Cast in Silence. Michelle Sagara

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      He raised a brow. She closed her mouth.

      “In a different magical environment, the Aerians would, in theory, be incapable of sustaining their own weight in flight. They might have wings, but the wings would serve no function, except perhaps in a cultural way. There are sages who have made this study their life’s work. Perhaps you can find one of them to question.”

      Kaylin bit her lip. She did not dislike the Arkon in the way she disliked the pretentious and snobby nobles who occasionally crossed her path—but even so, she didn’t like being all but called a moron. Instead of concentrating on her injured dignity, she concentrated on his words. Her eyes widened.

      “You think that Ravellon is—”

      He raised a brow.

      “You think it exists in more than one world.”

      “Why do you say that?”

      “You didn’t think the first explanation was true, although it would make sense, you believe the second explanation. And the theoretical existence of other worlds ties into that explanation. You think that, near the heart of the fiefs, there is some other world that’s touching ours that wouldn’t support Aerian life.”

      He raised both brows. “Sanabalis,” he told her tutor, “she shows serious potential as a student. Why has this not been explored?”

      “For a human, she is much like Lord Tiamaris was in his youth.”

      This clearly meant more to the Arkon than it did to Kaylin; the Arkon actually grimaced. “Very well. They are both rather young.” He spoke as if youth was a failing. “Yes, Private Neya. That is what I believe.”

      “It is also,” Sanabalis finally said, “not relevant at the moment.”

      “Do you think the shadows come from somewhere else? I mean, some world that isn’t ours?”

      “No. The shadows, as you call them, are at the heart of our world. They are the scions of the Old Ones.”

      “But the Old Ones are gone—” She stopped. Glanced at her arms, the marks covered as they always were by layers of cloth.

      “It is possible that the magic that once sustained the Old Ones exists only in a very few places now. We do not understand what happened to them, and why they retreated—but no life as we know it would exist had they not.”

      “But they created—”

      “Yes?”

      “The Barrani. The Dragons. Even the Leontines.” Although admittedly that was less widely known. “They created everything.”

      “Not everything. But even if they did, it does not refute my argument. What the world is now, and what it would have been, is not the same. Do not look for a return of the Old Ones, for if they returned, it would not only be the forefathers of our races, but also the forefathers of the ferals, and the darker creatures which have no name.”

      She was silent for a full minute before she trusted herself to speak again. “Ravellon,” she began.

      He raised a brow, but nodded.

      “It was supposed to be the heart of a city. There was supposed to be a library there that was bigger on the inside than—” her eyes widened slightly “—the outside. You think—”

      “Yes?”

      “That the library did exist. And that it existed in a space between worlds somehow.”

      He said nothing.

      “It was supposed to contain all of the knowledge about anything that had ever, or would ever, exist.”

      “Yes. That was the legend.” He glanced out the window. “And for the sake of that legend, many have died.”

      She nodded. “Knowledge is power,” she said softly, quoting someone, although she couldn’t remember who. Probably an Arcanist.

      “Yes. But power is not entirely unaligned,” he replied. He rose. “And what once lay at the heart of Ravellon—and Ravellon is not a traditional fief name—may or may not now exist. What exists around it, however, in layers we cannot pierce magically or by mundane means, is shadow. We do not know if the shadows came searching for what we sought. We know only that they are now rooted there, and we cannot unseat them by any means we currently have in our possession.

      “You’ve seen ferals, no doubt.”

      She nodded.

      “You’ve seen, by all accounts, worse.”

      She nodded again, glancing at Sanabalis.

      “It is for that reason, Private Neya, that we are prepared to allow you to investigate. You have experience with what you might find along those borders—or within Barren as it now stands—and you have, better yet, survived. You do not seem, to my admittedly inexperienced eye, to be insane. Nor, if your last involvement with the Courts was an indication, have you developed a love of power, and the casual indifference that comes with it.

      “Therefore it is felt that you might approach—approach, mind—the borders.” He reached into his robes and pulled out a crystal. She grimaced. “You recognize this, no doubt. You are expected to carry it with you wherever you go in the fiefs. It will record what you see.”

      “But I—”

      “There is some magic involved, yes. I have heard that you have some sensitivity to magic, and it may cause you some discomfort. You will live with it. Come here.”

      She cringed, but rose and held out her palm.

      He placed the crystal firmly into that palm, and then caught her wrist. He spoke three words—three loud, thunderous, Dragon words—and all of her hair stood on end. She barely felt the stinging pain of the crystal’s edge against her palm, her ears hurt so much.

      By the time the ringing had cleared, the Arkon was seated again, his hands folded in his lap; the crystal, with its sharp and unpleasant edges, was gone. “I am expected at the library,” he told her almost curtly. “And I will endeavor, for that reason, to be brief.

      “What we know with any certainty about the fiefs is due to the investigations that Tiamaris, in part, undertook some time ago. He was not always the most careful or fastidious of investigators, no doubt a deficiency in either his teaching or his aptitude.”

      Sanabalis and Tiamaris now exchanged a silent glance. The Arkon did not appear to notice that he had casually insulted them both. “However, what we were told,” and this time he did pause to give Tiamaris a pointed glance, “was that the fiefs pass from one ruler to another when a new ruler takes over the central building. If this was, indeed, the case, then the fief of Illien would never have become the fief of Barren. Yet it did.

      “You are tasked with finding out why.” He paused, and then added, “Anything of use you can discover about the nature of the fiefs will also prove valuable at this time.” He rose. “I must return to the library. I have left instructions, should СКАЧАТЬ