The Chronicles of Elantra 6 - Cast in Chaos (36 page)

“This seems to be your only concern at the moment,” he said, with faint disapproval. If faint was a loud and thunderous expression.

“Did you ever teach?” she asked.

“Ask Grethan.”

“Never mind. It’s not my only concern. But it
is
my concern.”

“If, indeed, it’s your largest concern, I suggest you apply some of the pragmatism of which you are theoretically so fond to the difficulty.”

When she didn’t immediately leap up and look enlightened, he added, “What are you going to do with thousands of people who have only the clothing they’re wearing when they appear in the middle of
these
streets? Do they speak the language?”

She shook her head. “Our meeting at the Palace this morning was supposed to address that issue.”

“See that it
is
addressed. The Dragon Court is, at heart, a practical body, and the Dragon Emperor, in spite of all publicity to the contrary, does not expect the universe to conform to his whims. He will entertain contingencies in the possible case of failure.”

“He’ll be worried about the larger problem.”

“The Devourer?”

She nodded.

“Yes. But in the event that the Devourer doesn’t immediately end the world—”

She frowned. “What did you say?”

“I believe you heard me.”

The frown deepened. “Severn?”

He nodded.

“The travelers—Enkerrikas and his people—they
had
time. They knew what was coming. They didn’t believe it would be their deaths. Well, some didn’t. They had time to prepare.”

“Yes.”

“What did they do? Why are there no Records of the worlds that fell? Why did they send so little warning? Enkerrikas recorded
everything.
”

“He recorded what he saw and he carried it
with him,
” Severn reminded her.

“But…they implied they could speak with other worlds, or people on other worlds.” She was frustrated now, and she rose. The grasslands stretched out forever. Turning, she said, “Ask the water if we can talk to it?”

“The water is
not
a mirror, Private.”

“No. But…it remembers. I’m sure it remembers.”

“You said you were short on time.”

“How far away is the water?”

“Across the plain. It’s not more than two days by foot.” He waited.

She wilted, but only slightly. “You said you could make the Garden conform to its usual state—”

“With effort, which I
also
said was not the wisest use of power at the present time.” Evanton folded arms across his chest.

“Ask, please?”

He grimaced and let his arms fall to the side. “I’m only willing to try,” he told her, “because you attempted to use manners in an appropriate way, and rewarding such attempts is in my future interest. You may wish to wait outside.”

“Is that your way of telling us to wait outside?”

“No. I leave it up to you.”

“We’ll stay.”

“Corporal?”

“The last time she wandered around in your store on her own, I was threatened with demotion,” Severn replied. “I’ll take my chances here.”

Evanton did not immediately begin; instead, he told them—curtly—to follow. There was either a beaten track through the dry, sharp—and mostly flattened—stalks of grass, or one created itself for the Keeper’s convenience. He led them to what appeared to be a large, flat circle in the ground; as they approached, Kaylin saw that it was made of stone. It wasn’t carved, and it wasn’t runed—she thought it was green because of moss.

“Stand on it,” he told her. “And you as well, Corporal. It will remain where it is. The rest of the landscape will…compress. It is not in theory fatal, but it is entirely uncomfortable. While I can’t think of any reason this should apply, I’ll warn you anyway. Touch nothing.”

“Nothing. Got it.” Kaylin sat on her hands. The rock was actually cool to the touch. Severn sat beside her. Evanton cleared his throat and they both moved to make room for him. Standing, he lifted his arms and began to speak. Kaylin didn’t understand a word he was saying.

But without understanding any of it, the language still sounded familiar. Frustrated, she frowned and closed her eyes, to better concentrate. Severn broke that concentration in the easiest way he knew how: he touched her shoulder, and she startled.

“I don’t understand the language, either,” he said quietly. “And you won’t, no matter how hard you try.”

She would have argued, but there was no sting and no judgment in the statement. Severn never judged her; he never had. Judgment, where it had happened in their lives, generally came from Kaylin. She glanced at Evanton, and her frown deepened, just before her eyes widened.

