It was a long while before I fell asleep.
* * *
The dream began as it always did, every night for the last five years.
The only light was dim and flickering, thrown by two handheld lanterns near the east wall where the men were working. The air was thick with the dust of centuries of neglect, and the sounds of digging echoed off the walls—the sharp ring of tools against rock, the rough scrape of stone on stone. I surveyed the chamber with growing dread. Long ago the sight had given me great satisfaction, even joy, but here in the dream, I knew what was coming. I shouted for the men to stop, but they didn’t listen, couldn’t hear me over the sounds of their work. And then there was another sound, a deep groaning, a terrible rumble and crack, and the roof was falling.
The screams of the workers assaulted my ears as debris crashed down from above, crushing the men as they tried to escape. A torrent of brightly colored glass rained down upon me, shards of blue and green and yellow and orange slicing into my flesh, tracing deep red lines where they cut. But no rocks fell where I stood—I could only watch while the others died.
And when the noise stopped, and the dust cleared, the worst part began.
The dead men began to claw themselves out from beneath the stone, bleeding and broken, staring at me with accusation in their milky eyes, and they began to chant.
“In books of power, writ in blood…” I covered my ears and screamed, trying to drown out the words, but snippets drifted through, scraps of old rhymes, of ancient songs. The men lurched closer and closer, circling me as they continued their terrible litany. “The doom of Old Elov—”
But abruptly the chanting stopped. The men were still there, still staring at me with condemnation in their eyes, but something was different—this was no longer the dream I knew.
Moonlit night surrounded me in place of lamp-lit darkness, and there was grass under my feet rather than stone. There was something against my back, and when I looked I saw that it was a mighty, ancient fireleaf, its rustling leaves as bright as fire even in the darkness. But no, they were not leaves; the tree was truly aflame, casting red light across the faces of the men surrounding me. And I no longer knew those men.
They were naked, all of them, and there were women among them now. All bore terrible wounds, but not like the men that had come before. These were the wounds of battle, the deep cuts of swords and axes, yet none of them bled. Their mouths were not moving, but there was a low whisper in my ears—their voices, I realized. Dozens, no, hundreds of voices, all whispering at once. And growing louder.
I could make out perhaps one word in a hundred, but all of them were terrible. “Death,” I heard, and “Pain,” and “Vengeance,” and over and over, “We are the Burnt.” But the worst was not the words themselves, it was the torment and the rage behind them. I could feel their anger as if it was my own.
I clapped my hands over my ears, but it did no good. The voices grew louder and louder, rising to a screaming fervor. Then, when I thought I could take no more, they united as one terrible voice, speaking a single undeniable command:
“BURN,” the voice demanded. And I did.
The flames of the burning fireleaf licked downwards, engulfing my body in a torrent of fire. I shrieked in agony as my skin melted and bubbled and sloughed from my bones; I felt my eyeballs burst and drip from their sockets. I was half mad with pain, screaming for mercy, begging the Mother and the Father and even the Dragon for respite from this torture.
And then, inexplicably, I heard a loud rapping noise: knuckles on wood. A pause, and then again, louder, and a shout.
“Scriber Dennon!”
I woke with a start to the sound of knocking at my door and Sylla’s voice shouting my name.
Chapter Four
Erryn’s Promise is the ideal the Kingsland was founded upon. The exact events that led to it are lost, but an idea of the true story can be found in the legends that survive to this day.
Erryn’s tribe offered protection to Princess Aliana and the survivors of Elovia after the cataclysm drove them from their home. The other tribes demanded blood, for Elovia had warred with the barbarians for centuries. But Erryn wanted peace, and sought to find it beyond the Wasted Plains.
He made a pledge to his tribe, to Aliana’s people, and to all those who would follow him: he would forge a new kingdom, founded on the simple tenet that he and all Kings after him would not demand service, but give it. If a King failed to provide protection, freedom, and equality to his people, he was no King at all; he would lose his right to the crown.
