Cast in Honor (The Chronicles of Elantra) (23 page)

“Why it brought you here. I’d like to know how, too, but I’m beginning to think that’s irrelevant; it’s clear that Evanton doesn’t believe Kattea would have survived had you not been with her.” She hesitated.

“If you are going to keep something to yourself, do it competently,” Evanton snapped.

“It’s not mine to share.” She turned to Kattea, who was still rain-wet. “Tell Evanton what will happen to you if you go back.”

“I’ll die.”

“The water isn’t like the other elements,” Kaylin said, when it was clear Kattea intended to let those words be the whole of her contribution. “I think—I think she heard Kattea. Not, maybe, at first—but Gilbert was specific about the mode of travel: she had to choose a path that
Kattea
could survive.

“I think she’s aware of Kattea. She was certainly aware that Gilbert was distracted by Annarion. You haven’t met him—he’s Mandoran’s brother, effectively.”

“I would thank you to keep him to yourself for the time being; I have more than enough trouble at the moment.”

“Yes, well. I am keeping him to myself—he’s living with me. So is Mandoran.”

“You are obviously a saint.”

“No—but Helen probably is. One of these days you’re going to have to tell me how you knew about her. She doesn’t recall meeting you.”

“One of these days, when it is not raining on the inside of my shop, I will.” He exhaled. “What else do you need from a poor, tired, frazzled old man?”

“I don’t know. Do what you’re doing. And let Gilbert ask the water why.”

* * *

Evanton’s tired, old and frazzled was a constant. His clothing, however, wasn’t. When he accepted Kaylin’s request, it changed instantly into the blue robes that she associated with his title or his role. He then turned to pick something up off the table and smacked his head against the lower portion of the angled wall.

He could curse like a Hawk.

Grethan hovered in the doorway, waiting for Evanton, clearly feeling equal parts fear of and fear for his master.

“Stay on the second floor. Or in this room. There is some danger that the rain will become a deluge on the ground floor. No, not you,” he snapped at Grethan. “I’m going to need your help.”

The familiar squawked.

Evanton, looking aggrieved, said, “If you
must
.”

And the familiar floated up, off Kaylin’s shoulder, and came to rest on Evanton’s head.

Gilbert deposited Kattea on the table; she was the only person who could sit there without hitting her head. There wasn’t a lot of sitting space otherwise, but Kaylin had lived with floors—or worse—in her time. She sat. So did Severn.

“Is it really because of me?” Kattea surprised them both by asking.

“No,” Kaylin said.

Severn said nothing, which, oddly enough, was louder.

“Is it because I should have died, and didn’t?” She directed this question to Severn.

“
Should
doesn’t matter,” Severn replied. He exhaled. “I think the problem is actually Gilbert.”

This wasn’t comforting.

“Gilbert, the water, time and something the Arcanists have been doing. I think you’re caught up in it—but I don’t think it’s your fault.”

“What happens to me if Gilbert goes back and I don’t?”

“Gilbert said you’d be fine here,” Kaylin answered. She tried not to insult Kattea by glaring her partner into silence. “I believe him. He wants you to survive.”

Kattea nodded. “But...Gilbert’s kind of...stupid.”

“I don’t think he’s stupid. He’s just not used to being one of us. Give him time and—” She stopped talking. “Severn, did you hear that?”

Kattea, notably not Severn, said, “It sounded like something cracked. Or shattered.”

Severn was already on his feet. He scooped Kattea off the table. “I think we wait outside.”

Kaylin opened the door. “How well do you swim?” she asked Kattea.

“I don’t know how to swim. We weren’t allowed to go into the Ablayne.”

“Then we’re going to have problems.”

Chapter 19

Kaylin knew that Evanton could be totally submersed in water without drowning. She’d seen it. She had to trust that Grethan could do the same. The rains, which hadn’t chased them up the first flight of stairs, weren’t falling, but that no longer mattered. The second-story hall was underwater.

