14 #2
“I’d rather not put that to the test. I’m sorry—we’re all sorry—that you’re caught up in this.”
“That’s because you think this is all about Sedarias.”
“You don’t.”
“I know it’s not. If it makes you feel better, I’d’ve been in this position if you guys had been safely ensconced in the Hallionne
Alsanis, but it would probably be worse. I mean, I’d have Teela as de facto guardian in the Halls, but I don’t think there’s
any way I could have saved Nightshade on my own.”
“Would you have tried?” The question was almost neutral.
“Yes. I wasn’t lying. He’s saved my life before.”
“He would almost have to, though—you have that mark, and it means something.”
“I thought it was like a consort mark.”
“It’s like a slave mark—but a valuable slave. It’s a public declaration that you are an object of import to the lord who marked
you, and possible opponents should calculate risks accordingly. It’s no longer legal—not that Barrani care much about legalities—in
the High Halls. If it weren’t for that mark, Annarion wouldn’t have been so angry at his brother.”
“The mark is better than becoming part of the statuary.”
“The statues probably chose to live as they live. You didn’t choose this mark.”
It was true. But the mark could be removed, and in the end, she’d let it be. She’d left it on her face because it had practical use. And perhaps for other
complicated reasons she really didn’t have time to think about right now. But if she’d known it would cause a total collapse
of the relationship between the two brothers, she would have made a different choice.
“I don’t understand Annarion’s anger. I mean, I’m the one who has the mark. I’m not angry about it.”
Mandoran nodded. “You never expected better from your fieflord.”
“But . . . I think everything Nightshade did, he did because he believed his brother was both alive and still himself. He
wanted to free his brother. He risked everything.”
“It’s between the two of them. Don’t attempt to carry it.”
“I’m already carrying part of it—I’m here, aren’t I?” She grimaced. “Tell Annarion that I didn’t mean that. I’ve just had
a long day, and I’m feeling more useless than usual.”
“I think that’s what Helen was trying to tell you,” Mandoran replied. “You aren’t useless. Instant success isn’t an option—but
success might be if we still struggle to reach it. Without you, I don’t think we stand a chance.”
Hope squawked.
She was put out with Hope. Yvonne hadn’t immediately understood his angry bird sounds, which had been a bit of a comfort to Kaylin. But Hope had changed something so that Yvonne could. Yvonne. A stranger who wasn’t Kaylin. It was so easy to resent people who had done nothing
wrong. Yvonne had done nothing wrong. Kaylin even liked her—but Yvonne had somehow been extended a courtesy that Hope almost
never extended to Kaylin.
Hope squawked again, and this time it was definitely the angry bird variety. He smacked her face with his wing.
In the wing view, she could see Nightshade in the darkness. He was surrounded by it; the only light that touched him came
from Kaylin’s Marks and the joining of their hands. She froze.
“Did you bring him with us?” she asked Mandoran.
“No.”
“But . . . our hands . . .”
“Can you still feel his hand?”
Kaylin nodded.
“I didn’t calculate for that. You could see Terrano when he was out of phase, but you couldn’t actually touch him; I moved
you to where he was standing—and the proof of that was that you finally could. Touch him, I mean.” Mandoran left a hand on
Kaylin’s shoulder, but moved position so he could look at Nightshade—and Kaylin’s hand. They were clearly joined; Nightshade
hadn’t become ghostly and untouchable with the shift in plane.
“I don’t understand. He shouldn’t be here.”
“But . . . he is.”
“Can you heal him here, the way you could with Terrano?”
She’d been trying. She couldn’t reach him any better than she had any other time she’d tried. The location had changed, but
the problem remained. “His hand feels warmer here than it did when I was in his room.”
“But you can’t heal him.”
She shook her head. She didn’t want to let go of Nightshade’s hand. She lifted her free hand to her cheek. It was warm. Hopefully it wasn’t bleeding. “Can you see the Erenne mark?”
“Not with your hand over your cheek.”
She lowered her hand.
If she felt no pain from the mark, her hope that it hadn’t started to bleed was dashed. Red liquid smeared her palm.
Mandoran’s eyes were an odd color—possibly because of the light her own Marks cast, possibly as a result of standing in a
place no one born to their world was meant to stand. “There’s good news and bad news,” he said, his voice as soft as Kaylin’s
when she spoke.
“Bad news first. I’d like to finish with a bit of good news.”
“Your cheek is bleeding.”
She glanced at her palm and nodded.
