last. Come. If we must plan, if we must theorize, this is not the place to do it." He turned to Kaylin, straightening out his clothing. "I did not get lost; I was not trapped. The Ancient did not detain me; I made the decision to remain."

"You could have walked away?"

"Yes. But the alterations in this environment would continue, and it is my opinion that they would have grown to affect far more than Azoria's manse. Intimations of that continue. If we cannot contain, if we cannot fully silence what remains of this god, I do not believe any of us will survive.

"Kaylin's presence as the Chosen of this generation has calmed the Ancient for now, and the Ancient has no desire to destroy; I do not believe destruction or transformation is the Ancient's intent. In that, it is different from Shadow."

"How long will we have?" Teela asked.

"Perhaps a week. Perhaps less. My gift is not the dead; it is not the magics of the Ancients, beyond the garden itself. But as you have seen, I have some control over things that must be contained; could we move the Ancient to my garden, as we did the Devourer, I believe I could minimize the damage caused by its decay.

"I cannot. I would not make the attempt. I would not expose the world without to the Ancient in its current state." He exhaled. "Lord Emmerian."

The Dragon—still in draconic form—nodded his enormous head.

"You are familiar with Bellusdeo."

There was a slight pause before the Dragon nodded a second time.

"Kaylin believes that Bellusdeo is very, very protective of Mrs. Erickson."

"She has her reasons," Emmerian told the Keeper.

"I assume so, yes. But I believe Mrs. Erickson is entangled in this space in some fashion, and I believe it is in Mrs. Erickson's hands that our future survival lies. You will have to convince Bellusdeo, if Kaylin cannot."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Kaylin said. "Let me talk to her first. I know she's not going to like it—but she'll be more careful with me because Mrs. Erickson will be there; I think, if she's upset, she's going to feel free to lose it at Emmerian, because he's likely to survive."

"Good. I know that you are also hesitant. Lose the hesitance if you do not wish to lose everything else. You know that were I to tell Mrs. Erickson she was absolutely necessary for the protection of the world, she would immediately volunteer; she is that kind of person. Convince Bellusdeo to give her the choice."

"It's not just Bellusdeo who's going to be dead set against it." Kaylin glanced at Severn. "Helen is going to hate it."

"I need to recover, or I would accompany you to your home; Helen seems remarkably sensible." He coughed. "Lord Emmerian, if I might trouble you for aid?"

Kaylin, understanding Evanton's request, said, "It's not technically legal for him to fly you home."

"It is legal in an emergency," Evanton replied. "And I would imagine justifying such aid would not be difficult: you can inform the Emperor that the Keeper was at risk of failing in his duty due to exhaustion."

Emmerian knew better than to argue with Evanton; it made Kaylin wonder how long the Dragon had known the Keeper. "I will be honored to be of aid to you, Keeper. The Emperor will not question my decision."

"Is it safe for any of us to remain?" Kaylin asked, giving Larrantin the side-eye.

"What do you think?" Evanton snapped.

"I think we leave," Kaylin said. "Larrantin?"

He nodded, his gaze on the Ancient complicated; it was not quite the avaricious gaze of a researcher. "I will join Serralyn and Bakkon, if that is acceptable."

Kaylin glanced at Teela, but Teela's attention was fixed on the Ancient, her gaze entirely different from Larrantin's. Of course it was. Terrano was still missing. "Teela?"

"Larrantin can join the research," the Barrani Hawk said. "Bakkon will come to retrieve him and take him back. The rest of us will return to Helen; we have much to discuss."

"Has Serralyn found anything that she thinks might be helpful?"

"Undecided. She wants to know what happened. Which is fine. I'd like to know what happened as well."

"What did you see?"

"You walked beneath the arch of the first two trees. The path seemed normal to our eyes until you reached perhaps the sixth living column—but when you passed it, you vanished. Not only did you vanish, but fog rolled in; we lost sight of you. Some discussion about our path going forward was had. It was perhaps fractious.

"But before we could act, the fog rolled back, and we could see you in the distance."

"You could," Larrantin said. "The rest of us could not. An'Teela did not avail herself of magical enhancements—but she could see you; we could not. Not until she began to walk."

Kaylin nodded. She could guess why.

"And then we saw you. You appear to have found the time and space to change your uniform into something that is, admittedly, far more attractive to my eye than the Hawk kit you usually wear."

Kaylin glanced at Teela. Teela shrugged. "It's a ceremonial dress."

"So it is the dress it appears to be. How did you come by it?"

"I don't know."

Larrantin's eyes narrowed.

"I'm sorry I don't have a better answer. I just have the truth. I was wearing my normal clothing—and if I've lost that, it's going to cause problems. At some point, my normal clothing became this. I only recognized it because I've worn it before."

"You?"

"Me."

"You, a mortal, were chosen by the green? To be the harmoniste? To wear that dress?"

She curbed her annoyance with effort, because she'd found it pretty unbelievable when it had happened to her. "Yes."

