For one long minute she struggled to find words of her own, and then she gave up. She let the sensation of sound and song take root; she let herself feel the weight of the words, the differences in their timbre. As she did, two things happened. The first, no longer surprising or unusual, was the marks placed across more than half of her body rising from her skin, joining the floating marks across her forearms.
The second thing, however, was new. The words of the Tower that surrounded her began to shrink. These were not the words she had carried since the age of twelve; they were the words the Tower had carried for centuries. Maybe millennia. She stopped breathing, stopped moving, lowered stiff, stiff arms, afraid for one stretched moment that all the smaller words would somehow join the ones she carried.
This was not a groundless fear. At least two of the Tower’s words joined the halo of floating words that were anchored to Kaylin; the words that were hers shifted slightly in place to accommodate them. She didn’twantthe Tower’s words. She didn’t want more words at all. The Tower’s words had been written—for want of a better word—for a reason, and the reason itself was murky; Kaylin understood the theory in the same way she understood that being stabbed generally caused bleeding. The details of what lay beneath the breached surface of skin, not so much, not immediately. There were people who would, and did, but usually at leisure after the fact.
To take on the weight of the Tower’s words was to accept a responsibility that she didn’t even understand. She exhaled slowly. Yes, that was true—but it was also true that she didn’t understand the words she did carry, either. She couldn’t take on the Tower duties; she couldn’t be a Tower.
But even thinking that, she thought of Tiamaris. Of Tara. Of any living being who had somehow consented to become the will of a Tower such as this. She wasn’t that being, couldn’t be that being. But she understood, instinctively, that that wasn’t necessary here. The Tower had a heart, and the heart, if troubled, was sound.
Words lifted themselves from the formation around her arm; she felt two work free from her legs, and looked down. Perhaps this was a conversation on some level; those words, four in total, floated free of their invisible containment, and they joined the Tower’s words. One word from the Tower shuffled itself into hers; three more left—one from the back of her neck. She watched them go, remembering as she did that Hope had devoured one when he had first emerged from his shell.
She understood what the Tower needed. No, she understood what she thought the Tower needed, which was not the same thing. But she had only her own understanding and experience to work with, and she accepted that; the Tower was talking to Kaylin. Not to anyone else, whose experience might be greater or broader. She could only do what she could do.
People will die if you can’t do more. People mightalreadybe dead. And it will be your fault.
“No,” Hope said as panic began to add knots to her neck, her shoulders, her gut. “You are not responsible for their lives or deaths here. If they die, you are not the hand that has killed them.”
More of the Tower’s words joined hers, but now she could see a difference in the patina of gold that surrounded them; she could feel their weight. It was different from the words she carried, because the words she carried had no literal weight. Yes, sometimes they had heat, intense heat; sometimes they felt as if they scorched the skin they rested above. But not weight, not substance.
The weight, she accepted. She didn’t have a choice.
But even that was wrong. She had a choice; she had chosen to listen. She had offered, wordless and desperate, tohelp. And this was the Tower’s response to that offer. More words. Different words. She accepted these, too. She wondered if, in the end, half of the marks on her skin would be these words, these new words.
Spike was clicking in her left ear. Buzzing like the insect he had first appeared to be in the West March. He could speak to her, but didn’t; she wondered if he’d forgotten how. It didn’t matter, though. The words that hadn’t joined her own words began to gain height, width, substance; they shot up—and down—until they once again dwarfed her.
She felt even smaller and less significant than she had when she had first struggled to reach them, when she had first thrown away the fear of being seen, of being known. Whatever the Tower meant to communicate had been communicated. Kaylin didn’t feel enlightened. But she understood that the Towerhadseen her, had understood what it had heard, had made a decision.
The words, the marks on her arm, began to recede, flattening and darkening until they could no longer be seen. But the words that the Tower had left her, the words that had been exchanged, did not. They remained prominent, dimensional and heavy. She wasn’t surprised to see them grow; she hoped they didn’t grow to the same size as the rest of their former companions had, because there was no way she could carry even one of them in that case; she’d probably be unable to move.
What are you doing?The words were Nightshade’s. They were joined by Ynpharion’s. Edelonne was silent; the question was there, but it wasn’t given voice. And Severn said nothing.
Severn couldn’t find the space for even the thought. He was aware of her, as she was aware of him; she felt the burns and blisters across the left side of his neck. She felt apprehension, but it was contained, controlled. She wanted, suddenly, to be where he was. He was her partner.
He had always been her partner.
Not always, Nightshade very unhelpfully said. Nightshade was also fighting; his enemies, however, were Shadows. Not Ferals—but the one-offs that occasionally appeared at the boundary ofRavellon, seeking a way into the rest of the city. She knew, from the flash of lightning, the crackle of air, that Teela was doing the same. That Tain was beside her, with an ordinary sword, wielded with the deadly grace and speed of the Barrani.
That the cohort—or at least Annarion, the only person of import among them to Nightshade—was fighting in the same fashion; he looked ghostly, to Nightshade. All of the cohort did. They were an almost liminal, translucent silver.
They fought, not Shadows, not one-offs, not Ferals, but Barrani who were more solid. One of those Barrani was An’Mellarionne. He didn’t condescend to draw a physical weapon, but the gem at the height of his Arcanist tiara was glowing. He could see what Nightshade registered as ghostly. He could attack.
He could be attacked. He registered all of the gathered cohort; he had eyes only for his sister.
Kaylin opened her eyes.
In her hands, she now carried a long sword. No, it was too large to be that; it wasn’t as big asMeliannosorKariannos, but it was a hand-and-a-half blade. Easily. Kaylin had never beengoodwith swords; she had some basic training, but the weapons master had made clear that the training would serve to prevent her from accidentally lopping off her own toes—or anyone else’s limbs. He didn’t expect her to be good with a sword and, as swords were not the Hawk’s standard patrol weapon, had decided to expend his effort elsewhere.
The sword was not the only thing that glowed gold; she appeared to be wearing armor. Unlike Bellusdeo’s, it wasn’t plate; it was a mesh of something that might resemble chain at a distance. She glanced quickly around the room; it was a mess of visual chaos. What Nightshade had seen as almost ghosts, Kaylin saw as the cohort. Annarion was bleeding. His blood was red.
Valliant’s right arm hung by his side; it seemed almost boneless. It, too, was bleeding, although the fingers of the hand, exposed, seemed to be smoking and blackened. She could see Allaron, the giant, carrying a blade that was meant for his size; he was in front of Sedarias, who was also armed.
But Mandoran was at his side, his hands free of weapons; they were splayed in front of him—in front of the three of them—as if pressed against an invisible wall. She wanted to go to Valliant. She didn’t. If there was time to heal the injuries done here, it would be later—if at all.
She looked for Spike. She found him.
He was the size and shape of whatever he had been in the outlands, when he had chosen to divert the attention of unseen pursuers so that the cohort might make their escape. Everything about him screamed Shadow, to Kaylin. She accepted it. None of the cohort attacked him. Nor did Teela or Nightshade.
Above the din of battle, Kaylin could hear only one thing: the Consort’s song. Every attack seemed to fold itself into the break of syllables, the rhythm of her song, as if the song itself now defined the actions of those—friend or foe—contained in this space. Even the splash of purple fire, purple lightning, from above or below seemed to be part of its cadence.
