‘The library.’ As she spoke, her door opened to reveal Koslea.
‘And why would you be interested in the library?’ he asked.
‘It’s where they keep the books,’ she said. ‘I like to read.’
Koslea raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Any books in particular?’
‘Oh, I don’t know — history, literature, art, geography.’ She shrugged. ‘I like learning about new things.’
‘Perhaps I could accompany you?’
Myrrhini hesitated. There was no doubt the Key Yielder reported everything she did to Joukahainen, and she did not want him to have any inkling that she might be planning something.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I am sure you have more important things to do.’
‘More important than helping the Eye of Varuun?’ Koslea shook his head. ‘I cannot think of anything more important.’ He stepped aside and gestured for her to precede him through the door. With a sigh, Myrrhini led him out of her rooms. He followed her with due respect, but as always, she had sensed the edge in his voice. It was there whenever he spoke to her, but she could not work out what it meant. Sometimes she wished she could talk to someone about it, but there was no one.
The corridor outside was almost deserted, with only a murmur of conversation drifting along from the living quarters at the end. Myrrhini walked quickly past the doors that led into the various storage and work rooms lining her corridor. No one else but her lived in this arm of the Place.
The second arm held the main living quarters, and the third arm was the library and the places of study while the circular ‘rim’ was the domain of the Arms of Varuun. The centre, the ‘hub’ of the Place of the Acolytes, was the sole province of the Wielder of the Key of Varuun, Joukahainen.
In all of her time studying the Lore of the Acolytes, Myrrhini had never yet learned what the Key was or, for that matter, what Varuun was.
The long corridor that led away from her personal quarters was wide and swept around in a curve. At the outer end, it led into the rim, the circular corridor that surrounded the whole Place. Myrrhini stopped at the door and Koslea stepped ahead to open it for her. As always, the sounds of battle — metal clashing on metal, grunts and thuds — greeted her together with the stench of old sweat mingled with new. She recoiled.
Koslea stepped through the doorway and ushered her in.
As she stepped into the training room, the noise died away as every Arm turned to stare at her. Myrrhini tried to lift her chin and ignore the weight of their staring eyes, but failed. With every step, she felt weaker and weaker. As she passed, she heard the low mutters of the Arms. From the time it took for the sounds of battle to restart, she guessed that she was watched until she moved out of sight around the curve.
The movement of the noise allowed Myrrhini to imagine she was surrounded by a large bubble that blocked the outside world and its noises as she made her way through the rim of the Place of the Acolytes.
The whole rim was given over to the Arms. It held their vast training area as well as their barracks and mess hall. There was a narrow pathway along the inner edge where people could walk safely. It was no coincidence that anyone whowanted to move from one part of the Place to another had to traverse this training area. Many of the Belly of Varuun were unwilling workers, and regular sightings of the force of weaponry that stood between them and freedom was a powerful inducement to make the most of their lot.
The library occupied one whole side of the second spoke of the wheel. It was presided over by a small team of librarians who in turn were governed by Aue, an ageing but still sprightly member of the Mind.
Aue bobbed a greeting as Myrrhini entered. He rose from his desk and walked over to meet her with his arms outstretched.
‘Myrrhini,’ he said in his peculiarly high-pitched, warbling voice. ‘It is so good to see you.’
Myrrhini allowed the old man to wrap his spidery arms around her in his usual brief embrace. She gently patted him on the back and stepped away from him.
‘What brings you to us?’ Aue asked.
‘History,’ she replied.
‘Ah, history. Something I know a lot about.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Any history in particular?’
Myrrhini made a snap decision. ‘The history of the alliance between our peoples.’
Aue’s face broke into a broad smile. ‘My favourite subject. We have the finest collection in the world, right here in this very room.’
‘As one would expect,’ Koslea murmured.
Aue shot the younger man a look of disdain. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘We are obviously the experts in that particular field.’ He looked away from Kosleaand refocused on Myrrhini. ‘Was there any period you were interested in?’
‘The very beginning,’ Myrrhini answered.
