Part 39 (1/2)
The Arkon lifted a brow; his entire expression reminded Kaylin of the midwives' guildmaster's impatience with the young-all of whom were generally older than Kaylin. She avoided saying as much because the cloud in the middle of the street began to condense, which wasn't what she'd been expecting.
The Arkon roared. Kaylin wanted wax to plug her ears; given the amount of time she'd been spending around Dragons, she felt it should be part of her standard kit. Sanabalis roared back-and honestly, they were yards apart, was that level of sound really necessary?-before he took to the skies.
The Arkon remained on the ground. When Kaylin glanced at him, she was surprised to see his color: he was golden. Apparently Maggaron was surprised by it, as well. In his Dragon form, all pretense of age vanished. Looking at both Sanabalis and the Arkon, it was impossible to tell who was older; the Arkon, in her opinion, was slightly larger, but it could go either way.
”Sanabalis,” the Arkon said, choosing to speak his traditional Barrani, but with more growl and depth, ”will watch the skies. I believe I hear young Tiamaris, as well.”
”You are correct,” Tara told him. ”My Lord is almost here.”
Almost was three seconds away. Tiamaris buzzed ground, his wings nearly clipping rooftops on the flyby. He was a blur of gleaming red as he rose to meet Sanabalis. A loud blur.
”It serves as warning,” Tara said calmly. Her feet were now hovering about a yard off the ground, but she made no attempt to join the Dragons.
”Or challenge,” Kaylin pointed out.
”Or challenge,” the Arkon agreed.
”You think he'll come?”
”Oh, yes. Guard the ground, Chosen, as you can. I leave you in the care of the Avatar.” He growled and picked a few cobbles out of the street. ”If Tiamaris is rebuilding,” he told the Tower, ”have him consider wider streets in future.”
”I will, Arkon,” was the grave-and entirely serious-reply. Tara watched as the Arkon broke free of whatever it was that kept the rest of them bound to ground. The clouds continued to thicken and shrink, and Kaylin's gaze bounced between them and the Ascendant who had, apparently, forgotten how to breathe.
Be ready, Chosen, the sword told her.
Kaylin nodded. She didn't even ask the sword what she was supposed to be ready for, because Maggaron picked that moment to scream. It was loud, but unlike Dragon roars in close quarters, it didn't annoy; it alarmed. He fell to his knees so gracelessly, Kaylin almost dropped the sword to help him stand; the sword yanked itself away from the Ascendant, and Kaylin, still gripping the hilt, staggered in that direction by default.
”Chosen!” Maggaron said, as if he were being throttled. She realized then that he'd thrown himself into as awkward a position as possible, and meant for her to help him maintain it.
”I guess that answers that,” Kaylin murmured.
Tara, yards away, replied, ”It is not necessary to be in physical proximity to invoke the name.”
”Tara-”
”Nonetheless, although your supposition is based on a misunderstanding of the use of the name, I concur. The Outcaste is coming.”
So, too, was the shape of the storm.
Kaylin had expected that somehow the ninth form of Bellusdeo would emerge from those silver clouds in much the same way she herself once had. She was wrong. The clouds continued to condense until they looked almost solid. She recognized the shape the clouds had slowly collapsed into: it was hers. Bellusdeo's. Not for the first time, she wondered what in the h.e.l.ls Dragons actually were. The gray paled as it turned; for a minute the woman it depicted look carved out of smoky alabaster, if that were possible.
Color began to seep into her skin; her hands became pale and pink, her face pale but sallow; her hair became spun gold. She was not yet wet or covered in ashes or splinters, and as she turned, her skirts still looking like cloud's edge, Kaylin saw the color of her eyes: they were a brown that seemed, at this distance, to be flecked with gold. Maggaron looked up-well, more accurately, across-at the solidifying form of Bellusdeo. He spoke to her in a language that Kaylin didn't understand.
It struck her as strange only a minute later when she realized that Maggaron's words had always sounded like Elantran to her. Bellusdeo had no difficulty understanding what he said, and she answered in the same tongue, or in what sounded, to Kaylin's ears, to be the same.
She saw the Ascendant stiffen. No, she felt him stiffen.
The woman who looked like Maggaron's image of Bellusdeo now looked at her. ”Chosen,” she said. Kaylin's arms were still exposed, and the runes that covered them were glowing. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw the sword in Kaylin's hands, but her expression softened. She stepped forward, and as she did, she seemed to gain the last little bit of solidity. She stumbled. Kaylin caught her; Maggaron was frozen in position.
Kaylin knew why. She could feel the pressure of what might have been syllables pressing against his thoughts.
”Maggaron.” Bellusdeo reached out with both hands and gently cupped his cheeks. ”It is almost over. You have served me well, and in ways you cannot imagine. It is time now for you to return to your kin.”
He couldn't speak while fighting, even if the fight itself involved no physical movement. Kaylin, however, could. ”He doesn't want to go back to his kin.”
A gold brow rose. The woman straightened. ”You carry his sword,” she finally said.
”I do.”
”And his name?”
”...I do.”
”Do you understand that he will have no other freedom for the rest of his unnatural existence otherwise?”
Kaylin said nothing for a long moment. She didn't like where the conversation was going. But the sword was humming in her hand, like a beehive, not a singer.
Tiamaris roared in the air above and Bellusdeo's eyes widened in surprise. Her mouth opened in a half O and she looked up, and up again. When she looked down, she closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, she was calm again. ”Chosen,” she said, ”I haven't much time. You carry the Ascendant's sword. Stab me with it.”
Kaylin hesitated.
Sanabalis roared, and this time-this time, fire touched the streets.
”Chosen-”
Kaylin looked up. She could see the undersides and wingspans of three familiar dragons-but she could also see a fourth. He was distant, but approaching, and his wingspan seemed larger, the reach of his fire longer, than any of the three. ”Maggaron-”
The Ascendant bit either tongue or lip; blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. His eyes were wide. Kaylin watched him, her arms aching from the sudden weight the sword in her hand had gained.
Give me to Maggaron, Chosen.
I- Or do what must be done yourself. We cannot wait.
In the distance, the Outcaste roared; the ground beneath Kaylin's feet shook at the force of the sound. It seemed impossible to her then that the three Dragons she did know could stand against the one that she desperately wished she didn't.
The sword grew heavier and heavier in her hand, its weight pulling her down. I don't think Maggaron can wield you.
He can. If you force him, he can.
I can't- She stopped. She could. And she felt that it was important, somehow; that's why she'd wanted him to come here in the first place. Her skin began to burn. Or at least that's what it felt like; a casual inspection of her forearms showed that she only got the pain of fire, not the damage.
Maggaron.
He swiveled his head to look at her.
Take the sword.
His hand rose-and fell-at the command. She wasn't the only one who was trying to take control of him. She was the only one who didn't want to succeed-and that had to stop. He looked at her, his eyes wide, blood still tracing the lines of his chin. Bellusdeo was standing two feet away, her face pale, circles suddenly darkening the undersides of her eyes. There were so many things Kaylin wanted to ask her.
Instead, she dragged the sword toward the Ascendant, and laid the hilt in the palm of one stiff, open hand. It was already far too large for Kaylin to wield. Maggaron's hand spasmed as he sought to close it. Kaylin took a step back as he did. His eyes darkened; they looked disturbingly like Tara's, but without as good a reason.