“Draalzyn?”
Draalzyn looked as if he’d swallowed a rat that wasn’t quite dead. “Ybelline, must I?”
“If you prefer, I can visit the memories of your death and the hours before it occurred.” Her eyes, as she spoke, were gold.
Draalzyn grimaced. “You think I would spare you that pain when I have had to endure it myself?”
“Yes, actually, I do.” She smiled.
He threw both his hands up in disgust that was only partly feigned. “This,” he told Kaylin, “is what you must watch out for when Ybelline knows you too well. She will twist you around her finger; you will do what she wants you to do because you can’t bear to cause her pain. Even,” he added darkly, “when you wish to strangle her.
“The concept of a magical barrier exists among the mages. It was of interest to me, and of interest to my kin. It was not a priority, because it does not prevent actual people from crossing its lines. The barriers exist in a particular form; they exist as a counter to other magicians. There are many theories about magic—its use, its origin—and therefore many theories about the counters that can be put into play.
“The barrier was one such theory. I suggested it to Ybelline at an earlier stage in her education. She considered it with the same care she considers many foreign things.” The implication was not lost on Kaylin.
“The barrier works, in the future?”
“Yes.”
“Wait.” Kaylin held up a hand, although Draalzyn didn’t seem to be in a hurry to interrupt her. “You—you don’t think it’s the elements that destroy the city?”
“We do not know,” he said, drumming the table at which he sat. “We do not speak with the elements. We speak into the Tha’alaan. The Tha’alaan is part of the elemental water—but it is a small part, at odds with the whole. It is inconceivable to us that the water itself would destroy the city—but I am told I, at least, suffer from insufficient imagination.” This last, he said in a very sour voice, with an expression to match.
“It is, in theory, possible that magic as our mages currently understand it has its underpinnings in the elemental forces. Frankly, this makes sense to me, if we accept that the world itself is derived from those forces.”
“There’s no way the elements go to town if...”
“If the Keeper is still in control of his Garden,” Ybelline finished for her.
“If he wasn’t, the fiefs wouldn’t be standing in the aftermath. The fiefs are part of our world, right? Whatever happens here—or to the rest of the city—doesn’t destroy the fiefs. They’re still standing.”
Kattea cleared her throat.
This caught Kaylin’s attention immediately.
“I was alive when the city across the bridge disappeared. I don’t remember any of it—I was too young.”
This caused a predictable fuss, but in keeping with the Tha’alani, it was a muted fuss, and it was resolved in relative silence. Kaylin wished she could be on the other side of that silence, but held her peace. All eyes in the room turned to Gilbert, and from there, found Kattea.
Forehead stalks bobbed, eyes shifted color, people rose.
Ybelline, who had not yet taken a seat, seemed to stand at the center of a silent storm. Kaylin wanted to be her umbrella, but knew she didn’t actually need one. “Gilbert,” Ybelline finally said.
Gilbert nodded, his eyes slightly narrow, as if he’d followed the entire silent discussion. He probably had, but didn’t yet know what to make of it.
“If it is acceptable to you, Scoros wishes to communicate more directly.”
Scoros rose as Gilbert nodded. He apparently had some questions of his own to ask. Gilbert was silent, however, and became as still as he had when Ybelline had made contact with him the first time.
Because Scoros was prepared, he didn’t collapse the way Ybelline had, but he stiffened until he appeared to be almost as rigid as Gilbert, and when he withdrew, he was visibly shaken. He didn’t turn to Ybelline; instead he turned to Kattea, who had surrendered Gilbert’s arm. She made no attempt to take it back—she couldn’t. She’d taken an involuntary step—or three—away from Scoros.
Scoros immediately raised both of his hands, palms out, and stopped moving. “I do not intend you harm,” he said quietly, “and I will not touch you at all without your explicit permission or a direct command from the Emperor.”
“They don’t particularly want to read our thoughts or know our secrets,” Kaylin told the younger girl. “They find our fear suffocating and our lives difficult. If it weren’t for the Emperor’s commands, they wouldn’t interact with us at all—not the way they interact with each other, anyway.”
Kattea said nothing.
Scoros stepped back, found himself a chair and sat heavily. He looked at Kattea. “Please. Tell us what you remember. Or tell us what you were told.”