by David Debord
“Is there something you need, Novit Clehn?” Sibson stood over him, looking down not unkindly.
“Sorry, Master, this is all new to me. It’s a great deal to take in.”
“I suppose it is,” Sibson agreed. “I fear the subject matter has become a bit stale to me, given that I’ve lectured on it at least once a year for more years than I can count.”
“How many Godwars were there?”
“Only three conflicts are named Godwars, but history is filled with minor conflicts between a handful of gods.” Sibson chuckled. “Minor, that is, in terms of the numbers of gods involved. From the human standpoint, there was nothing minor about them.”
“When was the last one?”
Sibson scratched his head and looked up at the ceiling. “3468, I believe. That was the last time the gods did battle.”
Oskar froze. An idea had just come to him but did he dare try it?
“Master Sibson, as you pointed out, being new to the Gates, I’ve missed a great deal. Might I have your permission to visit the archives so that I may study up on the First Godwar and anything else I might have missed?” His heart raced as he awaited the master’s answer.
Sibson gazed at him through hooded eyes. “Novits may not visit the archives. Besides, the curriculum is circular. Anything you missed will come back around in time.”
Oskar’s heart sank.
“However, it would benefit you to at least have a passing acquaintance with the first Godwar as we move forward. I will write a note asking that you be permitted to borrow Saclan’s Godwar. It is not heavy reading, but it will give you a passing acquaintance with the subject matter.”
Oskar forced a smile and thanked the master. While Sibson dug out a quill, ink, and sand, and wrote and then blotted the note, Oskar reflected on all he had learned today. Something was bothering him.
“What happened to the gods? The seven, I mean.” Oskar knew that history was sprinkled with the names of other gods who seemed to have died out along with their worshipers. “They were involved in human affairs for thousands of years and then, suddenly, they’re... absent.”
“That does seem to be the case.” Sibson handed him the piece of parchment. “Not only have they not taken a hand in our affairs for some time now, but their touch on the world is lighter. Magic today is much weaker than it was during and prior to the Third Godwar.”
Oskar nodded. This was something he already knew. Something still bothered him.
“Where do you think they went?”
Sibson managed a faint smile. “No one knows.”
“What kept you?” Naseeb asked when Oskar arrived at their alchemy class.
Oskar showed him the note.
“Not what you were hoping for,” Naseeb said. “For what it’s worth, you’re the first novit I’ve known who’s gotten to borrow a book from the archives.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t get me any closer to gaining access to the archives. I just hope I can learn something useful in time.”
“In time for what? Wait, is that another of those things you can’t tell me?” Naseeb asked.
“I’m afraid it...what is it?”
Naseeb’s eyes had grown unfocused and his expression calculating. “You might not be as far away as you might think. Give me a minute.” He turned and whispered something to Whitt, who frowned and shook his head. Naseeb whispered something else Oskar couldn’t quite make out and made an emphatic gesture. Whitt flinched and then his shoulders sagged as he relented.
“What did you say to him?” Oskar whispered.
“As you’re always telling me, it’s better if you don’t know. Just remember to act surprised.”
“Better you hadn’t told me anything. Then I really would be surprised.”
Naseeb rolled his eyes and turned to look at Master Lepidus, who was beginning his lecture.
Lepidus discussed the properties of dragonroot, a sample of which lay on each table. Dried and ground, it could be used in a poultice to cure infection, or mixed with certain leaves to alleviate the pain of a toothache. It was the juice, however, that gave the root its name. In its purest form, it was more flammable than naphtha, but if it were brought slowly to a boil, it became a strong liquor— one which only the wealthy could afford, and could only be drunk in small amounts.
“I like to add a pinch of mint leaves just as it begins to boil,” Lepidus said, “but the Master Dac Kien tells me that on the other side of the Sun Sands, they prefer ground orange or lemon peels.” He narrowed his eyes and mimicked a stage whisper, “I hear Proctor Basilius puts bull stock in his.”
