Page 184 of Cast in Conflict

She shrugged, watching the marks as they rose. So did Bakkon.

The marks didn’t rise evenly; some hovered above her arm, and some rose to the level of her eyes. She didn’t recognize most of them; they looked different in three dimensions than they did when they were flat against her skin, as if her skin were parchment.

But Bakkon did. She didn’t speak the words; she couldn’t. She didn’t fully understand their meaning, either; she could sometimes choose words that had meanings solely by the feel they invoked—but it took a long time. She therefore hadn’t consciously or deliberately chosen the floating words.

The Wevaran’s eyes were glowing the same color as the marks, as if they absorbed the whole of his attention, his focus. He didn’t answer the question, but as they stood—one human, one Wevaran, and the marks of the Chosen—he once again began to keen.

“They spoke,” he finally whispered, his Barrani shaky. “We heard their voices. We always heard their voices.”

“Whose? Whose voice?”

“Ravellon.” The word that she heard and the word that he spoke were not the same. She tried to catch the syllables, to impress them in memory, but failed; her own understanding overlapped his voice.

The ground shook, and shook again.

“You should not have come here, Chosen.”

At any other time, she would have reminded him that she hadn’t arrived deliberately; now, she simply listened, her hands relaxing.

“You should not have come.”

“No. If it’s possible to safely leave this place, we’re going to leave. But...Mandoran was being pulled here.”

“It’s not my fault,” Mandoran said.

“I didn’t say it was.”

Bakkon coughed. It was much louder than Mandoran’s prior cough but had the same meaning.

“Can you help us leave?”

“No. If I leave, this space will collapse and everything in it will be lost. I have been asleep here, waiting, since the madness began.”

“Will you be safe if we leave?”

This was not the question he had been expecting. It was clearly not the question Mandoran had expected either. “I do not understand the question.”

“We fell into your space. Into the library, I mean. And we need to leave it. I assume the doors lead out. But if we open the doors, will your library be at risk?”

“The doors lead out of the library; they do not lead out of this space. I no longer know what you will find if you open the doors; they have not been opened since the fall.”

“Why can’t you leave your space and come back to it? Starrante could.”

“It is too complicated a question to answer; I would have to teach you much about my kin in order for you to understand it. And I do not wish to risk the whole of the collection. It is not mine—but it is my duty to preserve the knowledge here.”

“What is the knowledge here?” Mandoran asked.

The Wevaran lifted a leg and Mandoran fell off the wall, landing easily and gracefully on two feet.

“Our history,” was the soft reply.

“The history of the Wevaran?”

“No—our history. You will not understand it. You will never live it. You will never see its like again.” Each word wavered. Kaylin had heard this before, as well, and it hit her far more strongly than the fear of spiders could.

“We have to leave. Our allies are fighting the Shadows that have flown out of Ravellon.” This wasn’t strictly true, but she too felt she would have to explain far more for it to make sense. “We can’t stay here. You could come with us.”

Mandoran grimaced but said nothing.

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