16 #3
Kaylin had taken time to become comfortable enough that the similarities to smaller arachnids didn’t cause an obvious flinch.
“You know about namebonds.”
One of Starrante’s raised eyes narrowed.
“Yes. The elder races were less cautious because our names, if perceived, could not be spoken in such a fashion.
Arbiter Androsse might choose to reveal his, but long before you could begin to speak the first syllable, you would be dead, if he so chose.
Your attempt to begin would merely invite him to dominate you—the bond has always worked both ways. It is a bridge of will and intent.
“But Serralyn said that you could not reach Lord Nightshade through the bond you share.”
The bond that Kaylin wasn’t ever supposed to speak about. She glanced at Serralyn. Serralyn grinned. “I couldn’t.”
“But you could reach him—or he you—in some fashion through the Erenne mark?”
Kaylin nodded. “It wasn’t in words. It wasn’t in actual speech. I knew something was wrong—probably because he knew it. But . . .
it made the skin under the mark bleed.”
“The reason Arbiter Androsse considers the question about the Erenne mark trivial is its relationship to the political games
the Barrani have always played. It is considered in some quarters a slave mark.”
Kaylin knew this. She nodded.
“It is a mark that denotes ownership. But Erenne was not always a term that denoted that; it denoted a differential in political power. It has been translated—somehow superficially—as
consort by those who are not Barrani. But some of the earliest extant Barrani literature also makes this so-called mistake. Mortals
believe that Immortal memory, Immortal knowledge, is an edifice that cannot be toppled.
“We have perfect memory. What we have seen once, we can recall; it is something that very, very few of your kind can achieve.
But wars have destroyed ancient cities; knowledge that was known perfectly has died with the people who knew it.
“In the early days of the Barrani, when they were an infant race, standing in the shadows cast by Arbiter Androsse’s people, it was a connection between the Barrani and their Ancestors.
What Lord Nightshade gifted you—the secret of his name—could not in like fashion be gifted the Barrani, who were precious to the Arbiter’s people.
Barrani power was not equal to the acceptance of such a gift; the act of the attempt could destroy the Barrani involved, hollowing them out; they had one word, their True Name.
Arbiter Androsse has said that the Barrani have words, and we have sentences.
“That is a simple analogy, and it is somewhat true.”
“Somewhat?”
“Arbiter Androsse’s people were not crafted—as the Barrani are—from the Lake of Life. They were created by the Ancients, individually,
each creation a work of art.”
“That is quite enough, Arbiter.” Androsse had arrived.
“Then perhaps you would care to explain?” Starrante replied, not bothered at all by the sharpness of Androsse’s tone.
“The analogy is sufficient as it is, and I will not waste further time on it. It does not answer Kaylin’s research query.”
“It does, though,” Kaylin said before Starrante could step in. “This is history that none of us—none of my Barrani friends—know.
They know the history of the use of that mark, but not the history of its creation.”
“Why do you believe it relevant?”
As if he hadn’t been listening in the entire time. Kaylin clamped down on her annoyance. Arbiter Androsse was a man of great
power who liked certain forms of etiquette because he was accustomed to them. It wasn’t personal.
She tried to believe that and failed.
“Love is an impulse and a curse,” Androsse said. This didn’t surprise Kaylin much, given Androsse’s general personality. It
did seem to cause a small ripple in the rest of Androsse’s audience.
“Why?” It was Serralyn who asked. Her eyes, green, now contained flecks of visible blue; she was annoyed.
“It is for the weak, for the foolish, for those who cannot see the world as it is. Of what use is love? What function or purpose does it serve?” Androsse turned a glare on Starrante, who was still and silent.
“Your people did not elevate love; they did not sing of it; they did not create their damnable stories as soporifics for the gullible.”
Serralyn tensed.
Starrante placed a limb on her shoulder, the touch gentle but staying. “We did, Arbiter. But the love of the Wevaran is not
the love of your kind; it is not instant, and it is not destructive. It is woven, as our power is woven, and it is built over
time.”
Androsse’s eyes narrowed.
Kaylin didn’t disagree with Androsse but kept that to herself. What she wanted to know, now, was how love—damnable love, if
Androsse’s opinion counted—figured into the Erenne mark. Slaves didn’t have to be loved. Historically, they had to be marked
or branded.
The Barrani liked to go all out. But love? That didn’t figure into anything. It wasn’t needed. Nightshade hadn’t marked her
because he loved her. He hadn’t created his statuary of living stone because he loved its occupants. But he had done whatever
was within his power to save his brother.
Had Kaylin never met the cohort, she might not have believed in that either. But she knew the cohort had envied Annarion his
brother. Knew that another brother had almost literally lost his mind and sense of self in his attempt to free Eddorian—the only member of the cohort who had chosen to remain in the West March caring for that very brother.
Androsse was glaring at Starrante; Kaylin watched Androsse’s face. Androsse didn’t bother to hide what he felt. She cleared
her throat. “Love existed at the beginning.”
“What do you know of the beginning?”
“I know what the Keeper knows.”
“What the mortal Keeper knows.”
“He’s lived far longer than most mortals—and it doesn’t matter. He’s the Keeper. He knows what he knows. The Ancients arose
in a form and fashion none of the wise understand. Do you know why?”
Starrante lifted the arm that wasn’t on Serralyn’s shoulder; if he’d had the usual hands, he’d’ve had them spread, palms out, telling her to stop.
“Do tell.” Androsse turned from Starrante, the full force of his expression now aimed—like a sword—at Kaylin.
“Because they were lonely. They had no words for it. They existed in isolation. They wanted company. No,” she said as he opened his mouth, “you wouldn’t call it love. They wouldn’t call it love, either—I don’t think
they had that word, or words. Words came later. Words that had meanings that were singular and clear.
“Maybe love wasn’t a creation of the Ancients—but I think it grew out of the seeds of loneliness and isolation. It was there,
in the beginning.” Her Marks were glowing softly, as if in agreement. It didn’t matter. Try as she might to understand the
Marks and their meanings, they weren’t all that she was. She knew what she knew and believed what she believed.
Androsse could change that—but with words, with well-reasoned arguments. Not with contempt and dismissal. If she’d never managed to walk
bearing their weight, she’d’ve never moved at all.
“Tell me, Arbiter Androsse: why did you become an Arbiter? Were you plucked off the streets in ignorance and dumped in the
library?”
Behind her, a Dragon growled. As neither Tiamaris nor Bellusdeo had joined them in the library itself, that growl could only
belong to one person: Arbiter Kavallac.