The Chronicles of Elantra 6 - Cast in Chaos (58 page)

“I’m not sure it’s all bad—but…” She hesitated. “I think they fled their world when it had all but been consumed by Shadows. It wasn’t the Devourer they were fleeing.”

“You think.”

She nodded, ignoring the gibe in the words. “They’re worried that the three of you are, in fact, possessed by Shadows. It’s the shape-shifting. I don’t think they had Dragons back home.”

Emmerian snorted, and a tuft of smoke blew past Kaylin’s hair.

“The drums,” she said, “are part of some ceremony that’s meant to ascertain whether or not you’re…infested? Contaminated?”

Tiamaris turned to his companions, which by this point included the human forms of Sanabalis and the Arkon.

The Arkon was gazing across the gap between Tiamaris and the strangers. “Shadows?” he finally said.

Kaylin nodded. “It makes sense, at least to me.”

“How so?”

“Ravellon,” she said quietly. “And your overlapping worlds theory. If the Shadows live at the heart of the fiefs—at the heart of the city—they live in a place where there was, in theory, overlapping spaces between the worlds. It’s not a stretch to assume that they could have traveled.”

The Arkon raised a brow—and he had one, at the moment. But he nodded. “Allow it,” he said.

Lord Sanabalis added, “I concur.”

The strangers were wary of the Dragons, but only tension betrayed fear. They set up the drums, and the two older men that had first appeared near Mejrah now joined her, coming from behind the lines and taking their place at her side.

Kaylin wasn’t certain what to expect; she thought there might be singing or chanting or gesturing of some sort. There wasn’t. There was drumming, but it wasn’t done by any of the three; it was done, in the end, by the warriors, and it was the first time since they’d arrived that they set aside their intimidating weapons. They planted feet almost astride the drums, the whole of their focus on the skins themselves.

When they struck the drums, they struck with enough force it looked as if the stretched skins should break, but their movements weren’t wild; they were concise, economical, and even. The lines of their shoulders stayed steady and straight as their palms picked up the pace. In concert, the drums—six in all—were louder than Dragon’s roar. The din made of hands and skin hit Kaylin and passed through her, replacing the sound of her heart and the rhythm of her breath.

The whole city must hear this man-made thunder, she thought, but hear was almost the wrong word; it was
felt
. Only when it was at its loudest did Mejrah speak—and she, too, spoke in concert, but with the two men at her side. They didn’t speak the same words; they didn’t speak in the same rhythm. But together, as if their voices were song, the syllables they made converged until it was clear that they spoke a single, complicated word.

She recognized it as an ancient word because it formed in the air above the drummers. Kaylin watched it rise as if it were a flag on an invisible pole: a statement, a gesture that said: we are
here.

She wanted to see the Arkon’s expression but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the rising glyph; it crested buildings until it was higher—by far—than even the peaks of the towers of the Halls of Law. It seemed to catch sunlight, and azure, and blend them until it was almost too bright to look at.

And from across the city, in a distant place, something saw what she saw. A roar of fury crested the sound of drums.

The roar broke the spell that held her gaze fixed to the skies, and she shook herself, her hands dropping instinctively to daggers which weren’t, at the moment, useful. The drummers didn’t stop, but they turned, in unison, to look toward that furious roar, and as they did, Kaylin knew where it had come from: the fiefs. The heart of the fiefs.

Mejrah bowed her head; she had fallen silent at the end of the harmony of a single spoken word. The two men to either side looked at her, and then, as the drummers, toward the fiefs.

All of this would have been dramatic enough, but that wasn’t the end of it. Kaylin turned to glance at the Dragon Court, and froze. Sanabalis and the Arkon had both adopted—instantly—their ancient, Draconion forms, and the five Dragons looked toward the fiefs, as well.

Only one of them pushed off from the ground, which, given his wingspan, could have been disastrous in other circumstances. The Dragons spoke briefly, but he shed their words—in their native tongue—the way he shed gravity. He rose. It was, of course, Tiamaris, and he was flying in Imperial skies.

