It had taken hours, the last time. Gilbert could exist at any point, at any time—but Kaylin couldn’t, and she didn’t have hours. She frowned. She couldn’t see herself. She couldn’t see every iteration of herself that must exist. She was grateful to Gilbert then.
As she stood above the trace of sigil, the proof of a cast spell, she closed the eyes that did not lead to the beginning of the spell. She closed the eyes in which the Barrani—for he was that, or had started out that way—was nothing but a ghostly impression. She didn’t need to touch the eyes to do this—she knew how to close them, having done it once, before.
She’d done it once so that he could function properly at her speed, in her time, with Kattea. She hadn’t realized then what she was doing, and knowing it now changed very little except the fact of it: she could close the eyes. She could narrow the view.
She could find the moment in which the spell itself was taking shape and form. She didn’t need to understand the spell. She only needed to stop it. To unwind, rewind and find the right moment.
“Mandoran!”
He looked up, his eyes widening, and nodded. His leap took him across the room; his landing, less graceful, almost knocked Kaylin off her feet.
Annarion moved to intercept; of the two, he was the better fighter, and if he carried the brunt of the battle, he didn’t carry it alone. But he could see, blindingly clearly, what the others could only barely follow.
Kaylin understood how Bellusdeo had come to be injured. How Maggaron had almost lost his arm. How Sanabalis—ouch. She could see it all, as if each moment were captured in Records. And she could see the moment at which the three men in the circle lifted their heads, opened their mouths and spoke.
Their voices were louder than the Arkon’s; they were almost on a level with angry Bellusdeo and angry Emperor. The edges of sound trailed from one eye to another as she followed it back, and back again, and froze.
She was almost there now; almost at the moment of the spell’s culmination—and she suddenly realized it was not where she wanted to be. She wouldn’t survive it. She would be pulled from the here and now of Kaylin Neya into whatever plane awaited the Barrani Arcanist.
She didn’t even understand how the Barrani Arcanist remained trapped, if barely, in these ones.
Oh. Yes, she did. Gilbert.
She needed to shift her view to a different eye. She needed to stop the linear backward progression—and she was running out of eyes.
Yes. I am sorry, Kaylin. I borrow the power of the marks of the Chosen—but they are not infinite, as you are not infinite; I have tried to...isolate...the exact event in this location. This type of precision is not, was not, ever demanded of me. The Ancients wished to preserve the possibility of life—but the fact of life was of less concern.
She nodded. He wasn’t offering a guarantee—but life didn’t. It offered chances.
She hesitated; Mandoran turned his back toward her, bending slightly into his knees. Waiting and watching. “Can you see it?” she asked him. Her voice sounded wobbly and stretched.
“Yes.” His didn’t.
“But you can’t reach him?”
“No. Not yet.”
She didn’t ask how he could see the Arcanist without being able to interact with him—especially not when interact meant kill. She needed to close or at least narrow the remainder of Gilbert’s open eyes, because it was becoming harder and harder to focus. Harder to find the moment in time—because there didn’t seem to be one.
Gilbert—
“Kaylin!”
She stumbled.
“Kaylin.” Mandoran’s voice was beside her ear; one of his arms was under her arm, shoring her up.
“How long? How long ago was it?”
Mandoran’s answer made no sense. Literally. It did not resolve into syllables. She wanted to cry; she felt as if she was fumbling the only chance she was going to get, and the cost of that fumble, the cost of it—
No. No. Think, damn it. Focus.
She tried. She moved viewpoint, moved vantage; she looked through every eye that remained. The Arcanist would not resolve. The center of the triangle, which contained the very real nucleus of a magic that made her entire body scream in pain, would not solidify in any of Gilbert’s remaining open eyes.
Breathe, Kaylin.
Severn.
Breathe. Gilbert couldn’t see what caused the break. He can’t see it now—it exists outside his sphere of influence.
She knew this. She didn’t resent hearing it. Severn’s voice was calm, but not distant. She felt his concern, his worry—but there was no fear in it. Not like her fear.
You can feel the magic. You can feel it strongly enough. You’re almost there. And he believed that she would get there; there was no doubt in his voice. She stood on that belief, because she had none of her own, and it helped. It gave her space to think. Again.
The voices of the three men were becoming stronger. Stuttering between them, other voices joined in. Kaylin pulled herself up and away from Mandoran, which took a great deal of effort. She turned—and this took effort, as well. It was almost as if she was becoming fixed or frozen; as if time was hardening around her and anchoring her in place.