Larrantin's eyes became a very dark blue. "In this place. In Azoria's former home. You donned that dress. You were given it here."

Kaylin nodded.

"And the crown of the Teller?"

She shook her head. "No crown, just this dress."

"The regalia requires both harmoniste and Teller."

Kaylin knew that; when she'd traveled to the West March, Nightshade had been chosen by the green to be the Teller, which, given he was outcaste, had caused predictable friction. "If someone was given the crown, they probably traveled to the West March, not here."

"You are not to wear that dress in the abode of the semi-dead."

Kaylin's natural oppositional tendencies kicked in. "If I'd had any choice in it, I wouldn't be wearing this dress. It's not like someone popped in, handed me the dress in a neat pile, and vanished. My clothing became this dress!"

Serralyn, who could hear everything because Teela was present, must have rushed Bakkon; he popped into existence before Larrantin could sharpen the point of a pointless interrogation. Kaylin had no answers to give him.

Larrantin now appeared to be torn between lecture mode and research mode. "Your aid would be appreciated," the Wevaran told the Barrani, hoping to tip the scales in favor of peace. "We have found some of Azoria's older books, and I admit the research in them is beyond me; it is certainly beyond Serralyn at her current level of education."

Larrantin allowed himself to be convinced; Bakkon spit a portal in front of the scholar, and made sure he'd entered it before he followed.

Nothing stopped the group that remained from finding the exit; if everything else had been altered, the door, or the shape of Mrs. Erickson's door, had not—when it could be seen at all. Kaylin thought it would have been invisible before the Ancient had been calmed or stilled, but it didn't matter. The door opened into Mrs. Erickson's front hall, and when everyone had cleared it and the door was closed behind them, it opened once again onto a porch that had seen better years.

It was dark. The moons were high, although neither were full. They'd lost daylight hours to the halls, which would have been fine had it felt like that much time had passed.

Emmerian, who had regained his human form, shed it the moment he reached the lawn; he turned back to Evanton, most of whose weight was being shouldered by Tain. Tain walked Evanton to Emmerian, and helped him to climb the Dragon's back; when the old man was as secure as he could be given a lack of saddle, Emmerian pushed off the earth, into the city sky.

They watched the two leave as Tain rejoined them.

"Is he going to be okay?" Kaylin asked.

Teela's shrug was pure fief, adopted from Kaylin. "I don't know. As I said, you vanished. Whatever it was that Evanton did, I assume it was the Keeper's business. He was—and is—worried. Let's go back to Helen. We're going to need to talk to Mrs. Erickson, if Bellusdeo and Helen will allow it."

Kaylin grimaced. She knew that we meant Kaylin.

She exhaled, looking down at her arms; they were clothed in a shimmering green that seemed to catch the light, not that there was a lot of it left. Severn was no longer wielding his weapons, and he certainly wasn't wearing a dress.

"It looks good on you, if that helps."

She glared.

"He's not wrong," Teela said.

"Yeah, he's not helpful, either."

Helen was waiting by the open door when Kaylin at last crossed her property line and dragged herself up the steps. She was exhausted. Helen understood the significance of the dress because Kaylin did, but her home was concerned.

"We found Evanton," Kaylin said, as Helen moved to the side to allow everyone else to enter. "Emmerian took him home—he was in dire need of sleep. Or rest. We can check in on him tomorrow."

"Things aren't resolved."

"Evanton doesn't feel they are, no."

"And you don't, either."

Kaylin nodded.

"Dear, you are practically falling asleep on your feet." She glanced at the rest of the guests. "I can feed everyone, and if you must continue to speak, at least take a nap."

Squawk .

"Exactly," Helen agreed. She didn't march Kaylin up the stairs, but she did escort her there; no one attempted to stop her, either. Kaylin argued, but it was half-hearted. She hadn't felt this exhausted when she'd been standing in the Ancient's hall; it had fallen on her in stages as she made the trek home—a trek that seemed interminably long as she put one foot in front of the other. Maybe she should have had Emmerian fly her home as well—not that he would've likely agreed. Evanton was the Keeper; he was a vital, if hidden, part of the world.

Kaylin was a cranky Hawk in a stupid dress.

"No one thinks your dress is stupid," Helen informed her.

"They don't have to walk in it."

"It seems designed for walking, even running."

"And if a Barrani wore it, it wouldn't raise eyebrows. I'm not a ‘wear a long pretty dress in public streets' person." She grimaced. "And the clothing I was wearing was one of two sets I use for official work—I can get the tabard replaced easily, if you don't count the quartermaster's contempt and anger, but I don't have the money to replace everything else, especially the boots." She didn't have a second set of boots, either. She had shoes, which would do in a pinch, but she'd need to replace the boots instantly.

