Vendurro gave a long, low whistle. “Really took his job all kinds of serious, didn’t he?”
“He considered it his holy duty. And while it’s difficult enough to gauge tone in something written in your own language, let alone something written a millennium ago, Anroviak sounded awfully arrogant to me. He was sure he would be the one to unravel the mystery of the memory witches. That it would be his means of rising high in the order.” I left out that I was tempted to skim those gruesome details, but forced myself to read every disgusting and detailed word, and was glad of it when I failed to make out some of the language.
“Anroviak’s disappointments were perfectly clear, as he went on at great length describing his failed attempts to produce any demonstrative or persuasive results and increasing frustration. He even admitted he briefly considered falsifying records and testimonies, but wouldn’t allow himself to do so.”
“Course not,” Mulldoos said. “Real man of principle. Good to know holy bastards were still holy bastards a hundred hundred years gone. Kind of a comfort.”
Vendurro replied, “I don’t get you. You hate Memoridons, or witches, or whatever you want to call them. Why do you care what he did?”
“Couldn’t give a shit and a half, Ven. And while I got nothing against seeing them hang, experimenting on the poor bastards is something else altogether. Especially when some of them probably couldn’t walk into another man’s dreams any better than I could…”
He sought the right expression, and Hewspear offered, “Keep your lips pressed tightly together while our archivist regales us with a fascinating story that has been buried in the dust for a thousand years?”
Mulldoos grabbed his crotch. “Bite my rod.”
“I would rather not, though thank you for the invitation.”
Mulldoos started to reply when Braylar said, “Enough, the both of you. Go on, Arki. I would have you finish this before another millennium comes and goes.”
I flipped over a page and continued. “After a number of failures and setbacks, Anroviak finally rescued a witch who was not only cooperative, but actually possessed some of the skills she was accused of. Her name was Ruenzina.”
Vendurro asked, “How come witches are always women folk? Why can’t a man—” but he stopped himself when he saw Braylar glaring at him. “Sorry, Cap. Just curious, is all. Seems awful—” and then stopped himself a second time as the glare became glarier. “Right, Cap. Another time, then. Go on, Arki.”
“Ruenzina was a willing subject, apparently recognizing that her usefulness would determine exactly how long she stayed alive. They conducted a number of tests in front of countless clerical witnesses, where she demonstrated that she did in fact have the ability to walk in other men’s minds. Underpriest Anroviak was afraid of being branded a charlatan, so from what I gathered, he went overboard. The details of the tests, their results, and their meaning, were delineated in excruciating specificity, chapter after chapter.”
“Like this report,” Mulldoos said.
“Be glad I’m not reciting the translation word for word. In any event, Anroviak wasn’t content to simply prove that the memory magic was in fact real—he wanted to control the person wielding it. That was easy enough with one witch surrounded by countless guards, who didn’t possess the training to fight her way free, as Soffjian would have now. No, Anroviak wanted to bind Ruenzina to him somehow, so experiments continued, even as he instructed his men to continue following up on reports of more witchery, and sparing the lives of the accused if they happened to arrive in time. Which seldom occurred.
“But Anroviak wasn’t able to effectively bind her to him at all, and only succeeded in compiling more failure to do so. And when Ruenzina attempted to escape, no doubt sensing that her usefulness was quickly going to come to an end, she was cut down.”
“That it, then?” Mulldoos asked.
Braylar looked at my notes and saw that I hadn’t gotten to the end. “I’m assuming not.”
I nodded and said, “Anroviak presented his findings to the order, but he cursed himself for taking too long to present the actual witch. Without her to substantiate his claims, the order was skeptical at best, even with all the notarized witnesses. They ordered him to discontinue his experiments—it was a waste of resources, they said. Witches were to be hunted and killed, and if he performed admirably in that regard, his obsession would be forgiven. But he wasn’t to waste any more time on the pursuit.”
