“Arbiter Androsse’s people were not crafted—as the Barrani are—from the Lake of Life. They were created by the Ancients, individually, each creation a work of art.”
“That is quite enough, Arbiter.” Androsse had arrived.
“Then perhaps you would care to explain?” Starrante replied, not bothered at all by the sharpness of Androsse’s tone.
“The analogy is sufficient as it is, and I will not waste further time on it. It does not answer Kaylin’s research query.”
“It does, though,” Kaylin said before Starrante could step in. “This is history that none of us—none of my Barrani friends—know. They know the history of the use of that mark, but not the history of its creation.”
“Why do you believe it relevant?”
As if he hadn’t been listening in the entire time. Kaylin clamped down on her annoyance. Arbiter Androsse was a man of great power who liked certain forms of etiquette because he was accustomed to them. It wasn’t personal.
She tried to believe that and failed.
“Love is an impulse and a curse,” Androsse said. This didn’t surprise Kaylin much, given Androsse’s general personality. It did seem to cause a small ripple in the rest of Androsse’s audience.
“Why?” It was Serralyn who asked. Her eyes, green, now contained flecks of visible blue; she was annoyed.
“It is for the weak, for the foolish, for those who cannot see the world as it is. Of what use is love? What function or purpose does it serve?” Androsse turned a glare on Starrante, who was still and silent. “Your people did not elevate love; theydid not sing of it; they did not create their damnable stories as soporifics for the gullible.”
Serralyn tensed.
Starrante placed a limb on her shoulder, the touch gentle but staying. “We did, Arbiter. But the love of the Wevaran is not the love of your kind; it is not instant, and it is not destructive. It is woven, as our power is woven, and it is built over time.”
Androsse’s eyes narrowed.
Kaylin didn’t disagree with Androsse but kept that to herself. What she wanted to know, now, was how love—damnable love, if Androsse’s opinion counted—figured into the Erenne mark. Slaves didn’t have to be loved. Historically, they had to be marked or branded.
The Barrani liked to go all out. But love? That didn’t figure into anything. It wasn’t needed. Nightshade hadn’t marked her because he loved her. He hadn’t created his statuary of living stone because he loved its occupants. But he had done whatever was within his power to save his brother.
Had Kaylin never met the cohort, she might not have believed in that either. But she knew the cohort had envied Annarion his brother. Knew that another brother had almost literally lost his mind and sense of self inhisattempt to free Eddorian—the only member of the cohort who had chosen to remain in the West March caring for that very brother.
Androsse was glaring at Starrante; Kaylin watched Androsse’s face. Androsse didn’t bother to hide what he felt. She cleared her throat. “Love existed at the beginning.”
“What doyouknow of the beginning?”
“I know what the Keeper knows.”
“What the mortal Keeper knows.”
“He’s lived far longer than most mortals—and it doesn’t matter. He’s the Keeper. He knows what he knows. The Ancients arose in a form and fashion none of the wise understand. Do you know why?”
Starrante lifted the arm that wasn’t on Serralyn’s shoulder; if he’d had the usual hands, he’d’ve had them spread, palms out, telling her to stop.
“Do tell.” Androsse turned from Starrante, the full force of his expression now aimed—like a sword—at Kaylin.
“Because they were lonely. They had no words for it. They existed in isolation. Theywantedcompany. No,” she said as he opened his mouth, “you wouldn’t call it love. They wouldn’t call it love, either—I don’t think they had that word, or words. Words came later. Words that had meanings that were singular and clear.
“Maybe love wasn’t a creation of the Ancients—but I think it grew out of the seeds of loneliness and isolation. It was there, in the beginning.” Her Marks were glowing softly, as if in agreement. It didn’t matter. Try as she might to understand the Marks and their meanings, they weren’t all that she was. She knew what she knew and believed what she believed.
Androssecouldchange that—but with words, with well-reasoned arguments. Not with contempt and dismissal. If she’d never managed to walk bearing their weight, she’d’ve never moved at all.
“Tell me, Arbiter Androsse: why did you become an Arbiter? Were you plucked off the streets in ignorance and dumped in the library?”
Behind her, a Dragon growled. As neither Tiamaris nor Bellusdeo had joined them in the library itself, that growl could only belong to one person: Arbiter Kavallac.
17