“Where did you see this?” she asked Serralyn, as the pattern continued to form.
“Arbiter Kavallac met me when I entered the library; she said she’d noted the area of study, and had found books in the library that had last been studied before the fall.”
“She didn’t happen to say by who?”
“Not in so many words, no. The librarians believe in the privacy of their students, just as the Academia does. The Academia has rules—or laws, if you prefer—but given the nature of the Academia itself, the rules are enforced by Killianas, and at his discretion. Within the library, the Arbiters are the law. Arbiters Kavallac and Androsse have continued, according to Starrante, their argument; it’s recommended that students avoid the library, as the arguments are intense.
“Starrante, however, believed that the intensity of the argument wouldn’t be a problem for some students.”
“So, you.”
“And Valliant, yes. Robin hasn’t been allowed to enter. I’m not sure what you did or said when you visited—but Kavallac’s eyes were almost blood red the entire time she offered to guide me.”
“Androsse?”
“Wasn’t present. I’m not sure if this was their compromise or not, but it doesn’t matter. I thought I’d be in the library for weeks—around classes—but it was less than a day. Kavallac was following Azoria’s trail, and it seemed to end here.”
“Did she tell you what the book contained?”
Serralyn shook her head. “She gave me the book; she expected me to draw my own conclusions, based on my field of study and my experience.”
“What was the book about?”
“A ceremony,” Serralyn replied. “An old ceremony.” She hesitated and then said, “An Ancestral ceremony.”
Silence eddied out, as if it were a large stone dropped into a pool of conversation.
It was Kaylin who broke it. “What, exactly, was the ceremony meant to achieve?”
“It was, in form and function, a type of joining.”
“A wedding ceremony?”
Serralyn shook her head. “Marriage in modern terms was not a concept held in much favor by the Ancestors.”
“Then joining what?”
“The green,” she replied. “Although that is not what it was called by the Ancestors—it took me a bit to understand that. I don’t know that Dragons had Ancestors the way the Barrani do, but Kavallac understood the difference. She attempted to explain it, but only when I asked. It’s thought that the green extended much farther, in the time of the Ancestors, than it does now; I believe the Ancestors may have somehow destroyed or despoiled it. What remains in the West March is the heart of what it once was.”
Kaylin turned to the Avatar.
“If you mean to confirm whether or not the green existed when the Ancestors ruled much of the continent, yes it did. It is older than the Hallionne. It is older than the High Halls. In the distant past, the Ancestors could speak to the green, and the green would answer—but not in a language that the Barrani can understand. Some can intuit meaning; the green hears them in ways that do not entirely involve simple linguistics.”
Serralyn listened as if the Avatar’s words were now the only relevant words in the room.
Kaylin, however, had the answer to her question and wanted to move on. “So this was a ceremony developed by the Ancestors—Androsse’s people.”
“By some of his people, yes. Understand that while the Barrani and their Ancestors share an appearance, they are fundamentally different peoples. The Ancestors were frequently unstable in a way the Barrani are not.” He then turned to Serralyn. “I believe similar rites exist among the Barrani.
“These rites were tied to the regalia, and you are far more aware of the dangers inherent in that ceremony; it is one of the few that survived the twilight of the Ancestors.”
“Azoria was Barrani,” Kaylin pointed out.
“So, at one point, was Terrano,” the Avatar countered.
“You do not consider him Barrani now?” the Consort asked.
“No, Lady. He considers himself Terrano; the race and circumstance of his birth, given the utter callousness with which his forebears approached the regalia, are of less value to him. Regardless of external designations, it is possible that Azoria exposed herself to environments, rituals, or races that could subtly undermine the cage of her creation. If she spent much time in the company of Arbiter Androsse, she may have first attempted to re-create herself in his image.
“Thus her disastrous attempt to take over the Lake.”
“That is not what the Lake remembers.”
“Lady, no person is only one thing, nor are their desires entirely singular. I know the stories you have been told; I believe them to be true. But there are other truths. Although I did not experience all of her life, or her theoretical ending, I was aware of her. She was like, and unlike, Terrano; it is the reason Terrano is welcome here, and she would not be were she to have survived in some form.
“Perhaps the desire to atone, the desire to resurrect, started her on the path she eventually walked—but when the Lake rejected her, she was unwilling to surrender to rejection. She began to search for better answers.”
The Consort did not care for the use of the word better. Fair enough; Kaylin personally hated it.
