Cast in Ruin. Michelle Sagara
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end, desired by those who have been changed. Our history is…incomplete.”
“But I came to you, at your awakening.”
“Yes.” Tara still spoke in a voice better suited to the height of cold stone fortification than the gardening clothes she wore.
“And I came through the storm.”
“No.”
“But Tiamaris called it—”
“He was incorrect.”
“Does he know he was wrong?”
“Yes. The borders and their defense are the reason I was…born. They are not, however, the sole reason I was reborn. I want this life,” she added, and as she did, her voice softened, and her eyes lost the hard flint of steel. She now looked exhausted. “We’ve discussed this at length. My Lord felt that the storm—that what he had identified as storm—had not only proved fortuitous, but, in some fashion, benevolent.”
This stretched Kaylin’s strict definition of benevolent, although she couldn’t argue with the eventual outcome.
“He thus argued that the storms themselves ultimately had some greater purpose, and that some faith or trust might be placed in them. He is willing to risk much,” she added, voice soft, expression pensive. Then she shook herself, reminding Kaylin very much of one of the women who worked three days a week in the office as she did—which wasn’t generally something she thought of when she thought of ancient, god-touched edifices.
“You know it wasn’t a storm.”
“Yes.”
“But in shape—”
“And in look, yes. There were reasons that my Lord made his assumption, Kaylin. This,” she said, pointing to the now empty and still air in front of her, “was a storm. Can you see the difference?”
The urge to be humorous came and went. “Yes,” Kaylin replied. She did so slowly enough that Tara raised a single impatient brow. “The first storm we encountered had no voice.”
“Voice?”
“You couldn’t hear this one? It was screaming, Tara.”
“I told you, Chosen; I do not perceive Shadow the way you perceive it.” Her eyes closed for a few seconds. “Nor does my Lord.”
Morse joined Tara. The former fieflord’s lieutenant had taken one new gash across her forearm, which had destroyed padding but had managed to break very little skin.
“So,” Kaylin asked her, “this happen often?”
“Every other day.”
Tara frowned. “Morse, it doesn’t happen every other—”
“Figure of speech,” Morse broke in quickly. Kaylin stifled even the hint of a smile. “Believe it or not, it’s better than it was before the fieflord.”
“The—oh, you mean Tiamaris.”
“I don’t mean Barren.” Morse spit.
Tara watched her covertly, as if fascinated by the gesture, and then turned back to Kaylin.
“I understood what Morse meant,” Kaylin said quickly. “These border attacks happen frequently.” She glanced at the People.
Tara frowned. “Illien is still within my Tower, as my Lord’s guest. I remember Illien, and I remember the feel of the borders of his domain before…I could no longer sense them. You can cross the border,” she added. “And at the moment, it is safe; the storm has driven the Shadows from them, and they will return slowly, if at all today. I do not think you will notice the difference, if you travel farther up the road; the road here has been destroyed by the storm, and it will be a while before it once again looks like the other half of a street, at least to mortal vision.”
“It’ll—it’ll go back to what it once was?”
“Yes.”
“The fief’s streets didn’t. And the buildings that were half consumed or transformed by Shadows—those didn’t, either.”
“No. That is one of the differences between the Shadowlands and your own. Your lands—my Lord’s lands—are solid; they exist.
“The Shadowlands are more malleable; they do not take scars in the same way. Where Shadows are strong, the landscape on that side of the border will respond to the weight of its call, the force of its power. The buildings will shift and change, growing or sinking or fading; the streets will become molten pools or gaping pits. But when the Shadow passes, so does the changes it made. “Were I to likewise make such drastic changes in the geography of my fief, when the battle was over, what would remain would be those destroyed buildings, the molten rock, and the fissures.”
“Can I ask how you know this?”
Tara raised a brow. “The knowledge was built into me,” she finally replied. “And when I close my eyes, I can see the dim and faded image of ancient battles; I can hear their attenuated battle cries.” She smiled then, and it was an almost bitter smile. “I am not what you are, Kaylin. Why do you need to know?”
Kaylin shook her head. “I want to know—which is different from need—because it’s always a good idea to have as much knowledge of your enemy as possible. It’d be better if any of it made any sense.” Saying this, she lifted the sword that was still, against all odds, in her hands. “Take this, for instance. I would swear it was a greatsword meant for a giant when I first laid eyes on it.”
Tara said nothing.
“…please don’t tell me you recognize this weapon.”
“I do not recognize the weapon,” was the Tower’s reply. It was evasive, and honestly? While Tara had learned many things about interacting with people, she wasn’t actually good at some of them. Which, given she could take you apart and find her way—with ease—to the darkest and most painful of your memories, said something. Kaylin, at this moment, wasn’t sure what.
“What do the runes on the blade say?”
“Runes?” The Tower frowned. Glancing at Tiamaris, who was now waiting, wings folded, in the still streets, she said, “My Lord, I believe the danger has passed for the moment. May we retire?”
His eyes shifted color. “You are injured?”
“No! No. But the storms are tiring.”
“I will remain. Morse!”
Morse nodded. It wouldn’t pass muster as respectful anywhere but the fiefs, but since that’s where they were standing, it worked. “You want me to keep watch on the construction?”
“The People are here. Escort the Lady home.”
Tara pointed at Maggaron, and Tiamaris’s brows constricted; they were silent for a long moment, but at length, he nodded.
The Lady’s escort was not confined to Morse; Kaylin and Severn traveled with her, at her request, Maggaron walking to their left in subdued silence. Subdued or no, he still wore armor, and he was still eight feet–plus in height; he cleared streets just by existing.
Lord Sanabalis, however, remained—in human form—at the side of his former student. His gaze flickered rapidly over the sword in Kaylin’s hands, but he chose not to say a word. Loudly, and with an expression that implied that all the words he held in abeyance would be put to better use later.
The border streets grew smaller as they walked, and the streets themselves were, not surprisingly, empty of anyone that wasn’t about eight feet tall. Even the children of the new arrivals remained out of sight. Morse, in the absence of Tiamaris, relaxed. She didn’t so much walk as move while slouching.
“So. This happens a lot?” Kaylin asked, picking up the strands of their previous conversation, if it could be called