by Barb Hendee
Wynn pointed at the floor beside her chair. “A’Shiuvalh, so-äiche! Walk . . . come, here!”
The female craned her head around, and then sneezed. Snorting to clear her nose of dust, she wandered about the room, but finally settled beside the chair.
With a long exhale, Wynn turned to the materials before her, suddenly daunted. She’d waited so long for this, but now where to start?
Some sheets were bound in thin volumes of hardened cloth covers. It was easy to discern that these were complete sections, perhaps whole chapters, kept together because they related to a particular text. But others were merely neat, loose collections awaiting further translation or transcribed passages. Wynn closed her eyes, gathering her thoughts.
Translation had been ongoing for half a year. A good deal of work had been accomplished from the look of things, but Wynn knew better. She’d brought back two large bundles and one iron-bound sheaf of hardened leather sheets. The inked content here was written with compact Begaine symbols but with extra space between lines for further notes and corrections. At a guess, less than a fifth of what she had brought had even been touched. But the murders and thefts had only recently begun, so she knew she shouldn’t spend much time on the pages completed earlier.
But which ones were they?
And more important, she had to be able to cross-reference which pages existed in the codex but weren’t present on the table—as the murderer had taken them. These would be the pages she needed to examine, and she wouldn’t receive an ounce of guidance from her superiors.
She opened the codex, flipped to its rearmost pages, and breathed in relief. The record of scheduled work had been kept intact, all the way to the project’s beginning. At least she could roughly determine which pages were most recently translated. She took a moment to scan the names of those who’d been involved.
Cathology was the second smallest of the orders, next to metaology. Of course High-Tower’s name appeared time and again, as well as two others. But there were also domins and masters from the other orders, as needed. Ghassan il’Sänke appeared infrequently. It seemed even he, as an outsider, had seen only a minimum of the work.
Wynn picked up a thin, bound volume and looked at the opening page—volume seven, section two. But which text did this refer to? Most of the texts she’d selected hadn’t had any titling on their crude bindings.
She didn’t know how her superiors had tabulated the originals, so she checked the reference against the codex’s schedule of completed work. This thin volume had its last addition made on the fourth of Billiagyth—Leaf’s Shower—the last third of autumn by the elven calendar used throughout the region. And that was within the present moon.
Taking up loose pages, Wynn prepared to read, but she stopped upon seeing two running columns of text on each page.
Both were scripted in the Begaine syllabary, but the left column represented the original language, while the right was a translation into Numanese. Her estimate of how much work had been completed had just been cut in half again.
Many passages didn’t make sense, for only bits and pieces had been finished. In some she found strings of dots between the syllabic symbols, which indicated the number of words that remained unreadable or untranslatable from the original. There were also long strokes across entire columns for anyplace in a text that was too faded or worn to count words. And there were margin notes wherever a readable word or phrase had defied translation so far.
Yet the passages before her clearly held information regarding a war—or rather, battles fought in locations she’d never heard of. She struggled through broken terminology and gained a sense that different sections, further separated by blank lines, were written from the perspective of differing authors. But one dimension of content remained constant.
Details, such as numbers of combatants lost or territory taken or estimation of enemy forces slaughtered, were related as cold facts in past tense. As if death and suffering were irrelevant to those who recorded it long ago. The countless dead were of no more consequence than an itemized account of possessions, of no personal value in being lost.
Taken as a whole, in quick estimate, the numbers were staggering . . . unbelievable.
Wynn guessed at the original text these passages had come from, as she and Chap had looked for books that might contain references to the Forgotten History. One in particular had seemed to contain an accounting of past events, like some general’s tactical campaign history. Chap advised her to take it for the sheer weight of concise information.
How had her superiors decided which pages to translate first? By sampled content topic? By estimated order in which they’d been written?
She picked up another collection of pages, looking for translator’s notes on the text’s internal chronology. But even strange dates mentioned were noted as vague or approximate and without correlation. In most cases a time reference wasn’t present at all, leaving only a guess concerning the chronology of how one text might fit among the others.
Wynn rubbed her eyes. The elven calendar, based on the seasons, each divided into named thirds, had been taken on 483 years ago, when King Hräthgar had first united territorial clans in the beginnings of Malourné. From that time forward was now known as the Common Era. But how many years, centuries, or more came before that, since the lost time of the Forgotten History? No one knew, not even the elves, the Lhoin’na . . . supposedly.
Any dates mentioned by the ancient authors of these texts would be of little use. There was no point of reference to compare a long-lost calendar system used at that time with the one now part of life in the Numan Lands.
Domin Tilswith, Wynn’s old master, believed the war had taken place well over a thousand years ago. No one was certain of this, even among the guild, and the large gap in time made determination of long-past events unverifiable.
