12
Kaylin had seen the monster in the basement the first time she had visited the High Halls. She’d visited in part to save the
life of the Lord of the West March, Lirienne to his friends and family. But she’d done more than that. She’d seen the Shadow,
and she’d understood what the price of failing the Test of Name was: death, and permanent separation from the Lake of Life
and the new futures promised to names that returned to it.
This Shadow had nothing in common with what she’d witnessed that day.
It had taken the form of a man, but as the man turned to meet Kaylin’s eyes, the form shifted into that of a woman—almost
but not quite Barrani, and taller in height than the Barrani norm. The Shadow’s hair was a silver color—not white, but white
with hints of gold, as if it were burnished by time and careful polishing. Their skin was golden, their eyes the azure of
a clear sky.
But it was their voice that almost robbed Kaylin of the ability to move: it was the essence of a concert, all instruments
joined together to convey an endless song, an utterance of harmonious beauty Kaylin had never heard before.
The Shadow was watching her; she had the impression of sunshine and joy, although none of that actually reached the expression. But the Marks on her arm took up the warmest of gold colors, responding to what Kaylin felt. Or perhaps what the Shadow offered.
Had she met this person in any other circumstance, Shadow would be the furthest thought from her mind. History forced her
to remember, but it was hard: standing in the warmth and beauty of this place, history seemed to be the lie.
“History,” Abel said, “is what is left in the wake of the present. The present is where you live. It is where you work, where
you labor, where you rest. The past informs the present—but it is not the present.”
“Are you telling me to worry or not to worry?”
The Shadow laughed, the sound a harmony of voice and instrument.
“I’m telling you, he doesn’t usually look like this,” Terrano said, folding his arms. Given his expression, Sedarias or Teela
was figuratively smacking the back of his head.
“Did you give him a name, too?” Kaylin asked.
“I think he’s got like a hundred,” Terrano replied. “Maybe more. I don’t think he cares what he’s called. He’s a power. He
needs to be treated with respect.”
Kaylin’s jaw fell. “Exactly what do you think respect means??”
“In his fashion, Chosen, he offers respect. Respect, as you must be aware, is both cultural and situational. You might interact
with an armed and threatening person in an entirely different way should they lay down those arms. You might learn to speak
a difficult second language in order to convey your appreciation for your differences. And you might, instead, play chess,
or offer to teach it.
“What Terrano sees is not quite what you see; what he hears is not quite what you hear. But that should not come as a surprise
to you.”
Why not?
“I am as I was created to be. I touch the hearts of those who see me. Many things exist in a living heart: love. Fear. Hatred. Pity. The blend of animosity and the desire for friendship. Desire itself. All of this might seem similar on the surface, especially in those cultures where a reserved, calm impression implies necessary self-control. But beneath the similar surface, the blend, the weave, of these living emotions creates something small, personal, unique.”
“You know my name, right?” Kaylin spoke Elantran, not the High Barrani that Teela had drilled into her head.
“You are Kaylin Neya. The Marks of the Chosen sing that name. But they sing another name, and that I cannot hear clearly.”
She smiled. “You wish to know how to address me.”
Kaylin nodded. “I think of you as ‘the Shadow,’ but . . .”
“But I have changed enough that you are no longer comfortable with that designation? What you call me, how you address me,
is entirely up to you. I will take no offense unless offense is intended.” She laughed. “And there is, on occasion, amusement
to be found in taking no offense when offense is intended. Call me what you wish. ‘The Shadow’ is one aspect, and it is the aspect of me with which your life overlapped most
intensely.”
“But why did you choose that appearance? If . . . you meant to draw the Barrani to you so you could . . .”
“Kill them?”
Kaylin nodded. “Wouldn’t this have been better?”
“Those who have lived long lives have seen despair; they have lived in the shadow of their fears for far longer than the warmth
of their joys. Fear is the stronger bridge for the Barrani people. Only the very young have not yet arrived fully in that
place. And people like Terrano, for there are always those who could not quite fit in—and chose to stand out almost ebulliently.
I recognize that in him: it shines brightly, even in the darkness.
“You believe that by offering a haven from despair and fear, more people would have chosen to join me.”
He was right. Kaylin did believe that.