“But if she died—if her words returned to the Lake somehow—and yet she persists, I would not recognize her.” He returned to the image he had been slowly building. “This was the end of it,” he told Serralyn. They all watched as the second flower was placed almost exactly across the first, as if they were halves of a whole. The second portion was wood, and as they watched, the color and texture of woodgrain expanded from the flower, just as the vines first had, until the whole seemed a carving.
“I’m not certain,” Serralyn said, “that we should open those doors.”
“Do you think we’ll find her in the room?”
“I don’t know what we’ll find—but I’m not sure it will be safe for most of you.”
Terrano, however, was grinning. “I don’t count in that most,” he told Kaylin. He studiously avoided Teela’s growing glare.
“You’re willing to let Terrano open the doors?” Kaylin asked Serralyn.
“It’s Terrano,” she replied, with a very familiar shrug. “He’s difficult to stop.”
“And me?”
“I’d let you open them.”
The familiar squawked.
“She has the marks of the Chosen, and she has you. She’s not Terrano, no. But she survives things Terrano survives in entirely different ways. I’m perfectly willing to let them scout ahead.”
“Sounds like a go to me,” Terrano said. He turned to the Consort, but continued in Elantran. “I think we need your permission.”
She turned to Kaylin, as if Terrano had not spoken. Forgiveness clearly had a different meaning for the Consort than it did for Kaylin. “If you are willing to take the risk, and the High Halls believes it can contain whatever remains in the room, you have my permission.”
Terrano returned the favor; he ignored the Consort and headed to the doors.
“If it’s a ceremonial joining,” Kaylin said, “why is it on a door?”
“It’s a ceremony of containment and joining. Or at least that’s what I managed to glean; the book was written in Old Barrani, not the Ancestral tongue. I think it might have been their version of the regalia; without it, the power of the green...” She shrugged. “There’s a reason children aren’t exposed to the regalia. My guess is that this was a substitute for adulthood in the Ancestors.”
“Then why did she make those braids and put that flower in—in her hair?” She stumbled over not saying Mrs. Erickson’s name, and almost blew it.
“Braiding was done, for both men and women. The flower was part of the braiding. If the old woman had been an Ancestor, it would be considered normal.” Serralyn exhaled. “I think the flower is the connection to the green or the power that lies at the heart of it. But...the flower in the painting was not that flower; it was distorted, twisted.
“I’m not sure if that was the intent, or if it was the outcome. Those flowers don’t thrive outside of the green.” Serralyn hesitated.
“You might as well go all in,” Terrano told Kaylin. “Never mind. Serralyn’s concerned.”
“She is concerned,” Teela cut in, “for your continued well-being.” Teela spoke Barrani.
Terrano shrugged. “She’s never really liked conflict much. I’m not worried. Where was I? Oh, right. The flower. Serralyn theorizes that the flower itself isn’t so much planted in the green—no, that’s not right. Are you sure you don’t want to explain it?”
“It depends on how badly you butcher the explanation,” Serralyn said. She was annoyed. “What he meant to say is: the green, as we’re all aware, is not normal space. It’s not a Hallionne, and it isn’t like the Academia or the High Halls. All of those ancient buildings came later.
“Living with Helen, and living with Alsanis, made clear that much of the space that makes them like gods within their own boundaries is...like the outlands. It’s a miasma of possibility that the buildings themselves control and transform at need. The outlands are all of that, but without the driving intellect or will behind them.
“So, if we think of the outlands as a kind of geography, the buildings with sentience claim ownership of part of that space. They can extend that ownership beyond their boundaries, as long as no other will or intent interferes with theirs.
“I think the green is like the sentient buildings—but older. It wasn’t designed or created the way the sentient buildings were; we weren’t meant to interact with it in the same way. The will of the green implies sentience—and I believe the green is sentient—but it’s not a sentience that we can easily access or understand.
“And I think the green was also planted in the outlands, but boundaries were less transcribed, less exact. The forests of the West March seem like normal forests—but they’re not. They aren’t part of the green, but they’re not like the trees you see in the streets of Elantra, either. The rivers that wend through the forests are likewise closer to the elemental water than the rivers within your city.
“This leads me to suspect—and this is entirely conjecture and I could be wrong—that the green’s roots, if you will, extend for a greater distance than what we think of as the green. Alsanis and the green overlapped—that much we know—but it’s my belief that the green’s influence over the outlands was, at one time, far stronger than it became. For us, the green is contained.