This came to be known as Erryn’s Promise, and from far and wide people came, swearing to follow the man who had made it wherever he led.
— From Dennon Lark’s The Promise of a Kingdom
“One moment!” I shouted, leaping out of bed and struggling to pull on my trousers before Sylla battered her way inside. When I finally opened the door to greet her, her expression was murderous—though in my brief meeting with her two days prior, she had given me no reason to believe she ever looked particularly pleased.
“The Captain wishes to speak with you, Scriber. Now.”
“Now? It’s the middle of the night!” Over Sylla’s shoulder I could see other women knocking at other doors, and other villagers stumbling bleary-eyed out of their homes. A low commotion of whinnying horses and confused voices disrupted what should have been a peaceful midnight silence. “What is this? If it’s so important, where is she?”
Faster than I could follow, Sylla's hand snapped forward, seizing my forearm with painfully strong fingers and twisting it violently. “Scriber, I swear by the Divide I will break your arm if you don’t come with me right now,” she growled. I let out a pained squeak and tried to pull away, but Sylla only squeezed tighter. “You can ask questions later,” she said. “Let’s go.”
“Yes! Of course, I’m coming!” I bobbed my head in vigorous assent, terrified she would make good on her threat. To my relief, she relaxed her grip, though she did not release me fully until I had stepped out the door and closed it behind me.
“This way.” She gestured towards the village square and waited for me to move first, staying slightly behind and to my left, clearly ready to grab me again if I tried to go anywhere but towards her Captain.
Around a dozen people had already gathered in the square, and Bryndine’s company was still moving from door to door, rousing others from their sleep. Those that were already awake stood apart from the women who had woken them, muttering unhappily amongst themselves. A dozen or so horses were hitched to the rail outside the Prince’s Rest; the Kellens’ stable had no room for the mounts of an entire company of soldiers.
Bryndine stood beside the fireleaf in the center of the village, speaking in hushed tones with some of her women. A large, empty wagon sat in the street nearby. It must have come with them, because it did not belong to anyone in Waymark.
Bryndine glanced up and saw Sylla and me approaching, favoring me with a small nod in greeting. The dressing on her left arm had already been replaced with clean bandages—at least she had taken my warning seriously in that regard.
Sylla grabbed me from behind just outside Bryndine’s earshot and whispered, “Listen to me, Scriber: if you don’t do exactly what the Captain asks, I’ll make you wish you had.” She released me and shoved me forward, and I stumbled towards Bryndine, dreading whatever she intended to ask of me.
Bryndine was giving orders to a tall brown-haired woman whose back was to me as I approached. “Lieutenant, have the women set up a guard around the village. Selvi and Elene have the best eyes; send Elene with Genna, Nalla, and Janelyn to watch the west—the Burners will most likely come that way. Selvi, Orya, and Wynne can take the east, and put Deanyn and Ivyla on the north and south entrances. I doubt they will come by the road, but better to not take the chance.”
“Right away, Captain.” The woman gave a formal salute—right fist over the heart, left hand held upright with fingers splayed like the branc
hes of the burning tree—then turned towards me. I recognized her stern, sun-browned face immediately, though her brown hair was streaked with grey that had not been there when I had last seen her. I shifted my eyes to check her collar, and sure enough, found a golden Scriber’s pin.
“Tenille?” She had briefly been at the Academy while I was. Six or seven years my senior, she had been in her next-to-last year of study as I began my first. Though she had ostensibly been pinned in History like myself, she had chosen to focus primarily on military history, and used it as an excuse to stand in on Warfare classes as research. They called her the first woman pinned in Warfare, even though it wasn’t officially true, and few outside the Scribers knew her story. I had vaguely known that she was Bryndine’s second-in-command, or at least had heard some rumors, but it had not occurred to me until that moment that I might see her. My heart sank into my stomach. Having another Scriber in Waymark—and one who knew me by name—was the last thing I wanted.