“But I can’t see the mark on your cheek. The blood is clearly coming from where the Erenne mark was—but the mark didn’t make
the transition.”
“What does Terrano see from where he’s standing?”
“No easy escape from Helen? He’s been trying to duck out. She’s not having it.”
“The person she should be grilling is probably Sedarias.”
“He tried to tell her that. Helen wasn’t impressed.”
“So . . . the Marks of the Chosen are here. Do you think I could step to a plane the Marks couldn’t follow?”
“Serralyn says no—but in that kind of horrified way that means it wasn’t a question she’d asked herself. Until now. Just in
case it’s not obvious she doesn’t think you should ever try to find a place to stand that the Marks can’t follow. They’re part of you, probably until you die, and she’d like that
to be at a ripe old age.”
She frowned. “Do you think anything we could do to Nightshade would make him bleed here?”
“Annarion doesn’t like the question.”
“Of course he doesn’t. I’m not trying to kill his brother. I’m trying to assess something.”
“What?”
“How here he is. I’m here, and I’m bleeding here. I guess I could try to stab you as a test, but that won’t necessarily apply to Nightshade.”
“Can you hear him through the namebond?”
Kaylin shook her head. “But I couldn’t before, either. If it weren’t for the Erenne mark—” She stopped. The Erenne mark was
enchantment, magic; it wasn’t a True Word. It maintained a tenuous connection that was inferior in every way to the namebond—but
a connection had been there. It was how she could find him at all.
The Consort was losing all ability to interact with the Lake of Life—with the True Words that it contained, meant to wake
Barrani from birth.
Kaylin’s Marks of the Chosen didn’t have the same function as the True Names in the Lake—but both were True Words. It was
the Marks that couldn’t reach Nightshade.
But why? She could understand that the subtle attack on the Consort practically demanded that the Consort lose that ability
over time. She’d thought it clever. But maybe it wasn’t meant to be over time. Maybe it was meant to affect the Consort the
way Nightshade had been affected. If Kaylin hadn’t known his True Name, would she have been aware that something was wrong
early enough to intervene?
Regardless, the power of the Marks of the Chosen didn’t reach him.
But he hadn’t lost the power of the name that had wakened him. He hadn’t, had he?
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking a small cut won’t kill him—but it possibly wouldn’t change anything right now, anyway.
I’m Chosen, right? The only useful thing that came out of these Marks was the ability to heal.
But . . . it’s never depended on the injured having True Names.
Mostly, I’ve healed mortals, and we don’t have them.
I don’t have a lot of experience healing people who require
True Names just to breathe and exist.”
“But you do have some.”
She did. She understood why Barrani and Dragons wanted nothing to do with healing. She couldn’t heal a person without stepping
into their thoughts and emotions—and they couldn’t be healed without stepping into some part of hers.
But . . . if healers were rare—and they were incredibly rare—they existed, and not all of them were bearers of these stupid Marks. She’d never personally met one, but her healing
ability wasn’t viewed as entirely unique. And if that was true, she needed more information. She assumed that the Marks were
the reason she could heal at all. But . . . healers did exist, or had existed, without those Marks—and they had to be able
to heal somehow.
Talent. Gift. Magery. Was it even a skill that could be taught? As far as she or the Halls of Law were aware, none of the
Imperial mages could heal.
“Can you ask Serralyn to look something up in the library for me? Or ask the Arbiters to search?”
“What do you want her to look for?”
“Information about mages who heal. Or healers. I don’t want to know about healing done by the Chosen in any iteration—just . . .
all the other healers, if there are records.” She rose. “I can’t reach him here, and my cheek is bleeding, and I’ll defer
the attempt to cause a very minor injury from here. I mean, clearly major injuries can be caused, or Terrano wouldn’t have been in so much trouble.
“But Terrano waited where he was because he was afraid of what he might drag back.”
Mandoran shook his head. “I understand you believe that—and it was probably a good idea—but he did try to evade by sidestepping. He couldn’t. I’ll take us back—it might be a bit bumpy.”
Mandoran looked at Nightshade’s hand, or at Kaylin’s hand. The two weren’t separate. “What happens if you let his hand go
here?”
“Should I try?”
Mandoran nodded.
Kaylin released Nightshade’s hand. Nothing changed. He remained visible—at least to Kaylin. “Can you still see him?”
“He’s still here,” Mandoran replied. “And yes, as you’ve guessed, he shouldn’t be.” He exhaled. “Annarion’s worried—but this
is a better worry. Terrano’s right—we don’t know enough. Knowing more means we have to take calculated risks.”