And Wynn realized part of why the guild was being so secretive.
Without proof, including time frame, these writings could be dismissed as speculation or a mere collection of accounts from differing periods as well as places. And not from the same war that had devastated the known world.
Varied ideologies and religions, including the major four of the Numan Lands, believed the war never took place. Or if it had, that it wasn’t nearly as far-reaching as the catastrophe suggested by the guild. Wynn knew the royal family would take great pains to avoid anything that might cause unrest or discord—or open outrage and conflict. Even if solid proof were established, what could be more threatening than having one’s beliefs shown to be in error?
If anyone learned what Wynn believed—what Most Aged Father believed—that the Enemy was returning, even those convinced of the war’s magnitude might turn on those who didn’t, and in more than just heated disagreement. Fear would spread, and those who clung to unfounded beliefs or even incorrectly reasoned conclusions would in turn look upon others as the carriers of an incurable disease.
Wynn quieted her wandering thoughts. Was this what the undead killer searched for—proof that the enemy was returning? But to what end? She put aside any conclusions. At least now she understood part of High-Tower’s and Sykion’s fears—as well as il’Sänke’s warning.
She began trying to determine which pages or volumes listed in the codex weren’t present—the ones stolen by the black figure. She scanned section after section of the codex, taking notes on the breadth of the project. She turned to organizing and checking off volumes and pages of completed work, searching for what was missing.
Within the catacombs, without a window or the sound of city bells, she had no idea how long the task took—but long enough that the twin columns on the pages began to blur before her eyes. She took a pause before continuing.
Of course, she couldn’t guess what was in those missing folios, but she could look at adjacent pages and sections that she did find. Perhaps therein was a clue to what the black figure had sought and stolen. She returned to inspecting more pages—and she found a gap.
/>
There were pages listed in the codex as worked upon that weren’t in the loose stack in her hands. She flipped back to the last present page before the gap.
She came upon something that made her cold inside.
The page was covered in dots, much of the original being unreadable, though the words could be counted. There were also blanks in the right column for equivalent parts in the left one, indicating a section of text that had so far defied translation. From what Wynn could tell, the original had been written in one or more lost dialects of Sumanese. Of what had been translated, one term appeared a number of times.
in’Ahtäben—the Children.
What children? Whose children? And why the emphasis, as if it were a title? Baffled, she scanned the three pages that followed what was missing and then stopped. Her eyes fixed on another strange phrase within an incomplete sentence.
. . . the Night Voice . . . . . . . Beloved . . . of the Children.
Wynn shifted to the left column of original text rendered in Begaine symbols.
. . . . in’Sa’umar . . . . . . . Hkàbêv . . . myi in’Ahtäben. . . .
At first it didn’t seem like the same phrase, but she was reading ancient Sumanese. She’d heard one of the Ancient Enemy’s names spoken in more current Sumanese, as repeated by Magiere and Chap, and its translation had been the same: il’Samar—the Night Voice . . . in’Sa’umar—the Night Voice.
By the similar prefix on in’Ahtäben, that also had to be a title—the Children. And here was one more title for the Enemy: Hkàbêv—Beloved.
Wynn wasn’t reading about actual children—they were some group who’d served the Enemy of many names. She began searching for other names or anything concerning who these Children might be. On the very same page, in the left column, she sounded out two Begaine symbols for a name she would never forget.
Li’kän.
The white undead had selected a tin scroll case from her castle’s library—the same one that Chane had brought to Wynn. And Wynn found two more names near Li’kän’s.
Volyno and Häs’saun.
She didn’t know her hands shook until the sheets’ upper corners began to shiver. She’d seen these names written on castle walls in the faded black fluids of Li’kän. Three guardian undead had once inhabited that place, but Li’kän was alone when Wynn and her companions had reached the castle.
Wynn read further and came upon a reflexive proper noun. Volyno had written this passage. When she turned to the next sheet, the page’s numbering jumped by three.
She stopped, quickly checking her notes, and then scanned the codex for any date on which missing pages or selected passages had been sent out for transcription. When she found it, finally realizing the time frame, Wynn sank into depression.
It was the night Jeremy and Elias had died.
Whatever was missing had been in that stolen folio, and the black figure had willingly killed for it. Wynn returned to the loose stack, reading onward, and found two more strange titles aside from the Children.
The Reverent and the Eaters of Silence.
Upon her return home with the texts, Domin il’Sänke had been asked to extend his visit and assist with any ancient Sumanese dialects found therein. Likely he’d worked on these terms. Unable to stop, she read on and found more proper names scattered throughout the pages.