A brief, stunned silence gave way to uproarious laughter among those students who knew exactly what bull stock was, followed by another ripple of laughter as they explained the joke to their fellow novits.
“You will use a press to squeeze the juice from your root. Add water. Then you will slowly heat it,” Lepidus said once the class had returned to some semblance of order. “Bring it to a boil, and keep in mind, it is flammable. You won’t have enough juice to do any serious damage, but you could suffer a painful burn if you aren’t careful. And...” he paused for dramatic effect, “the five students with the lowest marks will be drinking your concoctions, so don’t poison them. He winked to show he was joking, and the novits, once again laughing, set to work.
The surprise came a few minutes into the lesson, when Whitt lost his balance and fell backward, upsetting Agen’s flask. Agen cried out in alarm as a brilliant flash of white light filled the room. Oskar shielded his eyes and, when he opened them, Naseeb was gone.
It took Lepidus a minute to sort things out. The fire had only singed the cuff of Agen’s cloak, but it had incinerated his lecture notes. Lepidus instructed Whitt to provide Agen with a new set of notes, and then warned him that any more accidents would earn him an evening in the kitchens.
Oskar felt something bump against his shins and looked down to see Naseeb crawling beneath the table. The dark-skinned youth rose just before Lepidus went to get a new root for Agen and his friends.
“Where did you go?” Oskar asked as everyone returned to work.
“I’ll tell you later.” Naseeb then turned to Whitt. “What were you thinking? That wasn’t the plan.”
“My way is more fun,” Whitt said. “I wondered, why make a fire at our table when I could set one at Agen’s instead?”
“I’ll copy those notes for you,” Oskar said, “as I suspect this has something to do with Naseeb’s plan to help me, whatever that plan might be. I’m just glad you weren’t sent to the kitchens. I couldn’t have covered that one for you.”
“Lepidus rarely punishes us. You have to step far out of bounds or blunder several times to get in his bad books,” Whitt said. “Besides, it would have been worth it.”
The remainder of the class passed without incident though Lepidus surprised them by taking a sip from each group’s flask. He briefly calmed Agen’s anger at Whitt by proclaiming him and his table mates “future brew masters,” but then ruined the moment by clutching his throat and gagging. By the time class was dismissed, Oskar had decided Lepidus was his favorite instructor.
Back in the room, Naseeb dug two small roots from a pocket within his robes and held them up. They looked like tiny, pink carrots. “Here’s what we need. Better than magic. Now, give me Sibson’s note.”
Puzzled, Oskar handed him the note. Naseeb opened it and read aloud.
“Please allow Novit Clehn to borrow Saclan’s Godwars. -M Sibson”
Oskar watched as Naseeb ground up the roots, added water and spread the resulting paste over the words ‘borrow Saclan’s Godwars.’ Almost immediately the gooey substance began to change color: first gray, then charcoal, and finally, inky black. Grinning, Naseeb took out a small knife and scraped it away.
The words were gone!
“That’s nice, but what now?” Oskar asked.
“I happen to have a gift for copying handwriting.” Naseeb took out his quill and ink and added th
e words ‘use the archives.’ “There,” he said handing the paper to Oskar. “Now you have permission from a master.”
Oskar examined the note carefully. Naseeb’s script was a perfect match for Lepidus’ own handwriting. It would probably fool the master himself.
“What if Keeper Corwine still won’t let me in?”
“I can only cut your food. I can’t chew and swallow it for you.” Naseeb flashed a wicked grin. “Corwine doesn’t mind the desk. It’s usually an initiate, sometimes a saikur. Choose a time when an initiate’s at the desk and dare him to countermand a master.”
“All right,” Oskar said. “I’ll do it today.”
Chapter 18
A thin sheen of cold sweat coated Oskar’s brow by the time he reached the archives. The closer the moment came, the more certain he grew that this would not work. He was a novit. He was not allowed inside.
