“You think the Lord of the West March is involved in this?” Helmat demanded.
“No.” It was Severn who answered. The answer should have meant nothing to Helmat. “I don’t think this one has much to do with my current—our current—mission.”
“You think it’s specifically about you? How much did you ruffle feathers during your visit to the High Halls?”
Severn ignored this, his attention on the Barrani in the room. “And the other?”
Elluvian shook his head. “I do not believe it is relevant.”
“Let us judge that,” Helmat replied.
As if to forestall what was certain to become a more heated discussion, Severn began to pull sketches from the pack. Helmat’s face, wearing an expression that implied he was not pleased with life, now stared up at the Wolflord, an artistic mirror.
The second sketch was the one of Ybelline. She wore the robes she had worn to the Oracular Halls, but Elluvian’s frown indicated that he had noted some difference. Her expression, unlike Helmat’s, was shorn of anger or irritation. Her eyes, in black and white, had no color that could lend emotion to her face.
The third sketch was of Elluvian; unlike the first two, it was the entire upper body, not just the head and upper shoulders.
“En?”
Elluvian said nothing for a long beat. “They are ceremonial robes, of a type not donned in the High Halls.”
“Where would they be worn?”
Elluvian shook his head.
“Wedding?”
Both of Elluvian’s dark brows crested the line of his hair. “Absolutely not.”
Elluvian was discomfited by the things Severn had placed, one at a time, on Helmat’s desk. Which was, itself, unsettling. “The Oracle did not say when this might occur?”
Severn shook his head. “I don’t think she gets the choice. She tries to capture what she’s seen. But some of this is no doubt decades old.”
“And some is not.”
Severn nodded. “She doesn’t know. She believes it’s all relevant—but she doesn’t know how. I don’t think any of the Oracles within the Hall do when they’re driven to create.”
“So we’ve been told,” Elluvian replied.
Severn’s pack was not yet empty. He now drew another sketch from its folds, and laid it on top of the others.
It was Severn. Helmat studied the sketch; Severn’s face, the pale scar present, the brows folded in urgent concentration. This image hadn’t, in his opinion been taken from the past.
It was not, however, to Severn that Helmat looked; Elluvian had the whole of his attention now.
He had the whole of Severn’s as well. His eyes were a gold that seemed haloed in indigo; he was surprised and alarmed. He walked to the desk, lifted the sketch, stared at it, and then turned to Severn.
“Did she give youanyother information? Anything of relevance to our mission?”
Severn shook his head.
“You are certain?”
One picture remained, just one. Helmat could see its curled edges; he could also see that Severn didn’t wish to share it. And that he would. His hands were not entirely steady as he drew the last sketch from the pack; this one was colored.
Severn laid the sketch on the desk; Elluvian had not surrendered the sketch of the boy.
Helmat frowned. “These tattoos—Records.”