Page 204 of Cast in Conflict

She was never going to complain about magic again. Ever.

Almost here, Severn said. You’re almost through.

She didn’t ask him how he knew. She stumbled forward—walk would be too kind a word for the motion—until she felt actual breeze across her cheeks; they were cool with it. Ah. She’d been crying.

Yes.

She turned slowly, with Mandoran as a brace, and looked back at the tunnel she had carved with a hand and a word; she could see Bakkon as if through an arrow slit, the space too narrow to contain the bulk of his form. She could see the webbing that stood in front of him, a translucent door.

Could see the moment he exhaled, chittering and screeching, and stepped through that door.

Severn had stepped across the border. He looked past her to Mandoran; she had no idea what form the member of the cohort had adopted. But his hands, at least, were solid and real, and he was anchored to her, more for her sake than his.

For both, Severn said. He stepped forward as the wall shuddered, shouting in a cacophony of raised, desperate voices.

She was unprepared for Severn’s desperate lunge; he pulled her—and possibly Mandoran—across the border, shouting Mandoran’s name as the wall suddenly and completely collapsed, becoming, in an instant, a mob of smaller Shadows.

She was through the barrier; the mob crashed against it but could not follow. The pain dimmed; her skin was extremely sore, but no longer felt as if it were being flayed and burned off at the same time. “Mandoran?” Her voice was a croak.

“Here,” Mandoran said, behind her. “And possibly regretting it.”

Terrano laughed. His feet, Kaylin noted, were not touching the ground and he seemed to cast no shadow. But neither did Mandoran. “Sedarias is seriously pissed off.”

“I didn’t want to take the risk of talking to any of you. I didn’t want any of you pulled in.”

“Tell Sedarias, not me.” He turned to Kaylin. “I think Riaknon might need your help.”

She immediately reoriented herself toward the Wevaran and understood what Terrano meant without need for further words; all of the Wevaran’s eyes were bulging, although none had leaped out of their sockets yet.

She placed a hand across his body—between his open eyes—and, as she’d done for Bakkon, assessed the damage Riaknon had done to himself. The two bodies were surprisingly dissimilar, which she hadn’t been expecting. But the webbing he was spitting out and cursing as he did was also pink; a darker pink than Bakkon’s had been.

There were no obvious spinnerets, not that she’d really attempted to heal spiders before; it was harder to find the area of damage that was causing the bleeding.

We are not arachnids, Riaknon snapped. Do you think we’re spiders? Bakkon has clearly managed to retain some good humor if you are still standing. We are not spiders. Spiders are the echoes of us, diminished and lacking in sentience. Our webs are not simple physical extrusions; they are magical and they require speed and will.

They obviously had very different personalities. But if their bodies were far less uniform than human bodies, they were still of living flesh, and she could heal the damage done by the use of this webbing, this magic, in the same fashion she could heal Bakkon. She did that now.

I do not mean to sound ungrateful, Riaknon then said. But patience is often wasted on the young.

Bakkon was not here.

She could see the shadows cast by large, flying Dragons; Emmerian had left the airspace above Ravellon. She could hear his bellow, similar to and different from Bellusdeo’s; above them both, she could hear the fuller, richer sound of the outcaste Dragon.

This part is exceptionally difficult. I wish Starrante were here instead; he was the master of portals. I lack his confidence.

What are you trying to do?

I am trying to allow Bakkon to leave. I cannot create the portal from the other side of the barrier—only he can do that. But he is struggling as well.

What happens if it doesn’t work? Is he just trapped there?

Riaknon didn’t answer. He was Wevaran, not human, but the lack of answer had both weight and meaning.

Can I help?

You are helping now, perhaps more than you know. But I would ask that you stop nattering. Which probably meant shut up.

She opened her mouth and shut it again as a translucent projectile struck her shoulder. Her left ear became so full of random squawking she forgot that she could, with concentration, understand the words that left her familiar’s mouth. At least she could when he was speaking to her.

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