The Emperor's Wolves (Wolves of Elantra #1) - Michelle Sagara Page 0,150

should he desire that knowledge. Come with me, she added. You saw the beginning of this story. Come see the end.

* * *

Once they passed through the doors, the external hall vanished—before the doors had closed on it. Severn felt a momentary disorientation; a visual ripple passed through the air, as if everything they now saw was beneath a curtain of falling water. The world reasserted itself quickly, but the floor beneath his feet felt carpeted or padded, although his eyes told him it was composed of unadorned stone.

The foyer itself seemed similar in style to An’Tellarus’s interior foyer, but it possessed no paintings; flowers filled the alcoves and spaces meant for display. The foyer opened up; there were no doors to enclose it.

There were no visible servants, no visible attendants, and no guards. Perhaps they now waited with their lord for the arrival of Ybelline.

She had released his hand, and didn’t reach for it again; it was not for comfort that she had reached for it the first time. “Come,” she said, as if she knew these rooms, as if they were completely familiar to her.

They followed. Severn now occupied the space to her right. An’Tellarus and Elluvian walked behind, their eyes a martial blue. If Ybelline had relaxed—and she had—her companions had done the opposite, as if fear and its resultant tension were a constant shared among their party.

Stone floor gave way to wood; it was the wood Ybelline now followed, and it led to a large open space that seemed to have no roof. The skies here were a crystal blue that Severn didn’t recall from their carriage ride or the climb up the steps that led into the High Halls.

A table occupied space directly ahead of them; around it were tall, narrow chairs. At the head of the table sat a lone man. He rose as they approached, his gaze momentarily arrested by Severn.

He tendered Ybelline the deepest of Barrani bows, and held it. She bade him rise, but even so he did so slowly.

“You are Ollarin,” Ybelline said.

“I was,” he replied. “I have seen you before. You and your mortal companion. Will you join me?”

An’Tellarus’s gaze shifted to Severn; he failed to meet it. This man’s eyes were green, a color he had almost never seen Barrani eyes take. He was aware of what that color meant: he was happy. Genuinely happy.

Maybe happiness denied age in the Barrani; Ollarin—no, An’Sennarin—seemed young to Severn. Much younger than either An’Tellarus or Elluvian.

“But I forget myself,” Ollarin said. He turned toward An’Tellarus and offered her a bow that was not quite as deep as the bow he extended Ybelline. “I am in your debt, An’Tellarus.”

“What have I told you?”

“I trust you enough to acknowledge my obligation.”

“That is far, far worse.”

Elluvian was staring at An’Sennarin. “You must have been barely of age when you took the seat,” he finally said.

“Yes. It has been challenging.”

“You still hold the title.”

“For now, yes.”

Ybelline accepted a chair to An’Sennarin’s right; she indicated that Severn was to take the chair to his left.

An’Sennarin passed his hand through the air immediately above the table at which they were seated, and something shimmered into view. It was a painting. No, he thought, a sketch. He recognized the artist.

It was one of Random’s sketches. Random had drawn a picture of the end of this table—and seated at it were Ybelline, Severn, and An’Sennarin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Severn looked at the picture. Ybelline wore an emerald green in Random’s sketch; it matched the color of the dress she had chosen. There was no tiara across the sketched Ybelline’s forehead. Severn in the sketch wore the clothing Elluvian had purchased for his use what felt like months ago, but was not.

Ollarin, however, was dressed exactly as she had sketched him.

“I am afraid,” An’Sennarin said, “I do not know your name.”

“I am Severn Handred. Private Severn Handred.”

“Yes. You are a Wolf.”

Severn nodded.

“Do you see the shadow you cast across the table in this drawing? I believe it reflects your service.”

Severn had noticed. He didn’t expect anything Random produced to be literal. But he noted that neither Ybelline nor An’Sennarin cast any shadow at all—or not that Random had chosen to capture.

“I have agreed to meet you here,” the young lord said, “to ask you to abandon your investigation.”

Ybelline said nothing. Her pallor was off.

“That is not a request I can fulfill,” Severn replied. “I serve at the command of the Emperor.”

An’Sennarin nodded, as if it was the answer he had expected; his eyes