He was speaking the names of fire, water, earth, and air. Not as names, but as language, as story, as something that, at the end—and only then—would finally have a finished shape, a solid truth. Evanton was speaking in the language of the Ancients.

She’d heard Sanabalis do it once, had heard the Arkon do the same. Each time they spoke, she had seen some representation of what they said form in the air around them, as if they’d invoked the spirit of the word itself.

This time? She saw the elements instead. They weren’t dots and strokes and lines; they didn’t look like carvings or glowing sigils. They converged, and the whole of what they were, flame or gale or flood or the thunderous movement of ground, surrounded the very small and very insignificant stone on which they were now seated.

She heard their voices overlapping each other, like the cry of a crowd—or worse—a mob; she heard their desire to be, and to be entirely, what they were. For a moment it was a visceral, necessary thing, a primal
need
. It was wordless, yes—but wordless was not the same as voiceless.

Without thought, Kaylin began to speak, as well. If Evanton heard her, he gave or made no sign, and he didn’t pause in his own long, precise speech. Hers was imprecise, and she couldn’t later recall the words she spoke because she wasn’t deliberately choosing any. She couldn’t remember most of the things she said to newborn infants, either, because the infants were completely innocent, and nothing she said had meaning beyond the comfort of sound and presence.

She wasn’t an idiot; she didn’t treat the elements like newborn children. But she’d spoken to them once before, when the Garden had almost been destroyed by a very ambitious Arcanist. She spoke not of what they were in their elemental state, nor of what they’d been when they’d first been born—if elements could be said to
be
born at all. She didn’t know those things any more than she understood mountains or oceans or the empty stretch of plains that knew no streets, no buildings, and no people.

Instead, she spoke of what they meant to
her
. Fire in the cold of winter in the fiefs, and in the hearth of the Foundling Halls when evening had finally descended and stories—when Marrin allowed them—could be told. Water in the fountains and in the wells, and water as a track of tears that expressed both joy and sorrow when words just weren’t enough. Earth that was plowed and earth into which seedlings were planted—in boxes and small plots and the distant fields of farmers. But the air? She breathed it. It was always, always present, always necessary. It could move freely through open windows and closed doors, and it carried the Aerians—and the Dragons—when they took to the skies.

In all of this, there was beauty, but especially in the flight of those who
could
meet the sky on their own terms. She didn’t deny it, didn’t resent it: it was what it was. So, too, the elements. She didn’t and couldn’t describe all of what they were; only what they were, at the moment, to Kaylin. But she wanted, and needed, to tell them what they were to her.

Around her, as she continued, the elements began to subside. She could hear their whispers, their shouts, their endless anger and their endless desire—but she could hear, as well, the way they responded to her own beliefs, her own ways of interacting with—and depending on—their very existence for her own life.

In their clamor and anger and constant, restless motion, they asked for something. She couldn’t find the words for it, but as they spoke, she felt it clearly: a yearning. A sorrow.

Elemental sorrow?

Yes
, the water replied. For a moment—for just a moment—she heard the word as clearly as if it had been spoken by a young girl, and she saw the face of the water as she had seen it the first time.
We were one thing, Kaylin. Once, we were one thing. The others cannot speak as I can now speak. They are not the voice and memory of a people. I am changed by that choice, made so long ago. It is part of me.

But even were we four to be one again, we would never be whole.

“Because you’ve changed so much? Because
we’ve
changed you?”

No, Kaylin Neya. We were one, and then we were many. But in the act of separation, one was lost.

“But there are only four elements.”

Yes. There are only four.

“Then what was lost?”

The silence, Kaylin. The emptiness. The peace. The ending. There is only conflict now, between us. We cannot do other than struggle to spread. The Keeper contains and lulls us as he can, and we see and touch and hear the voices of the world. Of the worlds. This is…difficult, for me. To converse here, like this.

But, Kaylin, we can hear it, too. What you heard, what you hear
. We know
it.

