Page 51 of Cast in Atonement

Kavallac’s frown was impatience personified as her eyes narrowed on the chancellor and Bellusdeo. She returned her attention to Kaylin. “You aided Bellusdeo with the marks of the Chosen? What do you mean by that, exactly?”

“What I said. If you want technical details, I don’t have them. Sometimes the marks of the Chosen react to events in ways I can’t predict. Sometimes, the power from the marks is accessible.”

“Accessible?”

“The only deliberate way I can use the power is healing. I’ve been able to do that since the marks first appeared on my body. I’ve used the power of the marks in other ways—but not without intent most of the time.”

“Explain.”

Kaylin shook her head. “Some of it’s private. I’m known as Chosen—but the first time I heard that word, I’d had the marks for years. Someone knew that those marks existed, somewhere, in the fiefs where I lived. And many children were kidnapped, tattooed, and murdered because of it.

“The library is huge. You’ve said that anything written—notebooks, diaries, things like that—can somehow be found here. I don’t know how. That many books from that many worlds should be the size of a world. But—I’ve never asked for research on the marks of the Chosen. Maybe you could find books that involve those marks. Research on their use. Or private journals of those who were marked before me.

“I knew Bellusdeo’s name wasn’t complete, but I can’t tell you how or why.”

Bellusdeo coughed. “There was one other element of the name that did not involve my sisters’ names.”

Kaylin nodded. “Maggaron. Your Ascendant.”

“Lannagaros?” Arbiter Kavallac said, the word a question and a command.

“Norranir. I know little of the Norranir, but they have some ability to repel Shadow. They did not have Towers; if the Ancients graced their world with anything other than its creation, it has not been mentioned. But there was some resistance in the Norranir before the fall of their world.

“They are here, now, in the fief of Tiamaris; I am certain they will move to the fief of Bellusdeo in time. They live, always, nearest the borders that face Ravellon.”

“They are Immortal?”

“No.”

“But they have names?”

“Again, I am not an expert in the Norranir. The closest you will come is Lord Bellusdeo, and her time has not been spent in scholarship, either in that world or this.” He turned to Bellusdeo. “I believe we have necessitated a longer period of research for the Arbiters. There is little more that we can contribute at the moment.”

Bellusdeo’s nod was tight.

A door appeared to their right. Kaylin waited for Bellusdeo to move toward it, but the gold Dragon was still.

“Arbiter Kavallac,” she said, voice soft, eyes copper, “as you suspect, we lacked a mentor; we lacked a mother. Children demonstrably survive without such parenting; we survived. Perhaps, had we the guidance a mother offered, the outcome of our war would have differed.”

Starrante lifted his arms, weaving them in a dance before the gold Dragon. “It would not, Lord Bellusdeo. Perhaps your individual fate would have differed—but the fall of the world cannot be laid across your shoulders.”

“I was queen.”

“And perhaps because you were queen, the fall of the world was slowed.”

“You are being kind to me, Arbiter.”

“No. You are being unkind to yourself. We will retreat now—I fear we will cause some unrest among the students—and we will inform the chancellor of any further questions our research necessitates.”

Kaylin thought he was done, and headed toward the freestanding door they had summoned.

Starrante wasn’t done. “Kaylin. If you intend to return to Mrs. Erickson’s former residence, be cautious. I do not advise you to attempt to explore whatever may be left of Azoria’s home. If you must explore that home, avoid the path that leads to the dead.”

Bellusdeo’s eyes were narrow, but copper gave way to orange with flecks of red. Kaylin was certain that would be their optimal color until her sisters were somehow either happy or free.

She’d heard the story Starrante told, of the woman who had come—at the side of a dead girl—to accuse the girl’s murderer. The author hadn’t seen what had happened to his sister, because he couldn’t see his sister at all. But the Arbiter was right. Mrs. Erickson could have done exactly what the nameless young woman had done. And perhaps that was her way of bringing peace to a dead girl.

Or perhaps it was her way of preventing any other such deaths at the hands of this one man—the man who should have been the girl’s protector, her father.

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