“It would have made a difference to you. But the Barrani who chose to enter my domain did not believe in joy or comfort, except
in strict circumstances all could understand: the gaining, the holding, of power. They would have been more suspicious, not
less—they are a people who have built their existence on relative levels of power. Your kind live for such a short time, and
without the burden of True Words.”
“Burden?”
The Shadow nodded. “I see Terrano has not taken the time to fully explain my presence here.”
Kaylin was glaring daggers at the side of Terrano’s face. Terrano, being Terrano, didn’t care. Hells, he probably didn’t notice.
“Terrano is not what I am, nor could he become so as he is. He clings—as you are aware—to the plane in which you, and his
friends, exist. Some part of what he has become requires them. Perhaps, in a distant future, he will not; it was not my gift
or talent to see glimpses of those possible futures.
“It was my gift, Chosen, to shape the present; to add to it new possibilities and new thoughts, from which different futures
might arise. But I am not the only such shaper, and those once drawn to me were those intensely focused on their own thoughts,
their own creativity. Some were considered maddened by their kin.”
“Terrano’s mostly considered maddening.”
Again, the laugh, almost the essence in that moment of something approaching the truth of joy.
Terrano’s expression soured further. But his annoyance—or rather his peevish annoyance—had always been reserved for people
he actually liked.
“But teasing Terrano is not, in the end, why I asked for your presence. I do not require an audience for that.”
“But you enjoy having an audience,” Abel said, voice dry.
“I enjoy having a living audience, yes.” The music faded from the voice. Kaylin was deeply sorry to lose it.
“Terrano informed us of what occurred in the fiefs, in the very slender domain between Towers. He was injured, and you could
not heal him because you could not reach him. I invite you to consider this with care. Terrano and his friend can move you
between planes. Planes are multiple; they can exist stacked in the same space without affecting each other at all. In most
cases.
“Terrano’s art, his devotion, is his tourism.”
“Hey!”
“Apologies. It has been so long since I had freedom and control of myself that I am perhaps overly frivolous. Lord Kaylin,
I have asked you to visit because I—as Terrano—can exist both here and in other planes simultaneously. It was considered a
signal strength in my youth—and a terrible weapon when Ravellon fell.
“It is much of the reason I could infiltrate even the High Halls. Abel’s defenses were not entirely porous, but the outer
perimeter was not equal to the task. No Barrani of Terrano’s stature and drive were Lords of the High Court.”
“He would not have survived,” Abel said, the sentence an agreement of sorts.
“Terrano has informed us that you did heal him—when you could reach him. But we have two concerns. The first: the attack itself. Terrano seems reckless, but he
has survived because he has learned to navigate the different planes with caution. He would have perished were it not for
your intervention—and I am grateful for it.
“But to attack Terrano at all, the attacker must have known which plane, and where on it, Terrano was standing. Weapons used in the world in which you spend most of your life would have been entirely ineffective—just as your first attempts at healing him were. We do not suspect Terrano’s cohort.
But we are very concerned about the attackers.
“The second difficulty: the Shadow that Terrano carried, briefly. It was inert—either too small or too pure to have the will
and intent of what remains at the heart of Ravellon behind it. But in expelling it, in releasing it, your familiar chose to intervene. I will not ask you what you commanded;
it was clear from Terrano’s report that your familiar is, for the most part, unchecked. But what became combined with his
power was Shadow—and you carried it with you when you returned.”
“Helen couldn’t sense anything off about it. Abel didn’t either, or I’d’ve never been allowed to enter.”
The Shadow—no. Just, no. “I need to be able to call you by some kind of name. If you’ve had so many of them, could you pick
one I could use?”
Laughter was like the gentle peals of silver chimes in a light breeze. “Why is it so important?”
“You know that words are important, even if they’re ours. I can’t keep calling you ‘the Shadow.’ It’s not what you are.”
“Exactly. It is not what I am. But what you call me doesn’t change what I am.”
This was also true. Kaylin slowly exhaled. “We use the term Shadow as a warning and a designation. Shadows are, or Shadow
is, our enemy. If we couldn’t mount defenses against it, we’d all be dead. I don’t want to use the terminology of enemy every time I speak with you.”
“But I was your enemy, Lord Kaylin.” Subtle emphasis on her title. “I killed many would-be Barrani Lords. I had a hand in