“I can see the shape of it—but the shape is now a series of holes or windows. I can’t pull the word from it. And I’m pretty sure I don’t have that word just hanging around the rest of the marks on my skin.”
“I cannot see a word,” the Arkon replied. “I could not see a book. I can make assumptions on what I should see based on the two books belonging to the Arbiters, but those assumptions will not grant you the insight you desire.”
“Should I try to...speak this word?”
“In some fashion, I believe that is what you were trying to do.”
“No—I was only trying to touch it.”
His eyes narrowed; his face shifted into a familiar expression. She’d just seen it on Killian’s face. “You have had little experience with the speaking of these words, but if your assumptions are correct, you have had more experience than most of the Barrani—and mortals—assembled here. What they did did not invoke that word.”
“That’s not what I’m afraid of.”
“You are afraid that they have somehow managed to siphon the power of that word?”
She nodded. “Killian can now locate the other two Arbiters. He still can’t locate Starrante, but...he’s aware of his presence. Peripherally. Not in a way that would be useful to us. If he were truly awake, I don’t think we’d have any problem finding Starrante.”
“Then speak the word, Chosen.”
“Could I just—I don’t know, give it a different word?”
Orange tilted toward red.
“Or not.”
“It is not a name as you perceive True Names,” the Arkon then said, relenting. “It is a word. Starrante did not require a True Name to become an Arbiter. He came with the True Names he required, as did Kavallac and Androsse.”
“But the words on their books aren’t the same.”
“As each other’s?”
Kaylin nodded.
“No. The words are doors, if I understand their use—and, frustratingly, my knowledge in this regard is scant. If I could see the word, I could attempt to speak it; I am not guaranteed to succeed. The words you have heard me speak—the words you have heard Sanabalis speak—are words that were taught to me in the distant past.
“But you are aware of the effect those words might have on the Leontines, a race that does not require True Names in order to live. Words have power, Kaylin.”
“Yes—but those words had specific power.”
“So, too, these. And they are simple words; they are not an entire tale. The power that those who attacked the High Halls wished to access was those True Names. This is not that. You will not, speaking the name, bind Starrante in the fashion you clearly fear.”
“Will I bind him in some other fashion?”
“I believe you will build a connection, yes. But it is a connection that has, in some fashion, already been built by someone else. You have the advantage of holding that book.” His tone implied that she had better make use of the minor advantages she had—and quickly.
But words weren’t spoken quickly, if they were spoken at all. She wished strongly that she could use the magic the Arkon possessed to create a visual, visible illusion; she trusted the Arkon to speak what must be spoken.
Fire erupted in the distance; it was a white-gold fire, and it was accompanied by a very familiar voice: Bellusdeo’s. The Arkon tensed, but said nothing.
Above Kaylin’s arms and around her legs she could see the marks of the Chosen. They were golden now, their light a glow that implied warmth, not the chill of ice. Starrante’s book was before her, and she could now see that it, too, was golden. It just wasn’t solid.
Her own marks, her own words, were. She could reach out and touch them—and did, to ascertain their solidity. She hesitated for one moment, and then turned, again, to the Arkon. He understood, and reluctantly held out one book for her inspection: Androsse’s. Kaylin was certain this was mostly by chance.
Androsse’s word was solid; it was part of the cover of the book. It didn’t rise or float; it didn’t spin. But it was present. She assumed the same of Kavallac’s, but the Arkon didn’t offer the second book; having confirmed that Kaylin’s fingers didn’t dip below the surface of Androsse’s, he was done with the experiment.
Kaylin’s familiar had dropped his wing at about the time Kavallac had chosen to engage the intruders. He’d folded it, and further, had collapsed on her shoulder like a bulky shawl. He said nothing, and offered no advice or criticism.
The Arkon didn’t, either. She could hear the sounds of battle, all of it magical; there didn’t seem to be one drawn sword in the fracas. But she could also hear syllables, words—as if catching the mood and tone of an entire crowd. A crowd that was not, or had not yet become, a problem for the Swords.
