moment, breach of those rules would have unfortunate consequences.”
Great. On the other hand, what she recalled was pretty straightforward: touch or break any of his stuff, and die horribly. Not much leeway there for accidental errors.
He walked to the door, and then paused there again. “There was some discussion about your role in this investigation, Private Neya. I spoke in favor of it, but I have misgivings. I am not,” he added, as she opened her mouth, “about to explain them again. The explanation would probably deafen you, because I am now old enough that I find certain complications difficult to discuss in anything but my native tongue—a tongue which, by Imperial decree, is to be used sparingly in public places.”
“Wait!”
He froze there, and she was reminded, by his glacial expression, that there were forms she was expected to observe. “Arkon,” she said quickly, bowing. This did not, judging by his expression, mollify him much. “What did the Outcaste find? He said he found—”
The Arkon frowned at about the same time Tiamaris stepped on her foot.
“He found shadow. Possibly the last resting place of the Old Ones. If the library existed at all, it was no longer his concern. Do not be arrogant, Private. Your marks—your existence—might afford you some protection, although what that entails, and what its boundaries are, none of us can say. But what he could not do in safety, you cannot do. Do you understand?”
She swallowed, remembering the great, black Dragon, his name so large and so intricate that she could not even begin to say it, although she could see it clearly. “Yes.”
“Good. Tiamaris, Sanabalis.” He nodded curtly, and this time, she didn’t call him back.
“Lord Sanabalis or Lord Tiamaris, however, may feel free to enlighten you.” He glanced at both of them. “I assume at least one of them was paying attention.”
Tiamaris’s grimace waited until the door had closed; Sanabalis’s expression, however, did not change.
“I think I like him,” Kaylin told them both, as she settled back into her chair. “What were his misgivings about me?”
The two remaining Dragons exchanged a glance. “The Outcaste,” Sanabalis said quietly, “went to Ravellon. What he found there changed him. He was not without power. He is not without power now.” They both hesitated. Kaylin marked it.
“Why did he want you two to talk about this? He could—”
“He dislikes caution in speech.” It was Tiamaris who replied. “And he dislikes politics. His definition of politics involves anything of consequence that occurs outside the boundaries of his library.”
“Oh.”
“There are matters that the Eternal Emperor does not consider suitable for public consumption. Public, in this particular instance, involves anyone who lives or breathes that is not Dragon and does not serve him.”
“Meaning me.”
“Meaning, indeed, you.”
“So…there’s something they’re worried about, and whatever it is, he can’t tell me because I’m not a Dragon.”
“No. There are many things that are discussed. A few of them have bearing—at least at this juncture—on our duties in the fiefs. But sorting out which of those things can be touched upon and which can’t requires the type of conversational care that the Arkon finds taxing. Left to his own devices, he would not emerge from his library at all, and his concerns would lead him to discuss certain historical issues which the canny—and you are that, at least—would then dissect.”
Kaylin made a face. “Just tell me what I need to know.”
Sanabalis chuckled. “It’s a pity you’re human. I believe you would find some sympathy in the Arkon, otherwise.” Fingers playing through his slender conceit of a white beard, he watched her in silence. After a moment, he said, “Tiamaris.”
She recognized the tone of voice; she might as well have been locked in the West Room with an unlit candle in front of her face. Tiamaris grimaced.
“He was always like this?” she asked him.
“Always,” the Dragon Hawk replied. “Understand that the Arkon and the Outcaste were, in as much as any two beings can be, friends. It is hard to surrender an ancient friendship, no matter how dire the circumstance. Even the Arkon is not immune to some trace of sentiment.”
Clearly the Dragon word sentiment didn’t really intersect the human one in any significant way. Kaylin managed to keep this thought to herself.
“It was the Arkon who noted the change in the Outcaste upon his return from the heart of the fiefs. He did not immediately make his concern clear.” There was another hesitation, and it was longer and more profound. “In the end, however, it was the Arkon who was left to confront the Outcaste, because it was the Arkon who possessed the only certain knowledge we, as a race, held.”
Kaylin frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Sanabalis replied quietly. “And after a brief pause for comprehension, you will once again resume all appearance of ignorance. This will not, one assumes, be difficult.” She grimaced.
“The Arkon,” Tiamaris continued, as if Sanabalis hadn’t spoken, “has never said this explicitly, even when pressed. The Emperor has never commanded him to speak,” Tiamaris added. “Not even the respect the Arkon commands could stand in the face of his defiance of a direct order, and the Emperor does respect him greatly.” He glanced at their mutual teacher once more. Sanabalis nodded evenly.
“But we believe that they were brothers in all but blood, the Outcaste and the Arkon. We believe,” he added, lowering his voice, “that the Arkon knew the Outcaste’s name.”
Given the way the Barrani guarded theirs, and given the significance of the name itself, Kaylin understood why the Arkon had been loath to speak. If Dragons or Barrani had souls—and Kaylin had her doubts—they were entwined in the name; knowledge of the name was so profoundly intimate no human experience approached it.
But she frowned. “If—” And then she stopped.
The silence went on for a long time.
“Yes,” Sanabalis said heavily. “He attempted to use the name, to bespeak the Outcaste.”
This time, it was her silence that weighted the room. It passed for thought, but she didn’t need much time to think; she only needed the time to choose her words. Normally, she didn’t bother, but she had a strong feeling that was about to change, and like it or not, she would live with that.
“He didn’t answer,” she finally said. As word choices went, it wasn’t impressive.
But Sanabalis nodded anyway. “No.”
“Sanabalis—”
He waited, as if this were a test. Or as if all conversation from this moment on would be one. She really, really hated this type of lesson; it was all about failing, and interesting failure often didn’t count for part marks.
