Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

  He created the Scribers to ensure that such a thing would never happen again, and charged them with recovering as much as they could of what had been lost. To protect their autonomy, the Scribers’ Academy was built not in the capital, but in Highpass. It was Delwyn’s intention that if ever a new Forgetter came to power, the Scribers could go into hiding in the Salt Mountains with their books, so that the history of the Kingsland would never again be destroyed.

  — From Dennon Lark’s The Scriber King

  Highpass looked like it had burst out of the mountainside all at once in an eruption of quarried stone. Buildings protruded wherever a decent surface could be found, their straight angles standing starkly against the ragged edges of the cliffs. Numerous small plateaus, connected to one another by switchback paths, each provided space for a handful of homes. Atop the flat cliffs to the west, the shops and the manors of the wealthy were built so close to one another that it looked as though the slightest nudge against one would send them all tipping off the precipice. And high up the road, the two guard towers stood like a pair of stone soldiers, watching the pass into Salt Mountain territory.

  The Academy, in contrast, sat on a single broad table of stone carved from the mountain east of the city proper, with its own access from the Saltroad. When we reached the fork between the two, Bryndine bid Tenille to take the rest of the company along the west road into Highpass, to announce their presence to Baron Ord and request quarters. Bryndine herself would come with me along the eastern path, fulfilling her promise to escort me to the Academy.

  “Shouldn’t you go with them?” I asked hopefully. “Your uncle would probably prefer for you to call on him yourself.” I didn’t want to be alone with Bryndine; it was never comfortable.

  “I said that I would see you to the Academy,” Bryndine replied, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

  “I think I can find the way from here.”

  “If the Captain says we’re going with you, we’re going with you, Scriber,” Sylla said indignantly. Of course she was going to join us; that was the one thing that could make conversation with Bryndine even more awkward. Now I would have to watch every word I said for fear that Sylla would assume an insult to her Captain and break a bone in retaliation.

  “You’re like to get knifed on the way up if you’re alone,” Orya informed me seriously. “A Scriber’s a good mark, usually has some coin. Thieves’re always watchin’ the Academy road for folk travellin’ alone. It’s easier than workin’ the city with the guards about. Probably more dangerous goin’ that last bit by yourself than the whole road before it.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You know a lot about it, do you?”

  “Grew up hidin’ in caves and climbin’ the cliffs here. I mighta cut your throat myself before the Captain found me.” The shocked look on my face made her laugh. “Don’t worry, Scriber. I don’t do that no more.” She solemnly raised two fingers and made the sign of the Divide, turning it into a lewd gesture halfway through and grinning wickedly at me. “I swear it on the Father’s cock.”

  “How pious of you,” I said sarcastically.

  She was right, though. Highpass had more than its share of cutpurses and thugs. The caves, cliffs, and chasms of the mountainside city offered hundreds of shadowy places for the criminal element to hide, and they took full advantage of it. The guardsmen and the Army tried to keep these hiding holes clear, but the thieves knew the secrets of the mountain better than anyone, and ambushes were common. That was how my father had been killed, and following in his footsteps had never much appealed to me.

  “I suppose I’ll need the escort,” I admitted.

  Bryndine and Sylla left their horses with the others to be stabled, and I clumsily hopped down from Deanyn’s mount.

  “Go easy on him, Syl,” Deanyn said. “I need him back alive, he still owes me from the dice last night.” She gave me a wink and a wave as the company rode away.

  It was about a half-hour from the fork to the Academy campus, but the uncomfortable silence made it feel longer. Every time I considered speaking I looked at Sylla, glowering at me with her dark eyes, and thought better of it. I had my own reasons for keeping silent as well—I didn’t know what kind of welcome I would receive upon our arrival. I had returned to the Academy only one other time since the catastrophe at the Old Garden, immediately afterwards. The reception had not been warm, needless to say. I had gone into hiding in Waymark shortly after. I tried to put such thoughts aside, however, as I looked up the east road and saw the Academy for the first time in five years.

  Seven squat six-sided buildings rose from the broad man-made plateau, all of simple make, constructed of closely fitted blocks of polished marble. Six of these buildings sat at the corners of a sprawling hexagonal campus that was carpeted with lush green grass—an uncommon sight against the stony grey of the mountain. In the center of the campus, between the six Schools, stood the seventh and largest building: Delwyn’s Hall, home of the Scribers’ Council, and the greatest library of history and knowledge since the Archives. Despite everything, the sight of those buildings sent a thrill through me. I felt like a child again, gazing with wonder at the Academy from the Highpass cliffs.

  A high iron fence enclosed the campus, to keep those who were not pinned or enrolled from sneaking about—though I knew from experience that a child could fit between the bars in some places. Stone gatehouses stood around the fence at three points, to the west, north, and south, controlling entry from Highpass, the Salt Mountains, and the Saltroad respectively.