“But for her? I’m far less certain. The Ancestors were not a concern by the time the first war with the Dragons started. She was not a known concern when that war, and its disastrous consequences, changed the High Halls.
“I think she may have been able to carry that flower from the green because she had figured out how the flowers were rooted—and in what—and could mimic that space in some fashion. I don’t think the green or its influence reached Elantra; I don’t think the green could, at this point in its history. The flower was brought here less than a mortal century ago. At the time it was plucked, it wasn’t the color it is in the painting.” She hesitated again. Terrano, near the doors, rolled eyes.
“My turn?” he asked.
“Only if you have something useful to add.”
“Serralyn isn’t sure how, but she feels that Azoria could replicate the conditions that allowed the flower to blossom.”
“How?”
“That’s why she’s hesitant. Serralyn can’t answer that question. She’s been thinking about it, and doing tangential research in the hope the sparks from that secondary research might start a fire, metaphorically speaking. If the flower only grows in the green, and the flower was clearly growing in a pot, she could replicate those conditions. That part’s clear.
“What’s less clear is what happened after. Azoria braided Mrs. Erickson’s hair. She plucked the blossom. She entwined it in the braid. She then painted a portrait. She had a good eye,” he added. “For portraiture. In my opinion. I wonder what she would have painted had she different subjects.”
“That,” the Avatar unexpectedly said, “you might see. In these rooms, while Azoria occupied them, she asked that I create a studio, a room in which she might paint. It was meant to be a private space; only those she condescended to paint were allowed to enter them at all—and only one of the rooms, admittedly the most conducive to visitors.”
“She painted other subjects?”
“Yes. As most will who are interested in portraiture.”
“How many of them were Barrani?”
“That is a very odd question,” the Avatar replied.
“It’s the High Halls,” Kaylin said. “And Barrani aren’t generally interested in other races.”
“Azoria was unusual, as you are now aware. Is the portraiture relevant?”
Serralyn frowned. “This room, this door—it’s interfering with your ability to easily read thoughts. I am making no effort to hide or obscure mine because I’m not as good with words as many of my friends, and I’d rather you just read them; it would make things a lot easier.”
The Avatar’s expression shifted as he studied the door. “I apologize, Lord Serralyn. It is seldom that the Barrani invite such inspection. I initially assumed you were like much of the rest of your kin; I have been attempting to listen to what you are not masking and...were you not attempting clarity of thought and communication, I would, again, assume you were like An’Teela. It is disturbing. I would ask you all—including Terrano—to stand far back from this door. Lady,” he added, with more gravity, “especially you.”
“Why?” Terrano predictably demanded.
“Because the reach of those vines is long. Do not,” he added more severely, “worry for me. My Avatar is present, and if it is destroyed, it is equivalent to the loss you might suffer breaking a fingernail. At most.”
Terrano was clearly put out—enough so that Serralyn and Teela had to physically grab him by the arms and escort him down the hall in the wake of the Consort, who made no argument at all. Kaylin followed behind, and when they reached a wall, they stopped and turned.
The Avatar was standing in front of the doors of this unearthed room, unmoving. He might have been made of stone. Kaylin felt her arms begin to tingle, and grimaced.
“Magic allergies?” Serralyn asked.
She nodded.
“You don’t normally have that reaction to older magic.”
“Older?”
“Well, words and the bindings of words and the things the Ancients created.”
“She may have been old for a Barrani, but she wasn’t an Ancient. I think I’ll be fine.”
“It’s getting worse, though.”
“It was. But I don’t think this is in response to the Avatar’s work. I think it’s something she did after the design of the doors was set.”
Teela cursed softly, which surprised everyone, including the Consort. Hope, sitting up on Kaylin’s shoulder, plastered a wing against her face. Through it, she could see the doors—or what appeared to be doors when seen through normal eyes.
They were not doors when seen through her familiar’s wings. The flowers, carved or created to retain a semblance of wood, weren’t wooden, and the vines, against which a patina of woodgrain had been laid—and remained—weren’t, either. They moved. Kaylin reached out, wordless, for the Consort’s nearest arm and pulled her in close, looping an arm around her shoulder. “Hope,” she snapped.
I know. Do not let the Consort leave this sphere.
“This what?”
Squawk. It was the frustrated, shut-up-now squawk.
“Hope wants you to stay right where you are,” Kaylin told the Consort.
