of are bound by form. My True Name is mine. It is rooted in me. I am of our plane of existence, even here. To shift that, to change it, requires time—time that the cohort had in their slow transformation over the centuries. Time and will.
The Arkon’s True Name is likewise rooted and preserved. But Killian’s is not. The physical body he possesses requires external anchors, external roots. He cannot move those roots; no more can the Hallionne. Killian was cast into the outlands by the very nature of the Towers that rose.
But if he’s a building—
He was not built to withstand the Shadows, Nightshade replied. I believe he wishes to speak with you.
He’s becoming more...more awake, isn’t he?
I believe so.
“The words themselves both provide power and sustenance, and require it. They were, for the Ancients, the very source of life, and even in smaller fragments, they are potent. You are not wed to those fragments—you and your kin. We are. But we are wrought from the story of the world itself; we are not added to it. What is the question you wish to ask?”
Kaylin drew breath; Nightshade did not. “Was it the Towers? When they rose, did the Towers anchor you somehow, so that you might survive their creation?”
“That is my belief.”
“If you’re anchored to the Towers, can you speak with them?”
One eye narrowed, as he only had the one. “That is not a question that occurred me to ask,” he finally said.
Robin’s hand shot up. “I need to use the bathroom,” he said. This was not what Kaylin expected.
“Very well. You have permission.” August permission, indeed.
Robin left his seat and headed out of Nightshade’s line of sight, but Nightshade marked this, as well.
Does he do this often?
I would say it depends on how bored he is. Since the classes themselves repeat, and by your own estimation he has been here for some time, I would imagine that boredom has become a pressing issue for him.
I need you to ask another question. She looked down past her feet to see the crowning heights of shelves pass beneath them. She could not believe that she could be here—on a Dragon’s back—and bypass unwelcome intruders unseen. But apparently, this was a different version of reality; she tensed and held breath—as if her breath would be the most notable thing in the library—as the three Barrani intruders passed beneath her.
What question? Ask.
“Can you make that attempt? Can you try to speak with the Towers?”
He stared at her. Not at Nightshade, who had theoretically voiced the question, but at Kaylin, who was behind his eyes.
“What material benefit would that have?” he finally asked.
“It would—” Nightshade then took over, it being his mouth and his voice. “It would establish parameters—physical parameters. If the Academia survived the fall of Ravellon and the ascendance of the last and greatest of our defenses against what now dwells there, it is possible that the presence of the Academia itself can be strengthened.”
“To what end, Chosen?”
Since those words had been Nightshade’s, she grimaced. The fieflord’s face bore no trace of that grimace. “I think you need to be in control of yourself. You’re outside of the Tower’s duties and responsibilities. They aren’t set to watch against you or guard against you. And I think at least one of the six was aware of you, and valued you highly. At least one.” She shook her head; Nightshade again remained still.
Yes, he said with some amusement. I have some dignity and wish to retain it.
“There’s a border zone between each of the territories protected by the Towers. It’s shifting; it’s not static. I think—or smarter people than I think—that it’s part of the outlands. Part of,” she corrected herself, “the primal ether.
“I think you were valued highly by one of the Towers, but on ascension, all of the Towers agreed to somehow help anchor you, to maintain some element of your presence or life. They might have thought you couldn’t do it on your own, if the words—”
“They would be correct,” he said quietly. “You are...in the library.”
“I am. I have Arbiter Androsse and Arbiter Kavallac with me; we are searching for Arbiter Starrante.”
He closed his eyes, one luminous, one a void. She could see his hair begin to move in the windless room; could see a faint glow as it outlined the whole of his body. His mouth moved, but silently, or quietly enough that she couldn’t hear his words. Given that the ears she was currently borrowing were