When the archives’ arched entryway came into sight, he stopped and leaned against the wall to catch his breath.
“Why am I doing this?” he whispered. “Aspin can search the archives when he returns. He doesn’t need my help.” This, of course, was not entirely true. Aspin had told him that he did, in fact, need Oskar’s help.
He thought of all the times he’d hidden in Lord Hiram’s warehouse, poring over one of the few books in Galsbur. Back then, he would have given anything to be here in this great center of learning, soaking up all the knowledge the masters had to offer without fear of getting chucked out for sneaking into the archives. It wasn’t fair. Did he truly owe Aspin so much?
And then a face came unbidden to his mind. Shanis. He remembered their childhood and the affection he’d always had for her. He thought of her sincere desire to bring peace to Lothan, a sentiment he’d never thought the hot-tempered girl could possess. She was his lifelong friend and one of the people who mattered to him most. If a new Frostmarch approached, and the evidence suggested that it did, she would need help.
“You aren’t just doing this for Aspin,” he whispered. “You’re doing it for her.” Emboldened by this conviction, he strode into the archives.
The young man at the desk didn’t bother to look up from the book he was reading.
“Name?” he drawled.
“Oskar Clehn.”
Now, the young man did look up. His forehead crinkled as he looked Oskar up and down, and then consulted a scroll.
“You are not on the list. Are you an initiate?”
“No. I mean, I have a note.” He thrust the doctored sheet of parchment into the young man’s hands.
“I have never heard of a novit being granted access to the archives.” He ran his finger across the words as if he could detect a forgery.
“I’m brand new and woefully behind. Master Sibson believes that, with enough extra effort, I can catch up, but I have some holes in my knowledge that are making it difficult for me to keep pace with the rest of the class.” He’d rehearsed this line and hoped he didn’t sound as wooden as he feared.
“I really should consult with the keeper about this.”
“Feel free, if it will hurry things along,” Oskar bluffed. “All I know is Master Sibson expects me to be caught up on several historical periods by next class, which is only two days away. He’s in quite a temper about it.”
“So this is only temporary?”
“Yes. Just until I can catch up.” Oskar’s heart skipped a beat. Might he actually pull it off?
“Which the master expects you to accomplish in two days.” The young man rolled up Oskar’s note and tapped it on the table, considering. “Very well. Being a novit, you won’t know your way around. What periods of history are you studying?”
“The Godwars, and...” his mouth had gone dry. “The Silver Serpent.”
“I beg your pardon? If you’re studying the Godwars, you won’t need to know anything about the Silver Serpent for some time yet. That doesn’t come up until much later. Besides, there’s not a section devoted to it. You’d have to scour texts from various periods in order to find a mere mention of it.”
“Sorry. I thought it was a weapon used in the Godwars,” Oskar improvised. “At least, that’s the way the story was told in my village.”
“You’re thinking of the Frostmarch. Stick with your lessons and you’ll get to that soon enough.” The young man told him where he could find information on the Godwars, reminded him that the archives closed at the evening bell and returned to his book.
“May I have my note back?” Oskar reached out to take back the piece of parchment, but the young man slid it away.
“Sorry, all notes are turned over to Keeper Corwine for his records. I’ll be working the desk for the next several days and I’ll remember you so you won’t need the note.”
Panic welled up inside Oskar. When Corwine saw the note he would immediately know that something was amiss, and it would take only a word with Sibson to learn the truth. What an idiot he’d been! Sneaking into the archives was bad enough, but he’d forged a note from one of the masters. This could get him and his two friends chucked out. He had to get that note back!
“All right, then. Thank you.” As he walked slowly away, he watched from the corner of his eye as the young man placed the note in a basket behind the table. Perhaps Oskar could manage to get hold of it on his way out.