“Can it—can it hear you?”

It can hear us. It has always heard our voices, and the echo of our voices. But it does not see or feel as you see or feel, and like fire—or water, or earth, or air—it is capable of great destruction.

When Kaylin opened her eyes—she couldn’t remember closing them—she saw that around the single flat stone on which she was now standing, the Garden was the Garden she had first seen: larger than a room, yes, but placed in such a way that all shrines could be reached by a swift stroll. The shrines themselves, their odd candelabras and old stone shelves, were once again nearest the symbolic representation of their respective element, and in particular, she could see the small, deep pond that was water, here.

Evanton was staring at her; his brows had drawn together across the top end of his face so they were one long line. But if he wanted to say something scathing, he kept it to himself. “Your Garden,” he said.

She hopped off the rock, started to walk toward the pool, and then hesitated. “Evanton?”

He moved more slowly, and he looked tired. But he nodded.

“How can the elements have always existed?”

“Private, this is
not the time
for a philosophical discussion.”

Kaylin never had time for a philosophical discussion. “I’m serious,” she said. “I’m having trouble understanding.”

He didn’t look surprised. Nor did he look encouraging. She moved on.

“How can this Garden exist in only one place if there are whole other worlds? I mean, those worlds would need the elements, as well.”

“This may come as a surprise to you,” he replied, in a tone that indicated that it wouldn’t, “but I’ve never visited other worlds. I have no idea how the elements function across them, if they indeed do. The Barrani and the Dragons were created from stone, if the old stories are true, but not all stone lives and walks and causes endless trouble.”

She frowned as she walked, and she walked more slowly. Teela would have told her she couldn’t even think and walk at the same time. It was probably true. She could, however,
worry
and do anything concurrently. Evanton stopped just as they reached the moss bed, which was possibly the most comfortable place in the world to actually sit. He then occupied it, as if it were a small throne.

“Why is it important?” he asked quietly. The sarcasm and the ill temper that had characterized the morning had drained out of his voice.

“I don’t know.”

“You did good work there, by the way. It wasn’t nearly as difficult to bring the elements back to the garden state.”

“Did it always look like this?”

He laughed. “No. It did when I first became Keeper, but Keepers have their own peculiarities, and as we’re asking the elements to conform to our dictates, the Garden will change depending on the Keeper. Why does this trouble you?”

“Every world is going to need the things we need. We need the elements, I get that. But doesn’t that imply that the worlds are connected somehow? Doesn’t that imply that whatever you’re responsible for here reaches everything?”

“It may. I’ve seldom thought about other worlds. Why is this important now?”

“It’s the Devourer,” Kaylin said quietly.

He frowned. “Yes?”

“I don’t understand
what
it is, but…” She sat down beside him, the depth of the pool close enough she could watch light play—and fall—from its surface while she dredged up the words with which to express her growing suspicion. “I think…it belongs in the Garden.”

CHAPTER 20

After a long pause, Evanton said—to Severn, “Corporal, has the Private been
entirely
sleep deprived for the last few days?”

“Not more than usual,” Severn replied, his voice drier than the grass had been.

“I understand that the marks of the Chosen seldom infest mortals. I begin to see
why.
Clearly, they’ve unbalanced your mind.”

Since she’d more or less expected this—or worse—she waited. Evanton didn’t disappoint.

“You weren’t, the last time I checked—which would, incidentally, be
now
—a god, what passes for a god, or an Ancient. Even if I were to allow the possibility that you are substantially correct—which I will do for the sake of this discussion—it wouldn’t matter. Unless you have some knowledge about
building
the Garden, there’s no way to bring the Devourer
into it.
”

Kaylin rose from the moss bed.

“The Elemental Garden isn’t aptly named. But Garden is nicer than Prison, and Keeper is better than Jailor. The elements are
contained
here, Kaylin. Were it up to their base nature, they would not
be
contained, and they would consume whatever lay in their path in their attempt to establish their own supremacy.”