The snakes began to separate, and Kaylin watched as they hardened and shed parts of themselves. She looked up to Gilbert’s face; his eyes were once again obsidian. They did not reflect the glowing light she could clearly see taking shape in the palms of his hands.
The Arkon’s expression stiffened as the runes took form. They were not, to Kaylin’s eye, true words, not the way the marks on over half her skin were—but they seemed similar. She frowned and approached Gilbert. She saw magic’s aftereffects as sigils—usually blue, and usually much larger than these. But she had seen such sigils as dark shadows, dark smoke, before.
These were similar, in the end, to those, although they were much more solid.
“Arkon?”
“They are not,” he said, “a language I recognize.”
“Not true words, then?”
“No.” He replied without obvious disgust, which was unusual. “Do they look like your marks, to you?”
She shook her head. “They look—this is going to sound strange—”
The Arkon coughed.
“Sorry. They’re brighter and more consistent, but—they remind me of the sigils left behind in the Leontine quarter.”
“When?”
“When Marcus was accused of murder.” It felt as if it had been years ago. It hadn’t; objectively, it had been months. Maybe a year. “Someone tried to kill us—Severn and I—and a black, smoky sigil rose in the wake of the spell.”
The Arkon’s expression shifted, and not in an entirely natural way. “Does this aperture widen?” he asked the Hawklord.
“It is in its widest configuration at the moment.”
Exhaled smoke was most of the Arkon’s answer. “We will need to exit by the stairs. There is only barely enough space here to land—and I am not young, anymore.”
Which was entirely irrelevant to immortals, as far as Kaylin knew. She kept this to herself. “I’m not saying it’s the same.”
“No—it wouldn’t be. But it implies two things, neither of which is in any way positive.”
“And those are?”
He stared at Ybelline, but answered. “Sigils are representative of the caster’s magical power. It is why they are unique.”
She knew that, and tried not to resent his explanation of the obvious. Maybe someone in the Tower didn’t. Like, say, Gilbert. Or Kattea, who couldn’t listen at the moment.
“You will perhaps note—or perhaps not, given your training and education—that the same sigil has different styles of presentation, depending on the school of magic utilized.”
This was less obvious, to Kaylin. In general, she didn’t notice the style of, say, everyday handwriting—only the legibility.
“You feel that these runes are similar to the sigils you found in the Leontine quarter. Sanabalis has seen those sigils—he does not interpret them the way you do, of course, but that is a matter for later. The sigil, at the time, you described as black smoke.”
Kaylin nodded.
“What is the similarity, then?”
Kaylin wasn’t quite certain. The problem with the Arkon’s questions was that he expected good answers, and he was short on patience. Fair enough. They were short on time.
“While you are gathering your thoughts, we will descend.”
“Private Neya,” the Hawklord said, as the Arkon headed toward the Tower doors. “The Arkon is the voice of the Emperor for the duration of this crisis. You will obey his commands as if the Emperor—or the Lord of Hawks—had personally issued them. Before you leave the building, visit the quartermaster.”
The situation was dire enough that Kaylin didn’t even think to flinch.
“Take flares. Also,” he added, “take a portable mirror.”
“We can’t use mirrors—”
“At the moment, there are no connections to the mirror network, and it is just possible that it is the network that needs...adjustment.”
“Gilbert, do you think it’s safe to have one on hand?” Gilbert looked up. He didn’t answer; Kaylin wasn’t certain he could hear her.
“Gilbert!” Kattea said, in mild disgust. Kaylin saw that Ybelline had released the girl. The girl, however, had not released Ybelline; she was holding on, tightly, to the Tha’alani’s hand. “He gets like this,” Kattea told the castelord. She let go of the hand she’d gripped so tightly with obvious reluctance, and walked across the room to where Gilbert, a pile of golden, glowing words in his hands, stood.
Reaching out, she caught his wrists in both of her hands. “Gilbert. Gilbert.”
“Why is he called Gilbert?” the Arkon asked her.
Kattea said, “He needed a name.”
“And he chose that one?”
“No, I chose that one. Is something wrong with it? Gilbert.” She sighed. She followed that sigh with a single word that was nothing like a name. It was nothing, in the end, like any of the other words Kattea was prone to speak. The air crackled around its syllables. Even the Arkon looked surprised.
Gilbert, however, blinked rapidly. The words in his hands dissolved; he shook them as if they were liquid, and his hands, wet. “Ah, Kattea. Have you finished your discussion with Ybelline?”
“Yes—because no one else could get your attention.”
“I am sorry. I was attempting to read the words.”