Hewspear gave a wry smile. “I’m guessing that didn’t sit too well with our ambitious, fixated underpriest.”
“No,” I replied. “It did not. He stormed out of the temple, furious at being publicly snubbed and humiliated. Called his superiors myopic fools and a number of other things that were difficult to make out entirely, but clearly weren’t flattering.” I looked at Braylar. “He obviously didn’t intend for them or anyone else to read any of this account. Where did you find it?”
Braylar twitch-smiled. “It is amazing the things people leave behind. Continue.”
“Well,” I flipped the page, scanning and summarizing, “Anroviak documented his efforts to continue hunting, in direct violation of his orders and overwhelming lack of support now. And he managed to capture more witches in secret, here and there, over a long stretch, though it was some time before he found another who could actually do what she was accused of and was willing to help. But when he did, she did everything he asked, completely pliant.”
“You should show this to Soffjian,” Mulldoos suggested. “She could learn a thing or three about being agreeable.”
Braylar glared him into silence and I continued. “Well, Mulldoos, you’ll probably appreciate this—this witch, Vella, was the daughter of Grass Dog immigrants.”
“Horseshit,” he said.
“No horseshit,” I replied. “And apparently, Vella’s parents knew about her talent, or taint, or whatever you want to call it.”
“Taint’s too pretty a word,” Mulldoos said.
“And since the Grass Dogs were already an ostracized and marginalized people in Anjuria, they attempted to keep her abilities secret rather than risk being killed along with her, as sometimes happened.”
Vendurro shook his head slowly, a little ruefully. “Good thing Lloi ain’t here to hear this. She would have been mighty jealous.”
Braylar said, “She also would have told you all to shut your mouths and let our scholar speak.”
No one else said anything, so I did. “Vella’s tribe had been annihilated by a neighboring tribe, but before they fled, they heard of a witch who had managed to moderate her powers by somehow communing with the Godveil. Her parents wanted to keep her alive and her secret safe, so once they were in Anjuria, they visited the Godveil.
“Anroviak was pretty incredulous here. While the Godveil hadn’t been around for that long yet, he’d heard only stories of men’s minds being destroyed whenever they approached, or them being killed outright. It’s clear in his account he initially thought Vella was lying, mistaken, or mad, and told her as much. But Vella swore to him that was the only thing that kept her safe for so many years, her visiting the Godveil, and somehow purging herself, or stilling the ability somehow. The text is a little unclear here.”
“Or maybe it’s you who’s not getting it right,” Mulldoos suggested.
“It’s true, I am translating a man’s words a thousand years distant, and he is transcribing or even translating hers. It sounded as if there was quite a communication gap even between them, and it took some time for Anroviak to parse out this much. So these passages are trickier than the rest. I’d need more time to work out the nuances here, but I also know I have the deeper essence right. He was skeptical, and Vella was equally insistent that approaching the Godveil was curing her, at least temporarily.”
Hewspear was chewing on a piece of straw, slowly, thoughtfully. “Does our good underpriest give more specifics? What exactly happened to the young Grass Dog witch when she ventured near the Godveil? How w
as she able to purge herself?”
Braylar didn’t scold his tall lieutenant, as all three Syldoon looked at me expectantly. Quite a reversal to be the one possessing some knowledge they didn’t, however small, and to be looked to for the answers for once. It was difficult to suppress a grin. The only thing that helped was that I didn’t have an adequate answer. “Whenever Anroviak describes her account, he uses the phrase en bozwek, repeatedly. Which can be interpreted to mean ‘awakening’ or ‘emptying.’ Which is odd, because both could be accurate. Apparently Vella had a difficult time describing what happened—she referred to it as having an awful dream that seemed to go on forever. Walking toward the Godveil was like waking up for her. The terrible dream ended. At least for a while. And when it felt like it was beginning again, she’d make another pilgrimage.