“Dennon. Good to see you,” Tenille said politely, almost certainly lying. She was a Scriber, and the Scribers never forget. Save for Illias, I doubted I would ever again meet one of my brethren who was truly pleased to see me. “We’ll have to speak later. I have work to do.”
Tenille strode briskly away to carry out Bryndine’s commands, leaving me alone with her Captain. That she was too busy to speak at that moment was a blessing, but now that she had seen me she might tell Bryndine or the others of me at any time. There was little I could do to stop it.
“Scriber Dennon.” Bryndine greeted me politely, glancing over my shoulder at Sylla, who still stood sentinel behind me as though I might try to bolt at any time. “Sylla, give us a moment, please.”
Sylla reluctantly stepped away—but only a short distance, keeping her wary gaze fixed on me.
Bryndine gestured for me to come closer and lowered her voice. “I apologize for Sylla, Scriber. She is… protective of me. I want you to know that you are in no danger from us. I need your help.”
“You have a funny way of asking for help, my La—Captain Bryndine.” I glanced over my shoulder at Sylla, hoping she hadn’t heard my near-failure to address her Captain by her proper rank.
“As I said, I apologize. There is no time to quarrel about this.” Bryndine glanced up at the growing crowd of villagers, making sure they were not eavesdropping. “The Burners are closing on this village as we speak. They will attack in a few hours, if not sooner. We are here to evacuate Waymark and bring all of you with us to Three Rivers. The First Company is on its way; the High Commander sent us ahead to begin preparations.”
I stared at her for a moment, unable to speak. “I… Three Rivers?” That was the last place I wished to go.
“Refugees from the attacks are being gathered at the capital, under King Syrid’s protection. The King wishes to show his people that Erryn’s Promise still stands, even if the Burners seek to disprove it.” She placed a hand on my shoulder as she continued. “Scriber Dennon, I need your support. These people will not leave their homes at my word alone. As you mentioned when last we met, my reputation precedes me. I will not be trusted, but they may listen to you.”
“I can’t! I—”
“I am not asking you to tell them yourself, only to help convince them if they are resistant after I explain,” Bryndine interjected. “If you do not, many of these people may die. The First Company is coming, but I do not know if they will arrive in time. My women will do all they can, but we are too few to defend the village ourselves.”
“So you’re putting it on my shoulders?” Responsibility for the people of Waymark was too much; I had come to Waymark to avoid ever having lives placed in my hands again. Though they were proud to have a Scriber where most villages their size had none, I was far from beloved in the community. There was no guarantee they would listen to me at all. But Bryndine had put me in a position where I could not refuse, and it made me furious. “Is that what this is, Captain? If I can’t convince them, this is my fault, not yours?”
“Think what you will of me, Scriber, as long as you agree to do this.”
“You know I have to,” I answered bitterly. “I swore an oath.” I was not about to let her see me flinch from the task—it would only give her another opportunity to judge me.
“Good. Go then, join them. I will address them shortly; be prepared to lend me your support.”
I was about to turn away when a thought blossomed in my mind: her arm. With a sour certainty, I eyed her cleanly wrapped wound.
“A horse kicked you, you said.”
She nodded but said nothing. Her face remained an expressionless mask, but I thought I saw a hint of something flicker in her steel-grey eyes.
“It wasn’t your horse. You had already found the rebels. You knew they were coming!”
“Yes, Scriber Dennon,” she admitted with a sigh. “I did.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? We could have been safely away yesterday!”
“My company was sent out as scouts, and Sylla and I only encountered a small party. Three men, likely scouts themselves,” Bryndine explained. “They surprised us and wounded me, but they were not skilled; we dispatched them quickly. I had orders to report to the First Company outside Barleyfield before spreading word of anything we found, to avoid starting a panic.”
“You had orders? You just told me that the First Company likely won’t arrive in time, and that we have only hours to evacuate! How good could those orders have been?”
“I am sorry, Scriber, I truly am.” Bryndine lowered her eyes, either ashamed or simply unwilling to meet my glare. “But it is not my place to question the High Commander’s orders. It is already done, in any case; we are wasting time. Please, go join the other villagers.”
