this quarter safe from the citizens of the rest of the city.
The hall turned left; Severn followed Ybelline to a closed door, which stood out because, aside from the front door, it was the only actual door he’d yet seen.
“We do have rooms that are designed to baffle sound,” Ybelline told him. “While we are accustomed to constant background interruption, visitors to the Tha’alanari often find it taxing. Closed doors,” she added, smiling, “stop almost nothing among my kin.”
“Tell that to the parents of tired, screaming children,” Scoros said, his tone both wry and affectionate.
“It is possible I will soon have much in common with them,” Ybelline replied. “Another reason a closed door is useful.”
* * *
Alcohol, a golden honey color a similar shade to her eyes, was already in the room on the table. Severn found the multitude of different glasses in which alcohol could—or should—be served mystifying. There seemed to be an underlying set of rules. For himself, there was water and a sweeter, pink liquid that in other circumstances he wouldn’t have touched.
Scoros joined Ybelline in her choice of beverage. The older man’s eyes were decidedly hazel, but the flecks of green were stronger.
Severn, seated, suddenly found he didn’t know where to start. The drinking, the eye color, the slight tension across Ybelline’s lower jaw and shoulders, made it clear—or clearer—that they expected this session to be horrifying.
He hesitated as they watched him. The urge to apologize was powerful—but an apology, in his mind, meant he should never have come at all. There were questions he wanted answered, because he wanted to catch the person responsible for those deaths twenty years ago—the repercussions of which would always be with the Tha’alani.
It was the first new thing he had wanted in months. Years, maybe.
He considered polite questions, pretty words, and in the end discarded them all. He would ask them to do what he wanted them to do. Leaving was not an option.
“I want you to look through the Tha’alaan,” he said.
“The Tha’alaan is not like your Records—” Scoros began.
Ybelline lifted a hand. She was not—yet—the castelord of her people, but clearly as heir she was accustomed to command.
“To what end, little Wolf?”
“The murders that, even now, destroy your people, occurred within the span of a little over a year two decades ago. I wasn’t born. You were a child.”
She nodded evenly.
“If Barrani were involved, they were involved for a reason.”
She was silent, utterly still, her eyes open. They were green.
“Barrani were involved,” Scoros said. His eyes had also shaded to green.
Severn nodded. “The Barrani are, at heart, a political people. Ruthless but pragmatic. There have been exceptions; they’ve been dealt with by the Barrani. I’m not sure the Emperor intends to let this one be resolved in the same way. Had the victims been Barrani, he would—by his own laws—have no choice. They weren’t. They were Tha’alani.”
“Go on,” Scoros said.
“I assume that there was a reason for the killings. And the killings imply heavily that the Barrani in question—or a Barrani—understood how the Tha’alaan functions. They chose these deaths because they wanted to flood the Tha’alaan with memories so dire your people might refuse to look at them at all.”
She nodded.
“Buried among those memories, at around the same time—or just before—I think it possible that there was some connection between a Tha’alani citizen and one of the Barrani.”
“You think that a Barrani citizen touched the Tha’alaan?” Scoros said, outrage increasing his volume.
“Yes.”
“It is forbidden, by law, to make such a contact.”
“Yes. Imperial Law. The Tha’alani don’t touch the Immortals.”
Ybelline’s eyes almost defined the color green. But her expression as she studied Severn’s face was neutral, remote. Scoros’s was anything but. She didn’t speak, and Scoros didn’t speak in a way Severn could hear—but he’d no doubt the Tha’alanari were now discussing his request among themselves. Given Scoros’s reaction, he was certain that the Tha’alanari were now counseling rejection of Severn’s request.
He wasn’t surprised when Scoros rose, vacating his chair; his glass was empty. Severn thought he intended to refill it, but no—he opened the closed door and walked out of the room, his steps heavy with what appeared to be anger. The door slammed behind him, reinforcing that appearance.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Yes,” Ybelline said, when the silence returned in the wake of that closing door. “You have been informed that I am the future castelord. You can be forgiven if your understanding of that is minimal—the Emperor does not wish his people to fully understand the Tha’alani. Given the