Aue frowned, thoughtful. ‘The very beginning? The oldest work we have on the subject is written in the original tongue of the Mertians. It has never been translated.’ He gave Myrrhini an apologetic shrug. ‘You are welcome to see it, of course, but …’ His voice trailed off.
Myrrhini was about to shake her head and ask for one written in a language she could read but her real purpose came back to her. Appearing to translate the old manuscript could give her access to almost any other reference material.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I would like to look at that one.’
Aue made a little bow and shuffled away in quest of the manuscript.
‘Interesting choice,’ Koslea said. ‘I was unaware you could speak the Mertian tongue.’
‘It seems you are unaware of many things,’ Myrrhini said.
Koslea glared, but said nothing and they waited in silence for Aue to return. Myrrhini did not look at him, knowing what the expression on his face would be. Normally, she would be concerned that he was vexed with her, but not any more. She had seen the end of the world; what could Koslea do to her?
While she waited, Myrrhini looked around the library, taking in the tall shelves, the dim lighting, the several members of the Mind moving sedately around at their various tasks. She had spent a great deal of time in here, mainly reading poetry and tales of the great heroes of the past.
Time to grow up.
One of the young members of the Mind smiled nervously at her. She gave Koslea a quick look before smiling back. He was Hinrik, a gangly, awkward youth with kind eyes. Myrrhini liked him. Aue shuffled back with a box in his arms. Myrrhini moved to help him, but he refused her offer.
‘Oh, no, Eye,’ he said. ‘This is my responsibility.’ He led her to a large table near a window. The morning sunlight streamed in, illuminating the old wood, picking out the names and markings of members of the Mind who had sat studying at this table. Myrrhini ran her hand over the scarred surface, feeling the chips and scratches, sensing the history that lay in this wood. With her latest Seeing, had she seen the end of this history? Would any more young members of the Mind carve their names on this venerable old piece of wood? What was awaiting the Place of the Acolytes now?
Aue dropped the big, heavy box on the table, jolting Myrrhini out of her reverie. He produced a key from a pouch that hung at his waist and unlocked the box. Without opening the lid, he stepped back and gave another short bow.
‘There you are, Eye,’ Aue said. ‘I will leave you to your studies. If you require anything, please let me know.’
‘Thank you, I will.’
Myrrhini pulled out a chair and sat down in front of the unlocked box, only dimly aware of Aue as he withdrew and Koslea as he sat near her. She pulled the box towards her, making new marks on the table as it scraped over the surface.
Myrrhini ran her fingers lightly over the box, feeling the aged wood. It was rough but otherwise unmarked, as if no one had touched it for an age. She lifted the lid and pushed it back to reveal a pile of old sheets of parchment. They were yellowed and the edges curled. Despite her decision to use this ancient document as a distraction to learn more about the now, she felt herself drawn to this long-unread piece of hist
ory.
Carefully, she lifted the first sheet, feeling its brittleness. There were six symbols written in faded red ink across the middle of the sheet. Myrrhini touched them, as if the physical contact would forge some sort of link with the document, but it was just old ink. She put the page aside and lifted the next from the box.
Like any page of a book, it was covered in lines of text, but unlike any other book she had seen, the text was vertical, not horizontal. Also, the text was not all in one colour. Even allowing for the age of the text, the symbols were in different shades of red and blue. She turned the page over and pulled out the next. It was the same: vertical text in varying colours.
Slowly, Myrrhini took out each page in turn. They were all the same, all unintelligible, all useless. Except …
‘Koslea,’ she said. ‘I need some other books to help me with this.’
He rose to his feet. ‘Of course, Myrrhini. What do you need?’
Myrrhini stared out through the window to the Mertian village, restored and maintained toremind her of her people’s plight before the alliance rescued them from the Scaren brutality. She wondered how accurate the Belly of Varuun had been in reconstructing it, whether it was a true village or just some idealised image brought to reality.
‘Myrrhini?’ Koslea prompted.
‘The village,’ Myrrhini said, pointing out the window. ‘How accurate is it?’