Unable to do anything about it at the moment, he figured he might as well take advantage of the fact he was actually inside the archives! All his life, he’d heard tales of the wondrous library at Karkwall in Lothan. Having seen it during his travels, he now knew that it paled in comparison to this place. There looked to be as many books and scrolls on this floor alone as in Karkwall’s entire collection. His eyes roamed over the shelves and he felt something like hunger stir inside him.
He took a moment to look around. In the center of the room, robed men sat at a long table, poring over thick tomes. Every one of them used a floating ball of light to illuminate the area around him. Good thing he’d already mastered that trick. He realized there were no lights in the archives, save the glow from the saikurs’ and initiates’ spell light. He supposed an open flame inside a tower filled with old paper would be a bad idea.
The Godwars books were shelved in the collection on the third floor, and he used his glowing light to make his way there. This floor was arranged the same as the first floor, with rows of shelves in concentric circles and a long table in the center. A lone saikur sat there, reading, and did not look up when Oskar entered, which was fine with him. Hoping he didn’t encounter anyone who would know he didn’t belong, he began his search.
Time seemed to lose all meaning in this dark, silent place. He had no idea how the shelves were organized, and few books had printing on the spine, so he ended up wandering through the stacks, opening books at random and flipping through. The snatches of text he read covered a variety of topics, all of which he would have loved to explore, but he knew time was short.
He found nothing about the Silver Serpent, but finally located the books covering the First Godwar. Figuring he should at least complete the task Master Sibson had set him to, he found the book, Godwars, and stood in a corner out of sight and read until evening bell.
He assumed he would have to sign the book out, and hoped that when he did, he might find a way to distract the young man at the table long enough to retrieve his note, but when he reached the first floor, his stopped short. Keeper Corwine now stood behind the table, helping his assistant, who was furiously signing out books for a long line of saikurs. That tore it. Oskar was not about to let the keeper see his face. Dousing his light, he retreated to the stairs and stuffed Godwars inside his robe. What was one more violation in light of what he’d already done today? He waited until a group of initiates passed close by him. They paid him no mind when he fell in beside them. Trying not to look guilty, he walked out the door.
It was not until he reached his room and stowed the book in his trunk that he was able to breath normally again, but that relief was
short-lived. There was still the matter of his note. What was he going to do?
Chapter 19
“I am afraid he is dying.” Jowan the Archpriest of the Temple of the Seven, shook his head as he turned away from King Allar. His face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes were troubled. “I am truly sorry, Your Majesty.”
Larris put his arm around Queen Arissa’s shoulders, but his comfort was not needed, at least, not at the moment. Queen Arissa maintained a calm exterior and her face was a mask of determination.
“What ails him, exactly?” Her voice held a hint of challenge.
The priest shrugged. “Age. His body grows tired and is no longer operating as it should.”
“Age,” Arissa repeated. “His Majesty is barely fifty summers. He is hardly an old man.”
“Some men decline faster than others. Ruling takes its toll on a man, as does, believe it or not, spending too much of one’s time sitting on a throne or at table.”
“My father was a great soldier in his day.” Larris clenched his fists, struggling to match his mother’s calm. “He fought the Kyrinians more times than I can count.”
Jowan raised a liver-spotted hand. “Please understand, it is not my desire to diminish your father’s achievements, Highness. I only point out that it has been a long time since he spent his days in the saddle, and a few more since he found himself on the front lines. I sincerely regret that I can do no more than prescribe a restorative draught.”
“But it won’t return him to health?” Arissa asked.
“No. It will strengthen him and perhaps prolong his life.” The priest opened his bag and withdrew a stoppered vial of viscous amber liquid.
“I’ll see to it that he gets it.” Larris snatched the vial away from the priest with unnecessary force, but right now, he didn’t care what the priest thought of him. “How much of it and how often?”
“One spoonful in the morning and another in the evening.” The priest looked back at the king, who lay sleeping, and winced. “I should give him the first dose just to see how he reacts.”
