29 #3
He couldn’t. She knew he couldn’t. But he fell silent, examining her thoughts, her focus, her certainty. She felt a wild impatience,
and it came from two places: Severn and Nightshade. But all their efforts would be wasted if she couldn’t finish this one
thing. It wasn’t the damage that had been done that would kill him; it was the future damage.
I do not sense what you sense, he finally said. You are healing the damage; that much is clear. But the source of the damage remains opaque to me. We do not have time. If
you must, finish this after we are certain to survive this moment.
There was urgency to the words. There was no command.
Kaylin had healed Terrano when he’d been standing on a different, constructed plane. What she had seen there was not what
she could feel here: Shadow had bled out of the wound Terrano had taken. That Shadow had coalesced because Hope had chosen
to breathe on it; it had become a darkly glowing orb, a ball of not-quite light.
She could now feel its contours in her palm. She hadn’t seen it since Mandoran had retrieved her from the place in which Terrano
had waited, injured, for healing.
This magic was like the dark wisps of smoke that rose from Terrano. She really, really wanted Terrano’s name; if she had it,
she could ask. Severn could hear her. Nightshade could hear her. But given the distant sounds of battle, neither would shout
the question so Terrano could hear it.
He’d been aware of the Shadow that poured out of his open wound. Had he somehow, changed physically by exposure to the green, been able to do what Nightshade couldn’t? Had he sensed the Shadow and remained trapped where he was so that he didn’t bring it back to the cohort—or Helen, or Kaylin?
She hadn’t drawn that smoky Shadow from his body; hadn’t had to struggle to remove its tendrils. It had emerged on its own.
Hope’s breath had changed it, solidifying it, maybe rendering it inert. But she couldn’t ask Hope to breathe on Nightshade.
She knew he wouldn’t do it unless she was willing to sacrifice something important to her.
She wasn’t. What she would be willing to offer wasn’t of interest because it wasn’t fundamentally valuable to Kaylin.
But here, as she drew out the burrowed threads, she realized that it wasn’t her palm she was wrapping them around; it was
the orb itself. Somehow, to heal Nightshade at all, she’d approached not Nightshade himself, but the source of his injury.
They weren’t on the same plane. The one reached out to the other, anchored by the physical body—but it didn’t belong where
it had taken root.
She continued to wind the thread of that magic around her hand—or the orb that rested in it. It resisted, as stubborn roots
will. If she’d had the ability to just destroy the roots without destroying their host, she might have tried that, instead—but
it was hard to use healing power to destroy.
Oh.
That was what was wrong. She’d used the word thread, the word roots, to describe this magic, but it was the latter that was the most accurate. The magic itself felt alive. Alive, and part of Nightshade. She’d seen the damage Shadow could do to the living: it transformed them, sometimes almost
instantly. Mortals could be overtaken and transformed with ease; Immortals, less easily. Was it the True Names? Was that why
Immortals were more protected?
But they could be transformed as well—it just took longer. It gave Kaylin time to heal their damaged body, to force it back into its natural shape. Nightshade’s body didn’t have that kind of injury. This Shadow was meant to kill. It hadn’t changed anything that she could see.
I’m almost done. She spoke to Severn. She spoke to Nightshade. She felt the last of the tendrils finally let go, as if she had spoken to
them as well. She wound it around the orb she could feel but couldn’t see.
Yes. Nightshade was the only person to answer. You are finished. I, on the other hand, am just beginning.
His voice was the endless depth of a winter that could kill children like Kaylin in the streets of the fief just by existing.
She felt it in her bones as her hand fell away from Nightshade. She opened her eyes.
Yvonne was leaning against the wall, her chin tucked toward her chest. Nightshade was standing, his greatsword in hand. Severn
was gone; Annarion, Mandoran, and Terrano were elsewhere. She could hear the clash of swords and feel—much more strongly—the
evidence of magic and spell; her arms ached, and the back of her neck felt as if it had been rubbed raw.