‘Accurate? Myrrhini, it is a real village, left here by your people. The Place of the Acolytes was built around it soon after the alliance was forged.’ He paused, tilting his head to one side, as if dismissing the topic. ‘Was there a book you needed?’
‘Unger’s History.’ Myrrhini looked down at the page in front of her, as if studying the arcane runes.
Koslea raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Unger? Are you sure? That is a more recent history.’
Myrrhini did not answer. She did not even raise her eyes from her apparent study. Koslea sighed and walked away towards the shelves. Unger was, as Koslea said, a recent history of the alliance. She had read it before, and it was dull — badly written and pompous — but she remembered it had several maps. They had never been interesting to her and they were old, but they would be a start if she were to leave the Place and find the Scarred Man.
The Scarred Man? When did I start to call him that?
It did not matter when or why, the name was right; the scars were what defined him. Without the scars, he would not be who he was. But whowas he? And what was his role in the end of the world?
Myrrhini rested her chin in her hand as she waited for Koslea to return. A familiar scent made her nose wrinkle. She sniffed her fingers. Daven? Why would there be daven juice on her fingers?
On impulse, she lifted the old page and sniffed it. It was not her fingers, it was the page itself. She sniffed more closely. Surely not. She scratched one of the runes and raised her fingernail to her nose.
The ink is daven juice, she realised. Why would anyone write in daven juice?
Koslea returned with the slim volume in his hands. ‘Unger,’ he declared.
‘What books are there on daven juice?’ Myrrhini asked.
‘I don’t know, Myrrhini,’ Koslea admitted.
‘Find out and bring me the best one they have.’ Myrrhini gave a little wave of dismissal as she opened Unger’s History of the Sixth Age of the Alliance: Up to the Reign of Hlemmur. As before, the opening sentences were almost enough to send her off to sleep, but she flicked through the pages to the first map. It was a map of the whole world — the Eleven Kingdoms and the Three Seas. She found the only kingdom she knew, Apros.
Situated on the fertile land between the Three Seas with a coastline on each, Aposmenos was the oldest, wealthiest and most powerful of all the kingdoms. Its history reached back into antiquity, its mythical heroes and kings lending their names to some of the other kingdoms: Agomi the First, Lac’u the Treacherous, Myele the Hunter.
Her own people had lived in the north, up where the tundra reigned, the snow governed and the wind held court amid the piled drifts. Her home was the wasteland far from the heat of Aposmenos; the land of the julle and the Scaren, where the claw dominated the plough. The frozen wastelands of Varuun were now uninhabited — as they should be. Varuun was not fecund with possibility; it was barren with wasted lives.
Tracing north from Apros, Myrrhini followed the Silvered Sea past C’sobra into the great forest. There, squatting amid the black-leaved guar trees, was the Place of the Acolytes. Unger did not offer a detailed map, but he did give her the first clue. She was north, she already knew that, but she was near the northern extreme of the great guar forest. To the west lay Lac’u, to the east Tusemo with its dunes that blended slowly into snow. The map had no scale and looked distorted, but at least she had an idea.
‘Myrrhini.’ A nervous voice broke into her thoughts. She quickly flicked the page over to obscure the map and looked up.
‘Hinrik.’
‘I have a book for you,’ Hinrik said. ‘Koslea said I should bring it over.’
Hinrik handed Myrrhini the book. She took it and read its title: The Daven Plant: Its Uses and Abuses.
‘Thank you, Hinrik.’ She looked past the nervous young man. ‘Where is Koslea?’
Hinrik turned and pointed. ‘He’s talking with Aue.’
‘What are they talking about?’
Hinrik looked even more nervous. He swallowed convulsively. ‘I think —’ he hesitated. ‘You. I think they are talking about you.’
Myrrhini sighed. ‘Nothing new there.’
Absently, she gnawed at a fingernail. A visceral shock ran through her body and mind as the unmistakeable taste of daven juice hit her like a physical blow. She snatched her finger out of her mouth and stared at it. The remnants of the daven ink she had scraped off the old manuscript were still lodged under the nail.