But any caution had been driven from him by the sound—the continuing sound—of the distant roar. He lifted his neck as he flew, and he trumpeted his own response; Kaylin was surprised it didn’t shatter the damn windows in Elani, it was so loud. And it was defiant; it encompassed words that she didn’t even need to understand, his tone was so strong.

After a few seconds’ hesitation, the other Dragons joined him, shedding gravity and gaining the thermals of height above the city streets. Her jaw dropped as sun glinted off their scales and their wings unfolded completely; they were, for an instant, as dangerous and incomprehensible as gods.

And as beautiful, to Kaylin, as the ideal of flight, the dream of it. They roared as the drums continued to beat, and they circled the word that hovered in the air as if they were part of it.

She startled as she felt a hand on her shoulder; it was Severn. She looked at him, blinking; he was short and mortal and so ordinary he seemed, for a minute, part of a different world. And he was, but it was also
her
world. She shook her head as if to clear it.

“Look,” he said, although she caught the word by the movement of his lips, because it was spoken softly enough it had no hope of carrying.

She turned toward the strangers. Beyond the drummers, the line that had prevented anyone from easily reaching the refugees had loosened, and some of the newcomers, with much smaller—but just as visible—weapons now moved in the open street. They moved without caution and without awareness, and some of their jaws had dropped enough that their mouths were silent O’s. Some lifted children to shoulders; some cradled them in their arms; some supported elderly. They all looked up in wonder and awe at the sight of the Dragons.

Mejrah’s head snapped up, but she didn’t shout at them, didn’t warn them away, and even at this distance, Kaylin could see that the woman’s eyes were filmed with tears. She’d’ve bet a month’s pay against them falling, and she’d’ve won, too, but she suspected that Severn wasn’t stupid enough to take that bet.

But Mejrah wasn’t silent, and her expression didn’t make clear whether they were almost tears of relief or grief. Instead, she spoke. Her voice was pitched to carry—it had to be; she had to overcome the beat of those drums and the roar of flying Dragons. No doubt the
rest
of the City was now also aware that Dragons circled above, and no doubt it was already causing panic; the Swords would have their work cut out today.

But now? They bore witness, as mute as Kaylin.

Mejrah’s words demanded a response, and she received it instantly. Every armed man or woman who was not pounding the drums lifted their weapons almost above their heads, and they shouted their reply. Individually, their voices were no match for Dragons or even drums—but together, their reply was just as deafening, just as determined. Hungry, tired, and homeless, they had found strength enough to respond to whatever it was she asked them.

Mejrah nodded. She lifted one stiff palm, held it above her head for a minute, and then dropped it as if it were a blade. The drums stopped. The drummers, slick with sweat and effort, drew back, reaching almost blindly for the weapons they’d set aside. Weapons first, Kaylin thought. Everything else after. Then again, her hands were still on her daggers; she just wanted for more impressive weapons.

Mejrah then walked toward Kaylin. Toward Ybelline, who stood in silence, waiting. The old woman didn’t keep her distance, and this seemed a signal of sorts. She spoke, slowly, to Ybelline. Ybelline had a way of being both grave and welcoming which she used here. She listened.

“She says that they will abide by the rules of these lands. They are not at home here, but they are ready—and willing—to earn their place. She says that the Dragons are not, as they feared, creatures of Shadow. They are so old they have never been seen or heard by any of her people—but that a greater Shadow exists and it has been exposed.

“They know of these things. They have seen them. They will fight beside any who fight their ancient enemy. They will, if they are allowed, prove their worthiness. They will not surrender another…home, I think.”

Kaylin nodded. “But you’re going to have to repeat it,” she added, “when they finally land.”

They finally landed, in Kaylin’s words, less than an hour later. She watched as the Swords and the strangers cleared the streets; it was still a tight fit. The Arkon was silver; Sanabalis was full red. The other three hadn’t changed color in flight. But four of the five Dragons retreated into their human form almost the instant their feet touched solid ground, as if the reminder of the lack of flight was more easily born when they had no wings.

The fifth Dragon was Tiamaris; he remained Dragon.