“Is there any chance that window leads to actual Elantran rooftops?” she asked Severn while watching the water’s currents.

“Possibly.”

Kaylin turned away from the rising river the house had functionally become. She could see the window clearly now. Water roiled on the other side of the closed glass. “I hope not, given what that would mean for the
rest
of the city.”

Kattea said, “Is Gilbert okay?”

Fair question. Gilbert had not made the list of Kaylin’s immediate worries. “Gilbert,” she said, “is probably the only one of us guaranteed to survive this. Well, Gilbert and Evanton. I’m worried about us, selfish as that sounds.”

Kattea said, in a much smaller voice, “Sounds practical.” But she said the last word as if it were a guilty confession. She looked, for the moment, much younger and frailer; she was afraid. And of course she was afraid: she had working eyes and ears. Water did not work this way unless magic was involved—and in general, if there was a clash between normal people and magic, magic won.

She turned to the door again.

“The water?” her partner asked. He did not set Kattea down.

“Rising, of course.” Kaylin exhaled. “I’m going to leave the room. I’m closing the door. Don’t open it.”

“Kaylin—”

“Don’t open it. Promise me.” She turned back. Kattea’s slender arms were around his neck. “You’re a Hawk,” she whispered.

Memory was a bitch. Always. It cut you at the worst times, for the worst reasons. It returned in a way that made no sense; it followed no logical pattern. Kattea
was not
Steffi or Jade. She
wasn’t
Kaylin’s baby sister; she wasn’t Kaylin’s responsibility.

But she was the same age. She was a shadow of the past; a shadow of everything that had come between her and Severn.

Severn nodded.

Kaylin walked out the open door, closing it firmly behind her. She leaned her forehead against it, briefly, and then turned and headed down the stairs.

* * *

The water was rising as she watched. She hadn’t lied to Kattea; she was certain Gilbert would survive. She wasn’t certain that his ability to interact with the rest of them would, and in any practical sense, that was the only thing that mattered to Kattea.

But Kaylin hadn’t come down the stairs without a plan. The plan, unfortunately, involved contact with the water—but the sooner she managed that, the better.

The currents, while strong, couldn’t knock her off her feet yet. Sliding her right arm between the banister rails, she caught one picket firmly in the bend of her elbow, bracing herself for the unexpected; she had no idea how much time she had before the inches of water became a flood.

She knelt, grimacing, and tried not to think of water damage to her clothing. Stupid thoughts, really, but she didn’t have the time to remove her pants—or boots. She had time to place her left hand firmly in the water.

Self-preservation made her yank her hand clear.

Responsibility made her grit her teeth and once again submerge it.

Kaylin was not Tha’alani. She was not one of the native race of telepaths that lived in Elantra, doing their level best to keep to themselves and away from every other race’s inborn isolation.

That isolation, to the Tha’alani, caused insanity. It caused bitterness and delusion and fostered misunderstanding and self-hatred—which, of course, led to hatred, which led to violence, and in the worst cases, death.

If the only people in the world had been Tha’alani, there would be
no need
for Hawks or Swords or Wolves. Misunderstanding was pretty hard to maintain when everyone around you could hear your thoughts. It was hard to maintain when you could hear theirs. The fears were addressed before they had time to grow ugly roots; the pain was addressed, comforted. You were never alone.

Once, Kaylin had feared that: you could
never
be alone. There was no privacy. There was no way to hide what needed to remain hidden if you were to live in the world. But she hadn’t considered that maybe there was
no need
to hide. Not until she had touched the
Tha’alaan
. Not until she had experienced the truth of it.

Had it been up to Kaylin, she would never have left it. But...she wasn’t Tha’alani. She had no way of contacting the
Tha’alaan
except this: to touch the elemental water. Because the core of the thoughts, emotions, dreams of the entire race was contained in the heart of the water.

It was the reason that elemental water, alone of the four elements, was different. The long, slow accumulation of the daily lives of thousands—tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands—had slowly altered the way the water itself thought. But only part of it; the elemental water was still a wild, chaotic force.

