Do you not know? The thrumming shifted; it wasn’t so much a hum as a scrape of metal against metal, jarring, discordant.Is that not why you have—finally—come?
Chapter 28
“If you were whole,” she asked the Tower, her voice soft and hesitant, “if you became what you were before the disaster, would you be able to speak to the Consort? The High Lord? Would the Barrani be able to speak with you?”
They speak with me now.
“Would they hear you? Would they be able to hear your voice?”
Silence.
And Kaylin understood then. Speaking, listening—it wasn’t the same as being heard. It had never been the same.
She was no longer a child. She was no longer dependent on the older and stronger to keep her fed or clothed or safe—or what resembled those things in the fiefs. She could feed herself, house herself, protect herself, in ways that had only been daydream when she’d been a child.
But she needed people. She needed—wanted—company. Yes, she also needed privacy, but privacy was a matter of choice; isolation was not. And living people didn’t appear to thrive in isolation.
The Tower was alive.
The Tower was older than the Arkon. It had been injured during the first of the Draco-Barrani wars, and it had never recovered. She didn’t know what it had been before its fall. Didn’t know what it would be.
Didn’t know what itwantedto be. Helen had injured herself because she knew what she wanted to be: a home. A home to a mortal woman who had died centuries ago. And beyond that, to mortals who needed the home that she could be for them. Kaylin was merely the last in that line, and when Kaylin passed away, the line would continue.
The Tower hadn’t injureditself. Whatever it had done to withdraw from the rest of the space it had occupied in the living world had been necessary for its survival. Or for the survival of the Barrani.
Yes. We did not know what had come to the High Halls, in the guise of kin. And when we became aware of it, it was almost too late. Everything I had, every process, every directive, was rerouted to build the cage that has kept it here. But itisa cage, not a coffin. And things have slipped between the bars, in either direction.
I can hear the voice ofRavellonin the whispers of my prisoner. It sounds like a song.
She had done what she could to repair Helen, haphazardly and without a clear directive. She had done what she could to preserve the integrity of Tara, in the fief Tiamaris now ruled. She had done the same for Alsanis, although the feel of the struggle had been entirely different.
This Tower, nameless, wasn’t like any of the buildings she knew. The words here were whole. They were resonant. She could almost hear them; she could certainly feel their pulse. There was nothing she could add to what was written here in ancient blood. Shadow had invaded the central cavern—but the Shadow had not attempted to destroy or alter the heart of the Tower.
He cannot, the Tower said.These are True Words. They mean what they mean; there is no alteration he can make. Understand that he offers what the living want, to the living—that he uses the tools they provide him. Your fears are not Lord Severn’s fears; your fearsare not the Consort’s. Nor are your desires. There is overlap, yes—but he sees to the heart of the individual.
Even were he to see the heart of the Tower, he could not bespeak it; he could not charm, could not cajole, could not threaten. That has never been his power. The power that he does have was not considered a terrible threat by the Barrani; they are a proud, cold people.
But they desire power.
“And he can grant that.”
In a fashion, yes. But it is nothispower that is granted, in the end. Understand that.
“Whose power is it?”
Ravellon’s.And that power is growing, here. It is why I hear its music, even at this remove. Can you not hear it?
“No.”
Good.
“You want to hear it.”
Silence.
“If your words aren’t damaged, if your directives remain true, can’t you be what you were? Can’t you speak to the Barrani of the High Halls?”
Not while the Adversary is captive here. It is too great a risk. It has always been too great a risk.