Kaylin hurried to Sanabalis’s side to deliver Mejrah’s message.

“It is not to me that you must deliver that message,” her erst-while teacher said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“We discussed much while in the air. I do not know if you heard the Emperor’s voice. You almost saw him. He was very close to flight.”

“This would have been bad?”

“Yes. While…the Outcaste spoke, yes.” He glanced at the refugees, and then at the sky; the word had faded into the normal azure of its height. “There are many of these strangers, too many to house. We could acquisition fields outside of the City, but those fields are actually productive, and the feeding of the strangers almost necessitates their continued use.

“But Tiamaris,” he added, forgetting the formality of the Court title, “suggested a solution.”

She waited.

“You are aware that his fief was devastated in the breach between the heart of the fiefs and what was formerly Barren?”

She nodded. She’d seen it up close.

“They lost buildings, and they lost many people. To my surprise, it is the latter that he considered the larger problem. He was not particularly impressed with the quality of the architecture in the fief itself.”

“He doesn’t—”

“Yes. He intends to absorb the refugees into the fief of Tiamaris, if the Emperor allows it.”

“Will he?”

“This is the only time and place in which it is a possibility. These people are not yet his. They have not yet sworn to abide by his laws and serve his will. He will not cede them if they do. It is therefore urgent that this decision be made now.”

“Because if they’re in Tiamaris—” It still felt strange to use that name as a fief name, but she was learning, “Tiamaris will be their Lord.”

“Yes.”

She thought about this for a few moments, and then said, “How can the Emperor allow that? They look like a small army—”

“Indeed. You have never met the Emperor, and for good reason. But he is not without wisdom, and not without mercy—in his fashion. Mercy is always more readily dispensed at a distance, when one is not being personally offended or defied,” he added. “But there are some things it is not possible for the Emperor to do, no matter how rational it might look to the merely mortal at the time.

“It is why, in the end, he is not here. He has accepted that the refugees pose no threat to his hoard—for the moment. Regardless, he will not be able to stand aside for Tiamaris, or to allow Tiamaris to make his claim, if he is present.

“You may, however, join Tiamaris. Ybelline Rabon’alani is needed there.”

Tiamaris faced Mejrah as if she were the only person present. Given that she was surrounded by men and women who bristled with edged weapons, this was impressive. Nor did she flinch or step back as he approached, his wings once again folded over his back.

Ybelline stepped to the side of Tiamaris’s massive, and momentarily closed, jaw. “I am not conversant in all of the language,” she told him. “My translations therefore convey general meaning, but any error you perceive in tone could just as easily be mine as theirs.”

“Understood.”

Before either could speak, however, Effaron joined them. He glanced hesitantly at Kaylin, who nodded and held out her hand. “Mejrah thought this might be easier,” he said. “With less misunderstanding.”

“Good thought. Is she as scary as she looks?”

“Yes. But loved, for all that. She has made her offer on behalf of our people. What say the Dragons?”

“This,” Kaylin said, nodding to the only member of the Court who didn’t look human, “is Lord Tiamaris. He occupies lands across the river—which isn’t that far away—and he rules them. He’s offered your people a home there.”

“And in return?”

She repeated the words to Tiamaris, who nodded. “A fair question. Tell him that my lands have been scarred by war—and it is a war with which they might be familiar. There is much rebuilding to do, and in the end, the work itself is likely to be dangerous. I will protect them if it is within my power to do so. I require them to extend that protection—in my name—to both their own people and the others who also serve me.

“They will abide by my laws,” he added.

She repeated the gist of his words, and added a few of her own to soften them. He then repeated them—no doubt with a few of
his
own mixed in—to Mejrah, while Ybelline once again listened.

Only when Mejrah came forward with the big knife did everyone still. But she matter-of-factly sliced open a hand that looked as if it had already been scarred by similar cuts, and she made a fist of that bleeding palm.

A shout went up behind her back as word filtered at the speed of bad gossip through the ranks of her people. There were tears in those shouts, and fear, and joy, and relief. There was also the clashing of steel, but it seemed to be celebratory in nature, although it instantly got the attention of the Swords.