Page 74 of Cast in Conflict

Riaknon lifted his forelegs and repeated the gestures. “Starrante taught you?”

“I asked him. He says I have a good eye. Do you also weave portals?”

“Robin,” the distant voice said.

“Tell your teacher we need you to lead a visitor—at the chancellor’s command—to the library.”

Robin grimaced. “I can’t lie.”

Fine. “Robin is being seconded to help a visitor reach the library. The visitor is a relative of Arbiter Starrante.”

Silence, followed by the scraping—or the clattering—of a chair.

A Barrani man with gray hair—white and black strands that were otherwise perfect and long—appeared immediately in the doorway. It was Larrantin; his eyes were narrowed with either concern or anger. They were very, very blue.

Riaknon came to an immediate halt, repositioning his bulk without altering the orientation of his legs. “You!”

Larrantin spoke in a series of extended clicks, lifting his arms just as Robin had done, but—because he was Barrani—with infinitely more grace. “Riaknon.”

The Wevaran clicked and spoke, the syllables clearly a language that could be learned.

“And your brother?”

“Zabarrok remained at home. If Starrante is truly present, I doubt we will be able to keep him there. You know how they were.”

Larrantin’s eyes had lightened; they were almost green.

“Were you concerned that I was infected?”

“You know what your kin were capable of when enslaved and set to work,” Larrantin replied softly. “Yes. The students here are from a much benighted era; they are familiar with so few of the great races, they feel that true understanding of history is a waste of their precious time.”

“They are mortal?”

“Not all of them have that excuse, no. But yes, many—like Robin—are mortal.”

Riaknon clicked. “But mortals burn so brightly in their need to make use of the few decades they are given; much of what we learned we learned because of their curiosity and their odd interventions.”

“Then if it will comfort you, I will tell you this: Starrante is indeed Starrante, he is whole, and he is still purely Wevaran. We had some excitement in our attempt to once again reach reality.”

“And you?”

“Do I look much changed?”

“Somewhat, although perhaps I should not say that—forgive me. Some of your customs—the clothing for one, and the importance of hair—have always eluded my understanding.”

“But you have the tattoos and the markings that serve as identifiers; most of us would be unlikely to survive the process to lay them down. Certainly it would kill mortals.”

“And it would look ridiculous. But come, come—I am to visit this library space in which Starrante lives and weaves, and I do not want to miss it. I will have to leave with Lord Liatt, and she is not a woman for many words when a single word will do.”

“But she speaks with the chancellor now,” Larrantin pointed out, leaving the class—and whatever students it had contained. “And the chancellor can, at need, be a Dragon of many, many words where one would suffice.” He glanced at Robin, glared briefly at Kaylin, and then exhaled. “If you wouldn’t mind my company, I will join you.”

Robin didn’t attempt to chatter at Riaknon; Larrantin was doing that just fine on his own. He did, however, talk quietly to Kaylin, theoretically still in the lead. He also chattered at Mandoran with none of the fear that children his age from the warrens would have shown so instinctively.

“I met your friends,” Robin told him. “They say hi. I really like them. Serralyn especially.”

“They like it here,” Mandoran replied, at ease with Robin in a way that implied Serralyn at least returned Robin’s regard.

“You don’t think you would?”

---