Jeyretan, Fäzabid, Memaneh, Creif, Uhmgadâ, Sau’ilahk, and more . . .
In places, she could tell where another person was referred to, but next to these were only a blank space or a margin note—“marks or letter system unknown” or “symbol or ideogram unknown.” She counted these anyway, making note in her journal. It was impossible to tell if any name belonged to any particular group or none of them at all. But she found two closely positioned near another mention of Li’kän.
Vespana and Ga’hetman.
She didn’t like the implication.
In the very next sentence—or fragments of it—the white undead was referred to as “daughter of Beloved.”
Wynn froze.
Daughter, as in a child—Li’kän was one of the Children. Vespana and Ga’hetman were mentioned with her as well. And Volyno and Häs’saun had been with her at one time in that ice-bound castle.
The Children—like Li’kän—were all ancient Noble Dead.
“Valhachkasej’â!” Wynn swore in a whisper, more from fright than anger.
Vampires from a thousand or more years ago had served their “Beloved” in a war that erased the world’s history. There were five, not one, not Li’kän alone, and that one had survived for so long. . . .
Wynn didn’t want to finish that thought.
How many of the other four still walked the world to this day?
A vampire versed in one of the three magics, who had existed for a thousand years, might develop power beyond what any mage could hope for in one lifetime. Perhaps even the power to walk through walls, to become incorporeal at will, and yet physically tear out a city guard’s chest.
Was Rodian half-right concerning the black figure? She had even seriously entertained his notion. Was it a mage as well as a vampire—like Chane?
Was it one of the other four among the Children?
Wynn flipped to a blank page in her journal and began writing every name she could find.
She marked the names of five of the Children. The rest remained to be identified as either the Reverent or the Eaters of Silence, or someone separate altogether. She scanned onward, reaching a place where the original text had decayed too much. Only fragments of Volyno’s entry remained.
. . . through victory sweet [unknown symbols/letters] . . . . . . . world in tatters still and . . . . . . . great numbers of the obedient chattel . . . . . western force was destroyed. Beloved took refuge . . . . .the Children divided.
Wynn paused with her quill hanging motionless above her journal.
The Children, the five, divided—what did that mean? Did they become at odds with one another? And why had the Beloved taken refuge, and from what?
Volyno and Häs’saun had gone with Li’kän and the orb into the Pock Peaks, where the castle had been built by minions in that high frozen waste. Wynn knew too well what had become of those “obedient chattel.” Magiere had seen hundreds of ancient skeletons, only some of them human, left crouched and curled in obeisance within small stone cubbies—left to starve in the cavern below the castle. The sanctuary they had built housed the orb that Magiere, Leesil, and Chap now attempted to hide somewhere in safety.
But what had happened to Volyno and Häs’saun?
It was hard to imagine that they’d simply left, since Li’kän seemed trapped there. Every time the white undead had tried to do anything, something unknown and unseen had reined her in. In over a thousand years she’d never left that place. Alone for so long, and sinking into her madness, Li’kän had even forgotten the sound of spoken words. It seemed likely that for whatever reason, Volyno and Häs’saun were no more.
And if “divided” did mean “separated,” there was still the question of where Vespana and Ga’hetman had gone. And why decrease their strength in numbers, as well as abandon their master? Three had gone with the orb, so what had the other two done?
And most of all, where had their Beloved gone?
Perhaps these answers were what the black-robed undead was searching for—other ancient servants of the Enemy. Wynn reached a disconnected phrase so puzzling it knocked out all other questions.
. . . . the anchors of creation . . .
She checked the left column. Its translated part sounded like some kind of Sumanese, possibly Iyindu, but the rest was missing. If Domin il’Sänke had translated this, she would have to ask him. But when she scanned the rest of the column and looked to the codex for any further reference, she found nothing more. Surely if il’Sänke had any notion of its possible meaning, he would’ve noted it for others working on translations. With no other texts as old as these ever found, internal referencing was what would
be leaned upon most.
Volyno’s writing grew more and more sketchy, more broken by untranslated or unreadable pieces. Soon Wynn found it difficult to distinguish between a possible name and just indefinable proper nouns. She did come across a word translated as “priests” near another reference to “those of the Beloved.”
She remembered the calcified remains Magiere had spoken of along the curving tunnels and cavern of the orb. Li’kän had walked between those long-dead worshipers in utter disregard. Again Wynn found herself understanding—sharing—the fear that drove Sykion and High-Tower to deception and subterfuge.
Had a dark religion existed behind the force that sought the end to all sentient life?
Wynn didn’t care to think how people like Rodian would take that, coupled with an ancient history they denied. Had the Children also been a religious order?