“And the rest of us?” Teela demanded.
“He didn’t say anything about you three. You can stand closer to me if you want to be safe.”
Serralyn immediately joined Kaylin, taking up position on the side the Consort didn’t occupy. When the familiar had first protected Kaylin from magic, she could see a shield rise, like a bubble around both her and Bellusdeo. She could see nothing now, not even through the wing. But she understood that whatever protection he thought to provide was centered around her.
Beyond holding tight to the Consort, who might have preferred more personal dignity, she focused on other concerns. The emblems carved into the door—the emblems that strongly resembled the braiding Azoria had so meticulously done with Mrs. Erickson’s hair—unwound, unspooling. They didn’t magically vanish; they shot out, some to the doorframe, as if it served as an anchor, and the rest directly toward the building’s Avatar.
They passed through the Avatar, extending and thinning as they traveled—at speed—down the empty hall. Terrano chose to stand his ground; Kaylin could see his back. Teela chose to step away, hand on the hilt of a sword that Kaylin hadn’t seen when they’d arrived.
Kaylin exhaled only when the strands, now thin and almost invisible to the winged eye, failed to grab or pierce Terrano.
You are not safe yet, Hope said.
The tendrils passed Terrano, disappearing as they dissipated.
“Do not move,” the Avatar said. “I am almost finished, but things are more complicated—more layered—than anticipated. This was not my intent, when I first created the doors and the rooms that lay beyond them.”
“Do you think they were meant to be a trap?”
“No, Chosen. I believe they were meant to contain something.”
“Not the room?”
“Elements of the room. Had these rooms been available for use, I believe they would, in the end, have caused damage to their occupants.”
“Did they cause damage to her?”
“No, but she was the primary architect of the spell. She would have made exceptions for herself, and for whatever it is she hoped to become.”
The word become echoed in the hall.
“You think she wanted to be like me?” Terrano asked, drifting toward the Avatar. The Avatar didn’t warn him off or send him away.
“I do not think she could have conceived of being like you,” was the more severe reply. “I am frankly constantly surprised—and confounded—by you. She was Barrani, at heart, and you...are Terrano.”
“Do you think unraveling the doors will destroy the contents of the room?”
“I think that was part of the intent, yes. Serralyn’s intervention, however, alerted me to the possibility, and I believe I have preserved the contents.” He did not sound pleased.
“If you were unaware, could the doors have damaged you?” Kaylin now viscerally understood why the Avatar wanted the Consort well away from these rooms.
The Avatar didn’t answer.
It was Terrano who spoke. “Define damage. If the High Halls was unaware of the minute perturbations contained in the creation of the doors, those spells were nonetheless laid against elements of the Halls themselves. I think, were he not prepared, it would have been bad.”
“And you?”
Terrano shrugged, a cheeky grin tugging his lips up. “I’m always prepared.”
Serralyn snorted. “Is it safe now?” she asked the Avatar.
“It is safe to enter,” the Avatar replied. “But I now see odd strands that are rooted far too deeply. I intended to leave you to your investigation—but I will not do so if the Consort is to remain with you.”
“Meaning we can’t investigate?”
“Meaning,” Terrano said, “that he’s not leaving if she isn’t.”
That seemed perfectly fair to Kaylin. One glance at the Consort’s profile made clear that the investigation would proceed with two extra people. Given that one of them was the High Halls equivalent of Helen, this was fine. She started to walk down the hall as the doors—untouched by any obvious hands—rolled open.
Whatever Azoria An’Berranin had been in life, or in the life she’d lived in the High Halls, she wasn’t given to ostentation. Perhaps her father had been. “Did he also occupy these rooms?” she asked.
The Avatar could follow her thoughts well enough not to demand more context. “Yes. But he was an austere man; ostentation of the kind you imagine requires expenditures of power, and he was not a man given to sharing power.”
“He was Barrani,” Kaylin said, shrugging.
“Power means many things to many people; only those who are concerned with status spend that power in an attempt to imply wealth and influence. He was less concerned with appearance than security, but he did have a hall in which he entertained guests of relevance or value. They were not, however, her rooms; her mother saw to them, when she lived. Her younger sister continued that work; Azoria had very little interest in either hospitality or the comfort of visitors. Where it was necessary she could attend to those things, but she seldom felt it necessary.”
“And her younger sister saw the need for it.”