I opened my mouth to say more, but Sylla stepped up quickly and pulled me away from her Captain.
“Not another word, Scriber. Just do what she told you.” She pushed me again, this time towards the crowd of villagers, now composed of nearly the entire population of Waymark.
The crowd buzzed with curiosity. I heard Logan Underbridge’s son, Jason, telling Penni Harynson the story of the Bloody Bride—that each time Bryndine's father tried to marry her to someone, she slew the intended husband. It was obviously untrue, and I couldn’t imagine how anyone believed it. Even the King’s niece could not commit such a blatant crime and remain free. Bryndine had been betrothed only one time that I knew of, to the son of Baron Hurryd Rafynson of the Bridgefort, many years ago. The boy had died when they were accosted by bandits on an outing in the countryside, not at Bryndine’s hand, but the rumors persisted.
There were other muttered tales as well: that Bryndine’s impure blood had driven her mad; that she was cursed by the Mother for her impropriety; that her very presence was like to bring divine vengeance down on the entire village. I let them talk, and took some pleasure in hearing the awful woman maligned, even if it was for the wrong reasons. Nothing I could have said would make them trust Bryndine even had I been willing to try; defending the infamous Bloody Bride would only have hurt any chance that they would heed my own advice.
Logan Underbridge spotted me through the crowd and waved me over to where he and many of the men of Waymark stood. He was something of an unofficial village chief; Waymark was too small to bother choosing a true mayor, but Logan’s opinions tended to guide the rest. Unfortunately, he was a profoundly ignorant man, prone to superstition and easily taken in by rumor. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been Logan himself who had filled his son’s head with those stories about Bryndine.
Logan’s usual collection of followers stood closest to him: Ashton Norgand; the tanner Iayn Gerynson, a big bear of a man; long-haired Brother Randal Ginnis in his sky-blue robe. The rest of the men crowded around the core group, listening raptly.
Logan eyed me somewhat suspiciously. “Scriber Dennon! I seen you speakin’ to the Bloody Bride. What were you sayin’?” He had always been wary of me, worried I might try to u
se my “book learning” to oppose his often outlandish assertions. To Logan Underbridge, education was something to be feared and mistrusted.
“You ain’t workin’ with her, are you Scriber?” Ashton Norgand asked. Logan’s closest friend, his role in village discussion tended to be reinforcing everything Logan said by saying it again, slightly rephrased. “Josia tole me you seen her t’other day.”
“I can’t stand the woman,” I assured them. “She only wanted to know if there was anyone missing. She won’t be satisfied until they’ve disturbed every man, woman, and child, it seems.” If being hard on Bryndine would improve my chances of getting everyone out of the village alive, I was all too happy to do it.
Logan clapped me on the shoulder. “That she won’t, Scriber. Yer a smart man, I always said so; glad we’re thinkin’ the same on this.” Some of the others followed Logan’s example, slapping me on the back. “We need ‘er gone; you all heard the stories,” Logan continued. “The Lord Chancellor shouldn’t never‘ve married low. King Eddyl would’ve put a stop to it if he’d been alive, Father keep him. Erryn’s blood weren’t meant to mix with common stock. She’s cursed by the Gods, everyone says it.”
The other men nodded and harrumphed judgementally, casting sour looks at Bryndine. It was blatant hypocrisy—Branwyn Errynson was no more lowborn than any of the villagers. Her daughter’s flaws were not a matter of blood. But I said nothing to contradict Logan.
“She has sinned against the Mother,” Brother Randal asserted, while Ashton nodded stupidly at his side. “Women were made to nurture, not to slay; the Father made men for battle.”
“You know what she wants, Scriber?” Logan asked.
“I‘ve no idea, but she said she’d let us know shortly.” It seemed unwise to tell them too much; better to let the news come as a surprise and hope the shock made them pliable. “Look, here she comes.”
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