Gilbert did not deny Kattea’s simple statement. Kaylin wondered if he understood what it meant.
But she thought of Tara, and her long search for—in the end—Tiamaris. She thought of Helen, and her patient wait for a tenant who would value her and—yes—love her for everything that she could, and wanted to, give. She thought of the Hallionne Kariastos singing a lullaby in the quiet of a West March night. She thought of the Hallionne Bertolle, whose brothers she had woken from their figurative graves, and his gratitude for it.
And she thought, in particular, of Hallionne Oberon’s Avatar, cradled weeping in the arms of the Lord of the West March.
Not by any stretch of the imagination were these buildings—and they were buildings—mortal or normal. And yet, they all understood loneliness.
She wondered if being lonely was part of the base state of existence. Hadn’t the Devourer been lonely, in the end? Was it really so hard to believe that Gilbert was lonely?
No. No, it wasn’t.
Was it impossible to believe that Gilbert could want—could make—friends? That he could come to feel friendship with Nightshade strongly enough that he felt moved to help him?
Kaylin exhaled. No.
Nightshade was still in his Castle. He had been pushed ahead to this time, weeks after the first disruption. Kaylin was pretty damn certain that what was happening on the Winding Path was the disaster that caused his Castle to throw him into the heart of Ravellon.
But if they prevented the disaster that caused the Castle to send Nightshade into the heart of Ravellon, Gilbert would not meet him.
Yes, she thought. Yes, Kattea. You’re right.
But there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
*
By the time Gilbert came to a halt, the underground was bloody cold. It was also...wet. Water lapped around the edges of their boots and continued for as far as the eye could see. Gilbert’s many eyes provided illumination that was simultaneously disturbing and welcome.
The water had carried Gilbert through the halls before.
“Yes,” Gilbert said, although she hadn’t spoken. “We are close. Be cautious here; the water is not consistently deep. There are unexpected—what do you call them? Wells?—beneath the surface. They are not wide, but they are also not,” he added, “easily navigated. Mandoran, please watch your step.”
“We can see them,” Mandoran replied. He was nervous.
Kaylin was nervous as well, possibly for the same reason. She wasn’t particularly surprised when the water grew choppy, and six inches began to swell into something closer to midthigh. “I want a boat,” she said to Kattea, who had continued her struggle to stay wakeful.
“If we—if we fix things, if we save the city, can I meet my parents?” she asked. She asked in the same tone she might have used to ask if she could have wings. Kaylin knew. She’d asked both questions, in her distant childhood—even when she knew the answer was, and would always be, no.
“Yes. You can meet your parents. Or at least your father.”
She nodded into the crook of Gabriel’s neck. “I don’t want to sleep,” she murmured. “You’ll just leave me behind.”
“He will not recognize you,” Gilbert said gently. “He will not know you.”
“I...I know that.”
“You cannot apologize to him.”
“I know. I know that.”
Gilbert’s eyes—about half of them—turned to Kaylin. “I do not understand this.”
But Kaylin shook her head. “Yes, you do. You left the gardia, and home, to free Nightshade. He won’t remember you. He won’t be grateful. You will be no part of his life. He’s not the most trusting or friendly of men—he couldn’t be, and still be fieflord. Even if you wanted to make friends with him again, it wouldn’t happen. He was willing to be vastly more open with you than he is with anyone because he had nothing to lose.
“You know that you’ll lose that, but you came anyway. Kattea wants to see her father in the same way. Just—to see him. To know that he survives, and that he has a life, and that eventually he’ll have her. She wants to see her mother for the same reason. But...”
The Arkon caught her shoulder and gripped it tightly enough that she fell silent.
Kattea lifted her head. “Why are you stopping her?” she asked, in a bleary tone. “She’s not saying anything I don’t know. Gilbert’s Nightshade won’t exist, if we save people. And that means I won’t exist, either. The city won’t be lost. My parents won’t flee across the bridge. Their daughter will live in Elantra. She’ll grow up here. Maybe she’ll become a Sword. I don’t know.”
“Is that—”
“I was going to die anyway. I was going to die. Gilbert found me. Gilbert saved me. But in my future, in a future without Gilbert? I’m already dead. And it hurt.” She shook her head. “There’s no future for me, no matter what I do. I get that. But there’s a future for my mom. There’s a future for my dad.
“I wasn’t a great daughter.”