“In any event, her family was driven further west, the remnants of her tribe herded out of the Green Sea and further away from the Godveil. A forced migration. And once they were deep in Anjuria, they couldn’t continue the visits. So her pilgrimages became less frequent. And without a way to relieve herself, or wake up, or whatever we want to call it, she was discovered.”
Mulldoos looked around to be sure no one was approaching, then turned to Braylar. “That’s twice now.”
“What? That you made a cryptic declaration? I assure you, it is far more than that.”
“Two mentions of approaching the Veil.” Mulldoos looked at me. “The other thing you told Cap already, about the warrior with a cursed weapon like Bloodsounder—he walked into the Veil, too, that right?”
I started to answer in the affirmative, but Braylar cut me off. “No, that is a supposition. The text said only that he did not die but left the world behind. That could be poetic license, or a heroic tale, or many things. But the most likely is a ridiculous fabrication.” He turned to me. “So, did this underpriest of Truth put her story to the test?”
“He did. Anroviak escorted her there under guard, and watched as she approached, sure that her parents were ignorant savages and she’d only have her mind and soul blasted into oblivion, exactly like every other person who made the critical mistake of venturing too close. Or she was lying, and would confess before she got too close. But he also vowed to explore and exhaust every possibility, no matter how unlikely. So he and his small group of loyal soldiers watched as Vella walked toward the Veil, and were amazed when she was not struck down, but stood directly in front of the pulsating wall, completely unharmed.”
Mulldoos started to say something, but Braylar hissed him into silence and I pressed on. “She was still lucid as she returned, and exactly as she promised, she was unable to move into another’s dreams or mind. So she alleged. Somehow, she had channeled her power and offered it to the Godveil and managed to walk away. Anroviak had never heard of such a thing, so he immediately instructed some of his underpriests to begin furiously researching, trying to uncover any other evidence, apocryphal, anecdotal, or otherwise of anything else quite like that.
“But before he made any notable progress or at least had a chance to record it, the triumvirate discovered that he had been disobeying them. His last entries, bitter and vitriolic, indicated he was heading to trial to defend himself. But the final lines, scribbled rather hastily from the looks of it, stated that he believed he’d discovered something. If we capture the Godveil, we capture the witches. The Godveil is the key. He jotted down something about ‘frames.’ It could be ‘fence’ or even ‘prison’—I’ll need to reexamine. But he seemed to suggest there was a way to syphon off some of the Veil, some portion that wouldn’t prove deadly. And with that, control the witch. But that was it.”
I looked up from my notes to see everyone staring at me. Vendurro was the first to speak. “That can’t be it. Got to be more, doesn’t there?”
I shook my head. “Not in his account. Nor the remainder of that chest, either. I scourged the other scrolls and books and whatnot, hoping that somehow he had continued recording somewhere else. But that was it. At least so far. I still have a great deal to go through. But it’s pretty evocative, or tantalizing at least. This is the kind of thing you were looking for.”
Hewspear pulled the straw out of his mouth and said, “It is a shame there isn’t more. Much more. It could very well be that this underpriest was mad or grossly mistaken, or taken in by a charlatan. There are a number of possibilities here, and without being able to corroborate… it is a fascinating account, to be sure, and encouraging, but…”
“It is not proof of anything,” Braylar finished. “Just as the other record of someone wielding another weapon like Bloodsounder does nothing more than establish that such a story existed.” He tapped the chains. “Still. It is tantalizing, I will grant you that. That is the right word. Frustrating allusions, but tantalizing just the same. I hadn’t truly expected to find anything even auspicious.”
I replied, “While there have been a large number of allusions to witches, the Godveil, and even a few mentions of cursed weapons, they were always brief and sporadic. These two accounts were the only ones to delve into things at all. I had to sift through a lot of dusty immaterial documents.”
Braylar laid his hand on my shoulder. “You have done excellent work here, Arki.” Then he looked at his men. “I believe a conversation with our tight-lipped cleric is overdue. Vendurro, fetch him please.”