Helen could create clothing for her, but it persisted only in the house, and Helen couldn't magically create money—not that Kaylin would ask. She considered asking for reimbursement from the Imperial Palace, or Sanabalis personally, because she'd lost her real clothing in the line of duty, not on her own time.

"That would probably be effective," Helen said. "And I would consider it quite justified, given the circumstances. Do you need help removing that?"

"No—I'm just going to take a nap. I don't need to get ready for bed. I've worn this damn dress before. It doesn't tear, it doesn't get dirty—I don't even think it allows sweat to touch its hallowed fabric. My bed isn't going to get dirty because I happened to sleep in it while dressed."

Hope hopped onto the pillow beside Kaylin's, curled up, and closed his eyes.

He snored.

She couldn't have restful sleep, even when exhausted. No. Of course not.

She stood in a clearing, bound by trees that seemed both ancient and on the short side, given the trees the Ancient had conjured. They were gnarled, their branches spread low and wide; she could see sunlight make shadows of those branches, which nonetheless allowed light to pass through.

Around the base of the trees, nestled between visible roots, were familiar flowers.

She stood in the green.

Across from where she stood, she saw a familiar figure, robed in the blue of his office: Evanton. She wondered if he were a figment of the dream itself, or if they had somehow become connected. Frowning, she took a closer look at the Keeper.

He was, and was not, the Evanton she knew. He had the same facial features, but a lot fewer wrinkles. Didn't make him look any friendlier.

"I see I cannot escape you even in exhaustion-induced sleep." Dream Evanton pinched the bridge of his nose. "Well?"

"Well, what? I was trying to take a nap before embarking in a long discussion. I ended up here." She raised her arms. Yup. Green sleeves. "Do you know where we are?"

"I would expect that you would have a far clearer answer, but perhaps exhaustion has addled my brain. We are, at the moment, communing with the green—or the green is attempting to commune with us. What are you staring at?"

"Why do you look so young?"

"That is the question, while we're dreaming, that you feel is pertinent and necessary? In case it has escaped your notice, we are not here in person; we are hundreds of miles away, in our separate abodes, attempting to rest enough that we may face what must be faced.

"I look ‘so young' as you put it because I am not physically present; what is present is my spirit, or rather, it is the expression of the power of the Keeper, conferred on me by the previous Keeper. I look forward to the day I can pass it on and truly rest, but apparently today is not that day. I admit I have never understood the significance of robes and dresses as ceremonial garb; it seems entirely impractical."

"Well, this dress is pretty much self-cleaning; it can't be torn, and I can run in full stride while wearing it."

"I retract my comment about practicality. I admit I was surprised to see you wearing it."

"Not half as surprised as I was—it's not like I keep a dress tucked in my side pouch, and even if I did, an emergency involving a dead Ancient isn't where I'd pull it out to put it on. What did we do there?"

"I know very, very little about the living Ancients; I now know far more than I did about dead Ancients—and I would still classify my knowledge as extremely meagre. But you were correct in your surmise. Azoria clearly had some connection to the green.

"I know very little about the green; even Barrani scholars do not claim to be experts. The Warden and his students guard the green—but it has always seemed to me that it is not the green that requires his protection. It is his people that require protection from the green. Barrani are not always careful in their approach; they have fostered consummate arrogance, and even in the West March, where they live largely in harmony with the natural world, the natural world is subordinate to their whims and desires.

"The green is not, nor do I believe it could be—but that would not stop foolish and ambitious Barrani from making the attempt to conquer a possible source of power. Before you accuse me of being somewhat speciest, I would add that humans would do the same had they the access to the green the Barrani do.

"The green is sentient. It is sentient in a way that the elements are; it is older by far than mortals, and it is unconstrained in its activities within the folds of the ether that circumscribe it. Helen is constrained, as are the Towers; the green was not constructed in the same fashion."

She didn't ask him how he knew this. She wasn't even certain she wanted to know.

"The Keeper's garden was constructed in a fashion that was similar to the green—but Keepers understand the function, the necessity, of the garden. We are like, and unlike, the captains of the Towers—the last things created, to my knowledge, by the Ancients. I do not bespeak the elements in the fashion Helen bespeaks you. Helen is the core of the sentient building. All of the buildings of your acquaintance were built with a living being at their heart. The same can be said of the garden, in a fashion, but the being is not one of the races with which you are—or should be—familiar.

"More than that, I do not feel it wise to say." He turned as a breeze started in the clearing; Kaylin heard the whisper of leaves against leaves, rising and falling as if attempting to be heard. Leaves fell, as leaves do—not all at once, and not in any discernible pattern; they scudded across the flowers and grass.

One such leaf stopped at her feet; she bent without thought to retrieve it.

In her hand, the leaf was warm; it felt almost like skin beneath her fingers. It was green, as green as her dress, as green as sunlight through emerald.

It did not speak; it was a leaf. But as she held it, she thought she could hear words being spoken, the syllables oddly familiar, the language unknown.

"I think—I think the green is trying to speak," she whispered.