“Not exactly. The younger sister enjoyed offering hospitality. She enjoyed making choices that pleased her father’s guests. It is for this reason she was better loved, if not better trusted; most believed that she was simply the more socially adept of the two. This was true,” he added. “But she enjoyed the duties she undertook.
“As oldest, Azoria should have stepped into that role; she did not. She considered it irrelevant, and left it to her sister. Her younger sister felt Azoria was an unappreciated genius, and that she herself had little of value to the family. She supported and adored Azoria.”
“Yet Azoria killed her.”
“It was an accident; it was not intended. But as you’ve surmised, there was some resentment, some misunderstanding. Azoria felt she was doing everything in her power to strengthen Berranin. Everything. Her younger sister—”
“What was her name?” Kaylin asked.
“Leyalyn. Is it important?”
“I just wanted to know. Sorry for interrupting you.”
“Very well. Leyalyn, to Azoria’s mind, was worth far less, could offer far less, to advance the power of Berranin—and yet, in the end, it was Leyalyn who was adored. Azoria did not hate her sister, but could not untangle the envy. It is not uncommon. Leyalyn herself believed it would be Azoria who raised her family’s profile, Azoria who shone the most brightly. She never questioned it. She was not maneuvering for affection—it was simply given her because of her interests and her generosity.
“Leyalyn’s father wished for a daughter to become Consort. He thought Leyalyn could—but if she could, that would mean that no genius, no work, would ever allow Azoria to claim what she felt was rightfully hers. Azoria understood the needs of Berranin as a whole; she did not understand what the Lake required, but very, very few did.
“You could tell Barrani what the Lake requires; most would not believe it, regardless. Follow me.”
Barrani rooms often lacked interior doors, but an exception had clearly been made; there were sturdy doors here. “These are Azoria’s personal chambers.” He gestured at the doors; they were not heavily engraved, as the first doors had been.
“No. The magics here are very simple, and much more easily disentangled. The changes to the entry doors were done quite late.”
The doors rolled open in silence.
Kaylin stepped through them into a short hall. Straight ahead was an arch, but it was at the center point of a T-junction. The arch revealed a room of light and air; beyond it an arch opened—without doors—onto a balcony beyond which was a garden beneath a cloudless sky. Kaylin shook her head. “Not here.”
“No.” The Avatar then pointed to the left.
To the left, a single door was partially open as if someone had forgotten to close it when they left the room. Kaylin approached this unwarded door and pushed it wide open.
Inside this room was an easel, a chair in front of it, and a chair behind. The walls in this room were bare, but huddled against each of them, even the wall which was mostly window, were shapeless tarpaulins. Kaylin approached those beneath the window’s light and very carefully pulled the rough cloth back.
There were paintings here. Kaylin didn’t know much about painting, but she knew what she liked. Azoria’s work was, to Kaylin’s eye, good. She’d clearly been interested in portraiture; all of the visible canvases were of people, but the canvases, still stretched, were stacked in a lean against the wall that supported them. Kaylin began to separate them, looking at the people she’d painted in various poses. Some were unfinished; they stood, in very fine and detailed clothing, in a cloud of white, as if background were irrelevant. All were Barrani.
Teela, after a moment’s pause, joined Kaylin, choosing to examine the canvases to the left of the door as they entered. Terrano and Serralyn took the right side. Kaylin would have warned Terrano to handle the paintings with care, but Serralyn was clearly in charge there.
Kaylin recognized none of the subjects. That made sense: most of these had probably been painted before the High Halls had collapsed in on itself to contain deadly Shadow.
“Yes,” the Avatar said. “Her later work is elsewhere.”
Kaylin rose. “Where are the rest?”
“In her gallery. I do not believe she allowed a single person to enter it in my time. Here, she did entertain subjects. Some, she gifted the paintings she had done; some she abandoned, unsatisfied. And some, she retained for her own personal reasons.”
“Does it break any rules if we see them?”
“No—it is unusual, but were I reluctant to breach her privacy, I would not have retrieved these rooms. They are not rooms which will ever see use again; she cannot return to them. And if, as you fear, she is still a danger, it is information we require. The privacy of a person long dead is of far less import than the safety of the Consort and the Lake.” To Kaylin, he added, “I am not Hallionne. That was never my function.”
Given the deaths that occurred regularly within the High Halls, he was definitely not a Hallionne.
“The gallery,” the Avatar said. “Lady, please remain here.”