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to leave or not, but I assumed Braylar would instruct me to if that was the case, at least as soon as he recognized that I hadn’t left. He seemed distant, lost in a thought thicket somewhere as he looked off into the woods, his left hand idly drumming fingers on Bloodsounder’s chains.
Mulldoos and Hewspear had walked a short distance away as we waited, talking quietly amongst themselves.
I felt a bit awkward standing there with my pages in my arms, essentially alone in the middle of the Syldoon, but also filled with a sense of true purpose and usefulness for the first time. While translating in a moving, hot, foul-smelling wagon was far from pleasant, it was exhilarating to do it at all, and to have these hardened soldiers hanging on my every word was strange but wondrous as well.
Hewspear and Mulldoos walked back when they saw Vendurro return with Henlester. The High Priest looked tired, his eyes a little sunken in his sallow cheeks, the lines in his face even deeper and crinklier than before. And yet he still maintained a rigid posture that belied his years and his portly belly, and he seemed just as haughty as ever. “Well, this is a murder of crows, if I’ve ever seen one. What do you have need of me for, Syldoon?” He looked back at the small camp and his dark eyes narrowed further. “And why pull me from the luxurious surroundings of my rolling prison? It does my old bones no good at all.”
Braylar swept his arm lazily, indicating the countryside. “Perhaps not, but fresh air is excellent for the constitution. And I thought it was high time we had a little chat.”
“Did you now? And what would you like to chat about, Black Noose? My favorite herbs? Whether I prefer a high boot or low? With my frail ankles, it is high, if you must know.”
The captain smiled. “I suspect there is nothing frail about you, holy man, no matter how many years you have stalked the world.”
Henlester looked at our small group, taking us all in slowly. “And you would be mistaken. But since you haven’t been thoughtful enough to bring a bench or chair, I would prefer we end the fecund pleasantries. What is it you want of me? I find this air stifling.”
“My Emperor likely has a good many things to speak to you about, and I won’t presume to know what all of them are. But just now, I wanted to ask you about something else entirely.” Henlester’s wrinkled face seemed to somehow rumple up further. The captain let him chew on that for a moment and then said, “I am quite the student of history, your eminently Eminence. Oh, I can see it on your face, you find this surprising. It runs counter to all your dear-held beliefs that the Syldoon are naught but barbarians and beasts—even considering such a thing is like to u
pset your entire opinion of us, I am quite sure. But there it is. And of late, I have taken quite an interest in the history of your own esteemed order. Fascinating tales. Almas the Deliverer, one of the first to spread the word of your faith, bringing hope to the hopeless masses. Jendor of Farmoss, called the Unwashed, as he apparently vowed never to bathe until every soul on soil had converted to Truth. Which seems a convenient excuse for poor cleanliness, if you ask me.”
“No one did,” Henlester spat.
Vendurro nodded. “He has you there, Cap.”
“Be that as it may. The stories of those first priests, even the self-proclaimed filthy ones, well, one can hardly help but be inspired, yes? Your forefathers stood against the despair and malaise, the utter devastation of spirit visited upon the world as the Old Gods, the Great Gods, the only gods we’d ever known, in fact, left us high and dry.” He raised a fist. “And they said, ‘Hope is not lost! The world is not lost!’”
“Did you drag me out here only to mock me, Black Noose?”
Braylar clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “You mistake me, Your Eminence. I find all the accounts of the origins of your order truly remarkable. But while the miracles and marvels, the triumph in the face of the overwhelming, are all infinitely compelling, being a military man who lives and dies by logistics, I was far more enthralled by the accounts of the men, and in a few small instances, women, who did more than preach and proselytize.”
Henlester looked suspicious, even more than he had even moments earlier, which hadn’t seemed possible, as Braylar continued. “I am speaking of the ones who organized, collected the coins, built the temples, created the hierarchy, and a thousand other things required to transform a humble and modest movement into the rich and powerful order we see today.”
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