Cast in Sorrow

“Because I didn’t summon it. I wasn’t its anchor.”

“Exactly.”

“I didn’t exactly summon the small dragon, either, Teela.”

“No.”

“If the summoner dies, the fire can be contained—”

“In theory, yes. Sometimes the death of the summoner frees the fire; it returns to the plane from which it emerged. Sometimes the death of the summoner simply allows fire to burn. It cannot be extinguished by natural water. It cannot be extinguished at all if there is not another adept who can speak its name and forcibly contain it. Dismissing the element requires the name.”

“I know fire’s name.”

“Good. What is the name of the small dragon? If you can’t figure it out, one of us will—and if we do, and we survive the attempt to contain—and control—the familiar, it is us, not you, who will make the decisions.”

Allaron approached. “Teela has always been like this,” he said, his voice soft. “She makes threats that we all know are empty.” He was, to Kaylin’s discomfort, speaking in Elantran. Elantra hadn’t existed when he had entered Hallionne Alsanis. “She’s angry,” he added, which was kind of like saying fire was hot. “But she hasn’t lived the lives we lived. When the Lady was trapped in the nightmares of Alsanis, how did you reach him?”

Kaylin frowned. “I touched the Consort.”

Allaron shook his head.

“What he means to say,” Mandoran cut in, “is how did you catch Alsanis’s attention? How did you speak to him without entering his domain? You did,” he added. “We heard it.”

“What did you hear?”

Mandoran frowned. He fell silent; Kaylin could almost hear them conferring in the privacy and intimacy granted by True Names.

Teela said, “They can’t describe it.”

“You’ve heard the ancient tongue—”

“Yes, but perhaps the particulars are not appropriate for the venue.” She frowned and added, “They didn’t hear it the way you heard it. They didn’t have to. It was not something that could be contained in our words. I don’t know what you did—but I think it’s what you must do here.”

“Alsanis heard you...speak. He knew, because you did, that you understood,” Mandoran added.

Kaylin wanted to beat her head against something. She lifted her arms. The marks were gray, flat marks; they didn’t glow.

“And we heard you, as well,” he added quietly. “We heard, and we almost remembered. Speak to him as you spoke to us.”

The eyes were smaller now. Smaller than her fists.

“I can’t,” she said softly. “I’m not where I was.” She looked around the heart of the green; there were no corpses here. Vivienne was no longer bleeding to death. Teela was Teela, but the ten who stood gathered around her looked far more solid, far more real, than they had. The fountain’s water was no longer red with ancient blood.

But the ground was not barren stone and dirt, and the trees— Ah, the trees. “It’s almost over.”

Teela nodded.

It is, the small dragon said. It is almost over, and when it is done, I will be uncontained. I have done what I can to limit the damage I will do. His eyes were the size of large cat eyes, and they were once again nested in the translucent face of a delicate, glass dragon.

But Kaylin shook her head. She raised an arm, mimicking Barian, and the small dragon alighted as if he were an eagle, a dream. She put him, gently, on her shoulder.

That is unwise, Kaylin.

She nodded. She heard Nightshade’s voice; it was hoarse. She could no longer hear Lirienne. The blood of the green had billowed; the skirts possessed a very, very long train. They had no sleeves, but the fall of fabric had shifted; the silk was both heavier and warmer, the style of dress distinctly different. Only an idiot would attempt to run in skirts like these; Kaylin privately doubted that walking was a possibility.

But she gathered the endless yards of fabric over her left arm, and she made her way to the fountain; the basin was full and clear.

The sky was now a clear azure—and it had a sun. It was a familiar sun. Nightshade’s voice was an echo. She turned, small dragon on her shoulder, to see Teela and ten of the lost children gathered around the fountain. They were talking, but half their sentences trailed off abruptly into either nothing or open laughter. It was as shocking in its way as anything that had happened in the West March.

Allaron lifted Sedarias off her feet and spun her around. Kaylin’s jaw almost hit the floor; nothing about Sedarias implied indulgence or affection. Her expression was fixed, frozen, as Allaron lowered her to the ground —but her eyes were a deep, emerald-green.

They were facing out, away from the fountain’s water. Kaylin saw the water rise; if they did, they didn’t acknowledge it; they were thrumming with excitement, expectation, nervousness, as the green returned—Kaylin understood this now—to the world. Or rather, as the green left it. But this time, it left the Barrani in its wake, its story told.

“You said I found you.”

Yes. He lowered his head, and spread himself more or less comfortably across her shoulders. What am I, Kaylin? The small dragon bit her earlobe. She cursed him in quiet Leontine, which, given the audience was mostly Barrani, didn’t make much of a difference.

What am I?

“Kitling.” Teela’s eyes had lost some of their green.

Kaylin knew why; the small dragon’s wings had grown. And grown. He was still mostly draped across her shoulders, but the wings now covered her like a cape. They were translucent, but caught sunlight in a way that suggested color. She felt them tighten, but they were warm, like the palm of a hand.

She was, she realized, both cold and tired. The sun didn’t feel warm. Nothing did, except dragon wings— and they weren’t wings now; they were too soft, too pliant, too shapeless.

She turned toward the water. It rose in a familiar column, a familiar shape. When it lifted an arm, extending a hand, Kaylin made her way across the very mundane, very solid, heart of the green. She lifted a hand in turn and placed it across a liquid palm.

He is not as we are, a familiar voice said. Her eyes were the color of every patch of water Kaylin had ever seen, simultaneously. They were open, rounded slightly in a way that suggested concern. Concern and stillness.

“I know.”

You must answer his question, Kaylin. The form and the shape he takes now has no mooring. It will be all things at once. All things, and nothing.

“What kind of nothing?”

The water failed to answer. Tell him, she said instead, the stories you tell us in the Keeper’s garden. Tell him what he is to your kind.

Kaylin exhaled. One hand in the water, she lifted the other; folds of translucent warmth rose and fell as she shifted position. Teela was standing apart from her cohort, watching as Kaylin was slowly engulfed in a cocoon that could be more felt than seen. She’d had whole days like this, when bed and sleep and silence were the only options that offered any comfort at all. She didn’t think often of Steffi and Jade; she shied away from it now because it always cut. It always would.

But thinking of them left the same, invisible bruises. Because she knew she’d made the right choice and it didn’t feel right. It felt wrong. All the if-only, all the what-if in her life had come back to this: it was done, and nothing she could do could change it. But...she could have. Because she had him and he could. And she couldn’t grasp the words. No—that wasn’t true. It was a lie. She could have. She could have taken that risk, could have spoken the lie in a way that made some sort of truth of it.

And she hadn’t.

And she wouldn’t.