“You said it was safe,” Kaylin—who had not been asked to stand back—pointed out.
“Where the Lady is concerned, we practice an abundance of caution.”
Of course. Kaylin felt the same impulse, but felt minor resentment regardless.
“It is why people are complicated,” the Avatar said.
“Yes, but in this case I resent you, not her.”
“That is true.” The Avatar smiled. Lifting a hand, he opened the door.
Kaylin knew that the light—the sunlight, the open space—wasn’t real. Whatever lay beyond open windows and arches was like a painting; it looked genuine but it couldn’t be touched, couldn’t be entered. She expected that this gallery—it was called a gallery—would be full of artificial light, something that mimicked sun.
“She believed that sunlight would damage paintings.”
“Artificial sunlight?”
“It was not always artificial,” the Avatar replied. “And she was not wrong.”
Kaylin could see a hall in dim light. A window of a kind existed at the far end of the hall, not the normal Barrani open arch. The light from that spread out to touch walls; the walls were farther apart than the gloom and dim light suggested. Not a hall, then. A long, narrow room.
“Can you add light to the room so we can examine it?”
“I can,” the Avatar said, but after a longer pause.
“Don’t,” Teela told him. “Don’t add anything that she herself did not add when she entered this gallery.” Something about her tone was pure Hawk.
Hope’s wing remained over Kaylin’s eyes.
Only when he lifted it—briefly, as if to make a point—did she see that the gallery was well lit.
“Teela.”
Teela nodded.
“It’s a much darker room when seen through Hope’s wing.” It reminded Kaylin of Mrs. Erickson’s unused parlor.
“Hope?” Kaylin said.
No.
“I need to be able to see what’s in the room.”
The Avatar fell silent for two long breaths. “Lady,” he said, although he didn’t look at the Consort, “I must ask you to leave.”
The Consort stiffened; Kaylin thought she would argue.
“She is arguing,” the Avatar then said. “Lady—there is something very strange, very off, about this enclosed space. It should not be possible, and it implies that I am not in full control, not fully aware, of what has been done.”
Teela turned to the Consort, her eyes indigo. “He requires your permission to remove you. Give it.” It wasn’t a request; the Consort might have been Kaylin for all the respect she was now offered.
“And will you leave Lord Kaylin at risk?”
“Kaylin is a Hawk. This is her investigation. I’ll be here to partner her because Hawks do not operate on their own unless their partner is incapacitated or dead, and her partner is not on the premises. She is not the mother of our people—you are. And you have already seen the cost of Azoria’s attempt to take the Lake. If the Avatar is uncertain, you cannot responsibly take the risk.” When the Consort failed to nod, she continued. “You are aware of the difficulties and injuries caused to Hallionne Orbaranne in the West. They were not predictable; she did not understand the avenue of attack. This may well be similar—and you are the largest target; it is your control of the Lake, the Lake’s gift to you, that she lacked. Or lacks.”
“It wasn’t hard,” Terrano said. “I’m aware of what we did, of how we worked our way through Alsanis and Orbaranne. I can’t see the same cracks here—but the High Halls are aware of what we did, and they’re looking. Look, I’m sorry that I almost caused your death, and I’m doing what I can here—with the Avatar—to make sure it doesn’t happen again. I mean, from anyone else.”
“You wish to hold the record, do you?” the Consort asked, one brow lifting—as did the corners of her lips. She was genuinely amused. “Very well. My preference, given the nature of the possible difficulty, is to remain—but I will concede.”
Almost before the last syllable was uttered, she vanished.
Kaylin poked her familiar. “Okay now?”
Hope smacked her face with his wing, and then adjusted it so it sat only across one eye. Wingless, the room was bright. Winged, it was dark. The darkness seemed to gather nearest the walls, but it looked far more natural than it had in Mrs. Erickson’s home.
“The room there was fixed and very small,” the Avatar said. Clearly whatever had prevented him from easily hearing thoughts was no longer interfering. “It would therefore be less obvious. Terrano, do not touch the paintings.”
Serralyn had a death grip on his left shoulder the moment the Avatar spoke.
There were paintings—or frames—on either side of the long hall. In the light, they appeared to be very similar in composition to the paintings in the studio portion of Azoria’s chambers. Through the wing of the familiar, Kaylin could see dim outlines. There were no ugly, livid flowers; none of the subjects had braided hair.
But she recognized two of them the moment her eyes touched them.
Amaldi and Darreno.