The power of this mark wasn’t hers, but she needed that connection now, in a way she’d never needed it consciously before. She had to focus, had to ignore the sudden pain that flashed, like brief, intense fire, across her skin. If the cohort was fighting, this was their battlefield, and Helen was on their side.
Even Annarion had drawn his sword.
Silence, then. Even Annarion had drawn his sword. How did she know that? She hadn’t asked Severn, and she was certain she hadn’t reached for him, either. But she did know. She could feel the slow trickle of blood down her face. She could feel heat, and the light of the thread that had almost evaporated grew stronger, more certain.
But it wasn’t certain enough. She understood, as she stood, ghostly Yvonnes to either side, that the connection wasn’t strong enough. Androsse had said that she had to accept it. She’d spent too long worrying about love, about what love meant. Maybe there was a True Word calledlove, but Kaylin had never seen it. What she’d seen and heard were mortal variations, different languages, different attempts to approach love, own it, deny it.
Androsse’s version oflovewas not Kaylin’s. Kaylin’s version of love would not, could not, be what an ancient, Immortal, unknowably powerful being felt. But clearly it wasn’t necessary; Androsse was wrong. Except in one way.
These small filaments rooted in her skin had weak purchase there. They’d never grown stronger or deeper—whether by her will or Nightshade’s. Why had he placed the mark on her cheek at all? She remembered, as she concentrated on moving forward, that she had met a young Nightshade, and he had seen the mark on her cheek; he had been surprised.
But that man, and the man who placed that mark on her skin, were not the same; they had not—yet—lived the same lives. Had he placed his mark on her cheek because he had seen it, in his distant youth? Did it matter?
She stopped walking. She didn’t open her eyes—if she opened them, everything else would be overwhelming. Who stood still, unarmed, and silent when combat was unfolding all around them?
You, Severn said.And Yvonne. Watch the path you take, now. Helen says it will be unstable.
Yvonne’s many ghosts had formed two walls; she passed between them. Stopped there. She understood some part of what had to be done. Inhaling slowly, she allowed the tiny filaments to extend, not outward, but in. To take root properly. To become part of more than just a flower, more than just layers of skin.
She felt Severn’s drawn breath, his worry. She understood it. But they were standing on a cliff’s edge, and all other options led to a fall. She could hear the crowd; she thought of it as Yvonne—as Yvonnes—because all of their mouths were moving, but none seemed to move in the exact same way.
It was much, much harder than she’d thought to let the small roots that emanated from the Erenne mark spread. She could feel them grow as if they were physical; she was certainher cheek was bleeding more heavily; it felt like pain. It felt like invasion. Her instinct was to pull it out—or push it out—and be done with it.
She let the Erenne mark sink in. She let its roots spread beneath the surface of the skin, into flesh, growing—almost burrowing—as they did. And then, with a healthy Leontine curse, she added power to it, almost as if it were a living thing, an injured creature. It was the power of the Marks of the Chosen.
As the tiny filaments spread, she felt them thrum; they were warm, not hot. They didn’t add to the bleeding of her cheek; they didn’t change the nature of her body. They wrapped themselves around Kaylin, but they never touched the Marks of the Chosen.
The thrum was almost rhythmic, a beat, too soft to be drumming.
Oh.
A heartbeat. She could hear her own heart beating a little bit too quickly; this one was different. It was foreign. It was familiar. The sound grew louder and more steady as she listened.
When she looked, once again, at the thread of light between the Yvonnes, she squinted—which was awkward, given her eyes were closed. It had grown so bright, she couldn’t miss it. Bright, heart of white, edges of green—and that green was the color of the Yvonnes’ eyes. She moved quickly, aware that she was no longer following something attenuated; she was bringing the source of that light with her as she moved.
Step by step, the light cast by this single, wordless connection grew brighter.
This time, when the Marks of the Chosen began to glow, she ignored them; she didn’t attempt to squelch their radiance because they no longer overwhelmed the thread she followed. She could hear the distant sound of swords; she could feel the thrum of magic—other people’s—across the Marks. Instinct screamed:stop what you’re doing and get ready to fight.
But shewasfighting, now. She had to hold on to that.
The cohort were here, just beyond her closed eyes. They could wield swords. She could wield daggers and long knives. Against good swordsmen, unless she could lead them down very tight alleys where their weapons were constrained, she was just another target.
None of the cohort could do what she was doing now. None of them bore Nightshade’s Erenne mark. None of them wore the Marks of the Chosen. None of them were healers. None of them had any chance of doing what shemightbe able to do if she could follow the slender green thread to its end.
The clangor of swords was so very loud; she bent into her knees without thought, as if she would be forced to leap to survive. Her hands found knife hilt and clenched. The thread flickered; the Yvonnes became more ghostly.
No. No. She forced her hand to release her knife. Against any Barrani wielding a sword, she was a profound embarrassment, and that kind of embarrassment led to injury or death.
They do.
A familiar voice. A voice she felt like she hadn’t heard in months. She couldn’t see Nightshade—but she would recognize that interior voice anywhere.
29
Kaylin.
She exhaled.Nightshade.Then:Calarnenne.