‘That was a mistake,’ she muttered. ‘Get me some water.’ But she knew it was already too late. The undiluted juice, even so old, hit her system like a sledgehammer. Her head reeled and her sight became unfocused. A small groan escaped her lips as she leaned back heavily in her chair.
‘Myrrhini,’ Hinrik said. ‘Are you all right?’ He reached out and touched her shoulder, to steady her as she swayed. The slight pressure of his fingers sent waves of agony through her. Myrrhini screamed in pain. Hinrik snatched his hand back. As he did so, something made him turn around to see Koslea staring at him.
Aue dropped the book he was holding and scurried to Myrrhini’s side where he kneeled and looked at her with concerned eyes.
‘My dear Eye,’ he said. ‘What has happened?’
Myrrhini struggled to regain her composure, but the daven kept her unbalanced and the sudden, shocking agony of Hinrik’s touch left her gasping, unable to speak. She turned her head to seek Hinrik, to try to reassure him, but he was jerked back harshly by Koslea.
‘What did you do?’ Koslea demanded.
Myrrhini tried again to speak but no words came, only a low growl and some drool. Koslea let go of Hinrik like he had been stung and stared at Myrrhini.
‘What did you say?’ he whispered.
‘Leave him alone, Koslea,’ Myrrhini managed to say. ‘He did nothing.’
Instead of responding, or even looking like he understood her, he stood open-mouthed, his hand still gripping Hinrik’s arm, his breath coming in short gasps. The tableau persisted for several heartbeats until Aue rose creakily from the floor.
‘We had best inform Joukahainen,’ the old librarian whispered.
‘Why?’ asked Myrrhini, but again, Koslea looked at her as if she were mad, or something not quite human. She forced herself to her feet, ignoring the nausea that rose and threatened to undo her. ‘Answer me!’ she demanded.
‘Go, boy!’ Koslea commanded. ‘Tell the Wielder of the Key immediately.’ He released Hinrik’s arm and shoved him towards the door. Hinrik gave Myrrhini a quick look before bolting out of the library.
Myrrhini reac
hed out to Koslea and gripped his arm. With what little strength remained, she wrenched him around to face her once more. ‘Tell me what is happening!’ she screamed at him.
Aue rested his hand on her forearm and spoke quietly, haltingly. ‘Be sit on down chair,’ he said.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Myrrhini said.
‘You speak that accursed tongue!’ Koslea shouted, jabbing an accusatory finger at Aue.
‘Only a little — a few phrases,’ Aue admitted.
‘It is forbidden!’
Aue held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. ‘I know, but I am a scholar. I am curious.’
Myrrhini wrenched at Koslea’s arm again. ‘What are you talking about?’
Koslea grabbed her hand and shoved it away from him as though it were unclean. ‘You tell her, old man!’ he hissed.
Myrrhini turned to Aue. ‘Tell me what?’
‘Speak you …’ he hesitated, as if searching for the right words. ‘Language past old. Um. Mertian. Grasp not Koslea know. Julle eater some know.’
‘Julle eater?’ Myrrhini repeated.
‘Yes,’ said Koslea. ‘The Key Wielder. At least you can still speak a proper language.’
14
Slave awoke in the utter dark of night in the vorbyndjaarge. All around him, he could sense the hundreds, thousands, of lives being lived in varying levels of misery. The buzz was still there, annoying, nagging at his mind. He had not paid any attention to Ileki’s words at the time, but when the despairing anguish had faded, Slave recalled the explanation for the sound. Now he welcomed it, no matter how distracting it might be. As long as the hum accompanied him, he was safe from his former master’s magical searching.
Even after just a few days, he was becoming accustomed to the world here. The rhythm of life was already falling into a pattern for him, and so after listening briefly, he was content that all was as it should be.
Except …
What was that? Slave swung his legs out of bed and stood up, his Warrior’s Claw already in his hand. He could identify the sound now — footsteps. Stealthy, but purposeful; several people were approaching. He was out of his room,padding carefully towards the sounds, before it occurred to him to alert anyone else.
Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms Page 11
