“Yes,” she said, almost curt. “I’ve seen that before. It’s...not quite Shadow; I think that would have been obvious to most observers. But...it’s got a distinctly purple-gray hue.”
The Arkon nodded. “I do not know what history tells the Barrani of that battle, but given the existence of the second war, I can guess.”
“We did not start that war,” the Consort said quietly.
“I will not argue that point; I will simply say, Consort, that neither did we. And perhaps, with this hint—ah, see, again—you might understand how both your position and my position could be true.”
She was white; it was not a good color. Her eyes were a midnight blue, a martial blue.
“But even that, Lady, is not the point of this exercise.” The perspective shifted, and shifted again; Kaylin could now see the wings to either side of the viewpoint that must, as Bellusdeo had said, have been the Arkon’s. In color, they were a slate blue, trending to something brighter.
Dragon wings obscured the view of the grounded Barrani—but even thinking that, Kaylin realized that not all of the Barrani were grounded. Some were mounted. A small handful. None of their mounts were creatures that Kaylin had seen before. But their shapes were much harder to define; they seemed blurry, as if they—and they alone—were being seen through fingerprint-smeared glass.
Bellusdeo’s eyes—when Kaylin glanced at the golden Dragon—were red. Blood red. She was vibrating. And as if he could hear that vibration, Maggaron, her personal Ascendant, came bursting through doors that appeared to be made of evening sky.
This caught the Arkon’s attention, but did not destroy his magic; instead, all of the moving images froze in place as the ancient Dragon looked up to meet the black ofNoranniranger. Or fear.
Bellusdeo was out of her seat before Kaylin had finished blinking. She stepped in front of Maggaron—probably the only person in the room who could make her look truly tiny—and placed a hand firmly in the center of his chest. He then staggered back, regaining certain footing a distance of three yards from that hand. Kaylin hadn’t even seen her push.
She spoke a language that Kaylin didn’t understand; Helen didn’t bother to step in with a translation, either. But theNorannireyes slowly regained their resting color, and although Maggaron didn’t slouch, he lost the appearance of height as he calmed down. He then looked up, to see the entire assembly around the open-air dining table, and blanched.
His first attempt at an apology was a stammer in his native tongue. His second attempt was a stammer in Elantran.
A very large chair appeared at the table, and Maggaron looked—pathetically—at Helen, who said nothing. Bellusdeo, however, caught him by the wrist and dragged him to that chair, and this time, Kaylin did see the Dragon exert herself. “My apologies for the interruption,” she said, a hint of a smile at play around her lips, her eyes more orange than they’d been since the first mention of Shadow. “It was entirely my fault. Maggaron is somewhat sensitive to my moods.”
“Which is why he’s usually smart enough to stay well away from them,” Mandoran added, ostensibly to the rest of the table.
A wave of chuckles cut the tension as Bellusdeo turned once again to the Arkon. “My apologies for the interruption,” she said in her sweetest voice. “Please, continue. I am sure this is educational in many ways for all of us.”
The Arkon nodded. His eyes remained orange, but there was another shade entwined with it, possibly silver. The large image that took up most of the table, including the new spot that had been opened up for Maggaron, began to move once again.
Kaylin watched as the lightning that had shot up from the ground began to shift and change. It was no longer a flash of power; it was slower, its reach extending so the witnesses could see its full trajectory. It was, after all, what the Dragon who had not yet been made Arkon—and one day, Kaylin would have to ask him exactly what that title meant—was searching for. There. There it was.
“Records, enlarge,” she said, and then flushed.
The Arkon didn’t apparently notice, and regardless, the image didn’t alter to accommodate her command. She wasn’t looking at Records. “Yes,” he said quietly. “You note the difference in that spell.”
She did, although the mage in question wasn’t the only one on the ground—there appeared to be several, surrounded by armored men. But one man stood out, although it took her a moment to realize why: there was a subtle fuzziness about his image. She could see his armor clearly, could see a tabard—but didn’t know enough, even with the recent studying, to place it—could see the sword that he held in one outstretched hand.
It was the sword, she thought. There was something wrong with the sword. It was limned in a barely visible, almost purple haze—a fog. The man who carried it was Barrani; he had the long, flowing hair. But the hair moved in a wind that seemed counter to the wind that moved through his defenders.
“Who was he?” she asked.
It was Sedarias who answered. “The Lord of Brennaire. What the High Lord did during the attack on the High Halls was of lesser power than what the High Lord did in that first war. Now stop interrupting.”
She hadn’t been talking at the time, but Kaylin didn’t point this out. Instead, she watched. She could see a stillness envelop the field; even the banners paused in motion, flattening as if they had been cut off from all source of wind. She saw fire splash like liquid twenty feet above the army’s head.
And she saw a Brennaire Arcanist turn toward the High Lord from whom the stillness seemed to radiate. Kaylin moved—or started to move—and Severn caught her arm. Her arm was glowing—or rather, the marks that adorned it were; they could be seen beneath the fabric of her shirt.
She almost smacked herself. This had happened centuries ago. It couldn’t be made to unhappen. There was nothing she could personally do for the Barrani or the Dragons of that time—and given their attitudes toward humans back in those days, did she reallywantto?
The Consort watched. All of the Barrani cohort did. Teela’s knuckles were white.
The Arcanist’s tiara was a glow of white fire across his brow; she couldn’t see the color of his eyes. Even had the image been larger, they would have been hard to see: he was blurring as she watched, his form both distinct and hard to pin down.
“Arkon,” the Consort said, her voice far sharper than usual. Sharper, harder, tinged with something that might have been fear.
He didn’t appear to hear her. Brennaire’s Arcanist turned toward the High Lord in the center of the formation; he lifted both hands and his arms seemed to shimmer as fire sprang instantly from his fingertips.
