“Lannagaros,” Bellusdeo said. “Enough.” She placed a firm hand on the Arkon’s shoulder—the one that Hope was standing on. Her voice was both gentle and implacable. “We are not done here. You must conserve your power.”
“I have changed very little,” the Arkon said, which was demonstrably not accurate. Kaylin disagreed, but silently. She stood in front of a statue of Nightshade. “Can you see the cohort?” she asked, the question meant for Bellusdeo, who also lived with them.
“No. I do see Annarion’s brother.”
“So we can assume they’re here, but not trapped in the same way.”
“I counsel against assumptions,” the Arkon replied. “But the nature of your friends might make this particular type of containment difficult.”
“Particular type? What exactly does that mean?”
“Killianas was a building, and his powers were like and unlike your Helen’s. Hospitality was not his concern. It was quite likely not Helen’s original concern, except in a passing fashion. But security of a certain kind was.”
“Of a certain kind?”
“There is a reason that the Arcanum has never been housed in a building with the will, power and intellect to interfere with the studies of its disparate members.”
“Because no one’s around to make those buildings anymore?”
The Arkon did not reply. Instead, he walked through the crowd, joining Severn, who had started to walk between the statues almost the moment the Arkon had stopped speaking. He paused in front of three, as if taking mental notes, but said nothing before he continued to move.
Wolf business?
And missing persons, he replied, his tone removed, almost distant. The former was not a subject he was going to discuss.
The Arkon continued to the walk to the back of the crowd. Kaylin’s suspicion that the order of visibility had something to do with the length of captivity solidified; the Arkon had stopped at the very back of this carved crowd, in front of one of the Barrani statues.
“Do you recognize this man?” he asked, although he didn’t turn from it.
“It’s... Larrantin. I think.”
“Youthink?”
“Well, Larrantin’s strongest distinguishing feature is his hair. The Consort is the only Barrani I’ve ever met with white hair. Larrantin is the only Barrani I’ve ever met with gray hair. I mean, black and white. And...this stone is all the same color.”
“I have always known that mortal hearing is inferior to immortal hearing,” the Arkon said, his eyes a familiar orange. “I had never realized that their vision is likewise compromised.”
“The answer you want,” Bellusdeo then said, far more amused than either the Arkon or Kaylin, “is yes. Yes, that is Larrantin.”
“I thought he wanted an accurate answer. The accurate answer is maybe.”
“You are misusing the wordaccuratein an almost unforgivable fashion,” the Arkon then said. He turned away from the statue of Larrantin.
“Do you recognize the other two?”
“Yes.”
Kaylin waited until it became clear that the Arkon considered it none of her business.
“You said there were doors here. Thank you,” he added—to Hope. Hope squawked and pushed himself off the Arkon’s shoulder to return, once again, to Kaylin’s. “It is time to take those doors.”
The doors stood on the left and right walls of the previously featureless room. The statues filled it now.
“What I don’t understand is why we’re not statues.”
“Pardon?”
“We’re not part of the statuary. Or whatever it is you call this place. We’re ourselves.”