There was only one Yvonne in the room. This was Helen’s space.
“Did they tell you where they were going?” Kaylin asked, squinting at the ambient light as her eyes adjusted.
Yvonne shook her head. “I would have gone to check, but An’Tellarus made very clear that if I were that stupid, she’d just remove my head from my neck to spare me future pain.”
“You saw her?”
“I heard her. I’m surprised everyone didn’t.”
Everyone else heard her, Severn said, his internal voice almost as grim as Nightshade’s.
Well, she’s not going to cut my head off.
“No,” Nightshade said, glancing around the room as if he expected invisible assassins to materialize from its walls. “She believes Yvonne is her responsibility. But Kaylin, you are not. You are mine.”
“It’s my house—”
“Yes. And it would not be under attack if you had managed to remove me to Castle Nightshade. You will remain here with Yvonne.”
Severn wasn’t as certain. We may need you, he said. She trusted his take on things but waited until Nightshade sprinted to—and through—the door. She approached the
door once Nightshade left but felt Yvonne’s hand on her shoulder. She turned back.
“It isn’t safe,” Yvonne said, her voice soft and tremulous.
“I know—and I’m sorry for that. It makes me a terrible host.”
“You should remain here. Mrs. Erickson is in her room, as well. Helen told me.”
“What did Helen tell you?”
“There’s no shame in not being able to fight or to kill. Mrs. Erickson can’t, either. Helen said her first tenant could cook
and clean and tidy. And grow flowers in the garden. But she couldn’t use magic. She couldn’t lift a weapon—not to use as a weapon. Helen loved her. The fact that she couldn’t fight and kill like most of the Barrani didn’t make her useless or
worthless.”
“I can’t cook, I can barely clean, and my room is a mess,” Kaylin said, gently removing Yvonne’s hand from her shoulder. “But
I can fight, and I can kill if it’s necessary. An’Tellarus and Helen are right—you should stay here. If the green has roots
in Helen right now, it’s because of you.”
But Yvonne shook her head. “It’s because of Mrs. Erickson. I’m sensitive to the green; I feel its reach when I’m close. It’s
strongest in her—and she’s in her room.” Some hint of the girl Yvonne had once been showed in her eyes and her expression.
Kaylin wanted to ask questions, but that would have to wait. The hem of her dress was moving around her legs as if caught
in a strong gale.
“Helen,” Kaylin said, raising and strengthening her voice. “Have the attackers actually entered the house?”
“Yes—but not all of them; the cohort is fighting on the path they created to enter.”
“How many of them are there?”
“In Teela’s opinion, there are at least two war bands.”
“Is Teela fighting on that path?”
“Yes—but An’Tellarus is fighting within my walls.”
Helen should have been able to crush those intruders. That she couldn’t or hadn’t was not a good sign.
“Lord Nightshade has joined that fight. He is here, as An’Tellarus is here. Fallessian has remained here as well.” Helen’s
voice stopped.
“They’re not—” Kaylin stopped too. “Helen, have they approached your core?”
“Not yet.”
“Are they trying?”
Yes, Severn said, answering Kaylin’s question. That’s Teela’s guess.
Why can’t Helen just kill them or send them to prison? That’s what she usually does with intruders.
I believe she tried. If they’ve left the path they created to get here, they’re still attached to it—and Helen is having difficulty
because of that. The cohort aren’t.
Are you fighting beside the cohort?
Yes. Mandoran decided I would be helpful there.
Come back—it’s not safe for you to be there. You don’t have the Marks, and Mandoran usually keeps people like us anchored
by being in physical contact with them.
Severn didn’t reply immediately; it was the hesitance of thought. I believe the edges of their portal or their path anchor them in a way Helen finds it difficult to break—she says it’s not what the cohort does. Invaders who walk existing planes are easily seen and accommodated.
“Helen—I’m sorry, I know you’re busy. I just need you to ask Terrano or Mandoran if we can cause that path to collapse.” She
opened the door and headed into the hall.