Cast in Wisdom (Chronicles of Elantra #15) - Michelle Sagara Page 0,142

race that does not require True Names in order to live. Words have power, Kaylin.”

“Yes—but those words had specific power.”

“So, too, these. And they are simple words; they are not an entire tale. The power that those who attacked the High Halls wished to access was those True Names. This is not that. You will not, speaking the name, bind Starrante in the fashion you clearly fear.”

“Will I bind him in some other fashion?”

“I believe you will build a connection, yes. But it is a connection that has, in some fashion, already been built by someone else. You have the advantage of holding that book.” His tone implied that she had better make use of the minor advantages she had—and quickly.

But words weren’t spoken quickly, if they were spoken at all. She wished strongly that she could use the magic the Arkon possessed to create a visual, visible illusion; she trusted the Arkon to speak what must be spoken.

Fire erupted in the distance; it was a white-gold fire, and it was accompanied by a very familiar voice: Bellusdeo’s. The Arkon tensed, but said nothing.

Above Kaylin’s arms and around her legs she could see the marks of the Chosen. They were golden now, their light a glow that implied warmth, not the chill of ice. Starrante’s book was before her, and she could now see that it, too, was golden. It just wasn’t solid.

Her own marks, her own words, were. She could reach out and touch them—and did, to ascertain their solidity. She hesitated for one moment, and then turned, again, to the Arkon. He understood, and reluctantly held out one book for her inspection: Androsse’s. Kaylin was certain this was mostly by chance.

Androsse’s word was solid; it was part of the cover of the book. It didn’t rise or float; it didn’t spin. But it was present. She assumed the same of Kavallac’s, but the Arkon didn’t offer the second book; having confirmed that Kaylin’s fingers didn’t dip below the surface of Androsse’s, he was done with the experiment.

Kaylin’s familiar had dropped his wing at about the time Kavallac had chosen to engage the intruders. He’d folded it, and further, had collapsed on her shoulder like a bulky shawl. He said nothing, and offered no advice or criticism.

The Arkon didn’t, either. She could hear the sounds of battle, all of it magical; there didn’t seem to be one drawn sword in the fracas. But she could also hear syllables, words—as if catching the mood and tone of an entire crowd. A crowd that was not, or had not yet become, a problem for the Swords.

These syllables, much like the random sentences spoken by people in a gathered crowd, overlapped and clashed; none were terribly loud, and none demanded instant attention. But none would; none of the syllables conformed to a language she knew. None implied intent or danger. They were a simple gathering of sounds with nothing to collect or catch her attention.

No, she thought, that wasn’t true. She understood as she listened—closing her eyes as she often did to aid concentration—that those syllables emanated from the marks themselves, as if they, rotating in place, were desperately attempting to be heard. She listened now.

As she listened, she began to search for words that seemed to be written with a similar foundation to the one on Starrante’s book—bold double horizontal lines as the central composition, with a slender, slightly curved line to the left of the whole figure that seemed to anchor the rest of it. There were very few of the squiggles, but three dots had been added beneath the second horizontal line.

She knew that the pronunciation of true words wasn’t dependent on the composition, or not precisely dependent on it. The rough alphabet that comprised true words had never appeared to be phonetic. This language wasn’t like Elantran or Barrani, where at least ninety percent of the words could be sounded out by someone just learning to match speech to the written equivalent.

But this was what she had, at the moment. She chose to touch the marks of the Chosen that most closely corresponded in general shape and composition to the rune on Starrante’s book.

As she touched them, she could hear them. She could hear how they might be pronounced—or perhaps how they might be pronounced by Kaylin. It hadn’t occurred to her until this moment that they might contain sounds that her human throat couldn’t, or didn’t, naturally make. When Sanabalis spoke these words, or when the Arkon