Kaylin could not hear its voice. When angered, when frightened, when outraged, its voice was too loud and too destructive. And yet, throughout, the Tha’alani were part of it. It was the Tha’alani she needed to reach. It was the voices of mortals, not ancient, imperturbable nature. No, she thought; what she needed to do was hang on to the rails and wait until they could reach her.

* * *

Kaylin
.

Ybelline. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t plug her ears; she had no way to block the roar of moving water, the distant sound of deluge. But she could “hear” Ybelline Rabon’Alani as if the castelord was beside her, lips pressed against her ear. More: it felt like a hug.

Ybelline
.

Where are you?

Kaylin showed her; it was easier than using words. It was easier to just...open up everything and let Ybelline see what she saw, as she saw it. A year or two ago, this would have been Kaylin’s worst nightmare. Now?

She wasn’t alone. Yes, she was standing—more or less—on her own two feet. But someone was standing beside her. Someone who couldn’t take the weight of responsibility off her shoulders, who couldn’t just
do
what had to be done—but who saw it, who understood it. Who saw Kaylin and understood Kaylin—and didn’t judge.

We...will speak to the
Tha’alaan
. Speak to the water as you can
, she added, the interior voice grim
. We will speak as we can. But, Kaylin—

Yes?

The
Tha’alaan
is...confusing now. There are—there are thought-memories in its folds that are ours—but not ours. We did not think those thoughts; we did not live through those events. It is...chaotic. We are used to dreaming thoughts and memories, but they do not have the same weight, the same texture.

Kaylin froze. Ybelline sensed everything Kaylin was trying to gather words to explain. And Kaylin, in turn, sensed Ybelline’s hesitance. It was almost like fear. Fear of a future that had not yet happened, but which the
Tha’alaan
remembered.

You need to know what happens in those memories and thoughts.

Kaylin swallowed.
Yes. It’s—it’s why I came to talk to the water at all. Not—not that I knew the
Tha’alaan
was affected, but that I thought the water could tell me, tell us, what’s about to happen.
What
had
happened, sometime in the near future.
But...the water isn’t us. It’s not mortal. It’s not living
here
. You are. I am. Whatever thoughts you’re hearing—the haven’t-happened-yet thoughts—I think they’ll be clearer, and cleaner.

She felt Ybelline’s reluctance give way—and she expected that. That was Ybelline, all over. What she didn’t expect was the water’s frenzied response. The inches of water across the second-story hall reared up in a sudden wall, like a tidal wave in miniature. It dropped on Kaylin’s head—and the stair railing.

The railing snapped.

If she drowned here, Severn was going to be so
mad
.

* * *

The water did not
speak
.

It roared. It roared like a flight of Dragons, the sound a sensation that made Kaylin’s teeth—and every other part of her body—rattle. She lost the
Tha’alaan
; lost the comfort of Ybelline’s steady presence; she lost everything as the water swept her, and the very broken rail, down the hall and into the door at the end of it.

The door gave way as Kaylin crashed into it; she could feel it shatter, but couldn’t hear it. She couldn’t, for a moment, hear at all. There was water everywhere.

But it wasn’t high enough to instantly drown in, even if the only breaths she could draw were the ragged gasps that panic often caused. She had time to close her mouth; time to find her footing; time to see that the windows here were normal windows. Normal meant closed; in this section of town, it didn’t immediately mean barred.

Unfortunately for Kaylin, in this house, normal
didn’t
mean backyard and familiar city landscape, either.

She’d come here to talk to the water. She’d let Gilbert do it instead. Clearly, the water in the here and now didn’t agree with Gilbert’s presence in the here and now. She struggled for more air and less water, coughing the water out. The tide at her feet was strong, but the water itself wasn’t deep. Kaylin didn’t want to give the water time to regroup and try again, if it was even attempting to kill her consciously.

It wasn’t. She inhaled, coughing less. It wasn’t trying consciously. It was aware of her; it must be, to dump a wall of water in a way that shattered the railing to which she’d been clinging. But it didn’t
see
her as Kaylin.

She felt confident that if it could or did, she would be in far less danger.

There was only one way to get its attention, and she once again dropped her hand into the water. This room was not like the single room in the third story; it had furniture and waterlogged carpet. It had chairs. It had—ugh—shelves, and the books on them were going to be far, far worse for wear.

And none of that was relevant right now.

Only the water was. Kaylin’s arms stung; her wet, wet clothing chafed her skin. And she knew what that meant. At any other time, she would look for the source of magic; the water itself didn’t usually cause this type of pain. Today, she looked at her arms. She saw the faint blue glow of runes through the cloth plastered against them.

She saw the hand she’d plunged into the faintly rocking water.

If it had been natural water, there would be visual distortion. It wasn’t natural, and there was no distortion; the water might have had the same properties as air, except for the inability to actually breathe it. She heard roaring again—the same shattering roar she had heard and felt at her first contact.

She did not hear the
Tha’alaan
. She didn’t try.

As the light on her arms brightened, she tried to speak a single word. It took effort. The syllables—there were more than one—snapped on her tongue; they slid out of her mind and she lost them and had to start again. And again. And again. But the third time, in the warmth of water she could no longer feel, she held them all, forcing each out of her mouth, although speech wasn’t technically necessary.

And the water rose.

* * *

It formed not a wall, but a pillar, and as Kaylin watched, the pillar refined its shape, until it was no longer a standing column of water from floor to ceiling. Kaylin was prepared to see the watery figure of a woman: this was how the water spoke to Kaylin when it chose to speak.

She was not prepared to see the water take the form and shape of a child—although this would not be the first time. Nor would it be the first time the figure had looked solidly, profoundly
mortal
. A mortal girl. Young enough to be Kattea, and hurt enough, bruised enough, to be Kattea as she would, no doubt, have become.

No, Kaylin thought. Kattea’s fief was not Kaylin’s fief; her life, not Kaylin’s life. If it was true that her father had once been a Sword, it meant that others—like Kattea’s father, and not Kaylin’s long-dead mother—could be living there, too.

Liar
, Kaylin thought.
Gilbert found her in the streets at night. Near Ferals.

And again, that didn’t matter. Not right now. What mattered now was the water.

“Kaylin.” The name was spoken by a bruised mouth, distorted by swelling at the corner. The water, as it manifested itself in this room, was shorter than Kaylin, and skinnier.
Slender
was not the right word: she was gaunt.

“I’m sorry,” Kaylin said. She looked at her hand. Held in it was the child’s. Beneath the child’s feet lay soaked carpet; it was dark enough to be black, but Kaylin suspected it would be blue when dry. Beyond the child, seen through the door frame, which would not, without repairs, house a door again, the runner in the hall was also soaked. But the floor was no longer a wading pool. “I didn’t know that having Gilbert here would upset you.”

“Gilbert?” The child’s eyes narrowed in a way that children’s eyes seldom did. “Is that what you call him?”

“It’s what Kattea calls him. And yes, it’s what I call him, as well.” She hesitated.

“I can hear the
Tha’alaan
,” the girl whispered. Her expression shifted; she looked anguished. “I—I’m afraid I’ve
broken it
.”

Ah. This, Kaylin could understand. There wasn’t much the elemental water and a mortal woman had in common—but the fear of accidentally destroying something beloved? That was clearly universal. “Why? Why do you think it’s broken?”

“There are things in it that should not be in it; there’s a bend, a break. I didn’t—” She swallowed as if she were breathing, as if she needed the air she fundamentally hated.

“The
Tha’alaan
is not that fragile. Ybelline is there. Ybelline understands, now, what this fracture means.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No,” Kaylin agreed, gentling her voice without thought. “But I don’t need to understand if Ybelline does. They will listen to her. They’ll hear her.”