  After a tiring half-hour climb up the road, we found ourselves standing before the southern gatehouse. I didn’t recognize the Scriber who intercepted us at the gate, and by the bland look on his face, he did not recognize me either. I affected a confidence I did not feel as I unfastened my pin and handed it to him, hoping that he would not know my name. I wasn’t eager for Bryndine and Sylla to see what my brethren generally thought of me.

  Those hopes did not last long. As the gatekeeper examined the back of my pin, his bored expression twisted into an angry scowl.

  “Lark? You’ve got some backbone, don’t you?”

  “Not particularly, no. May I pass?” I bit back the many less polite retorts that came to mind—they would only make things worse.

  “You’ve stayed away this long, why not head back to whatever hole you were hiding in? Or have you come up with some more priceless relics to destroy looking for the Archives?” He spoke with a mocking sneer, and made no move to return my pin. “Or is it the Wyddin now? Some other fable?”

  To my chagrin, Bryndine stepped forward to address the man. “If I am not mistaken, any Scriber with a valid pin is permitted entry to the Academy.”

  “This one gets in over my dead body,” the gatekeeper replied, though even before he was finished speaking his eyes flickered to Bryndine’s nearly eight foot tall form, and he swallowed nervously.

  My embarrassment made it difficult to hold my tongue. “Sky and Earth, what do you think I’m going to do, tear down Delwyn’s Hall?”

  “Why not? You tore down the Old Garden; at least the Hall can be rebuilt.”

  “And of course I did it with malicious intent, and now I roam the baronies seeking out historical sites and ruining them. How fortunate for the Scribers that you were here to stop me!”

  The gatekeeper’s face flushed a furious crimson. “You aren’t getting in! Good men died at the Old Garden!”

  He was not wrong about that.

  “By the Mother and the Father,” Sylla muttered, stalking by me to grab the gatekeeper by the collar. She had kept silent until now, and her sudden movement took me by surprise—I had imagined she would enjoy watching me put in my place. She shoved the man up against the gatehouse wall with some force. “If the Captain says to let the Scriber in, you let the Dragon-damned Scriber in!” I almost laughed, despite my humiliation—she had said nearly the same thing to me a half-hour before. Her frustration at those who did not heed Bryndine w
as as consistent as it was intimidating.

  “Let me go!” The gatekeeper struggled against Sylla’s grip, but she had fingers like steel—I remembered the pain of her grasp myself. “Intruders! Intruders at the gates!” Another man came rushing out of the gatehouse, his sword drawn, and a group of observers began to gather on the other side of the gate. I rubbed at my temple, and tried to casually use the gesture to hide my face from the growing crowd. I had expected to be poorly received, but still, I had not been prepared for this.

  “Sylla.” Bryndine clasped the other woman’s shoulder. “This is not helping.”

  Sylla shoved the man hard against the stone wall a second time, then reluctantly let him go. He dropped to his knees as she released him, and my pin fell from his hand, skipping across the dirt. I knelt and retrieved it, fastening it to my collar.

  The other guardsman rushed forward to help his companion up, keeping his sword at the ready. “What is this, Yurrel?”

  “That’s Dennon Lark, Ibyn! He wants in the gate.”

  The students who had gathered beyond the portcullis reacted to the sound of my name with jeers and taunts, and the second guardsman’s expression darkened.

  “Dennon Lark… Haven’t heard your name in years. Most of us hoped you’d have the good sense to stay away.” His gaze flickered to the two women with me, and he paled slightly as he noticed the full Errynson arms on Bryndine’s tabard. “But he’s still a pinned Scriber, Yurrel. Open the gate.”

  Yurrel climbed to his feet and sullenly tromped into the gatehouse. A moment later, I heard the metallic clanking of chains, and the portcullis began to rise.

  “Thank you, Scriber Ibyn.” Bryndine inclined her head towards the man.

  “I’m not doing you a favor. You’ll find no warmer welcome inside than you did here. And not just because of Lark, either. There are some who still don’t like the trick you tried to pull with the School of Warfare. But it won’t be me who denies the King’s own niece.” He waved us onwards. “Go on, get your business done, and then leave us be.”

  Some of those waiting past the gatehouse had dispersed when it became clear that there would be no violence, but many stayed, and we entered the campus to the sound of angry shouts and hurled insults. Bryndine and Sylla flanked me to either side, keeping the crowd at bay, but even so we were shoved and jostled frequently as we hurried towards the School of History, where I hoped to find Illias.

  “He mentioned that the Old Garden can’t be rebuilt, and you said something similar a few nights ago. Have the Scribers made no progress with Elovian architecture?” Bryndine asked as we cut across the grassy campus. “I thought I had heard of advances in that field.”

  “The School of Sciences has nearly solved the problem of supporting domes and arches that size, yes. But the glasswork…” The stained glass images suspended above the Old Garden courtyard had been one of the greatest works of art left from before the Forgetting. They were irreplaceable. Even if the techniques were recovered, any attempt at repair would only result in a pale imitation; the tangible weight of history was not something that could be replicated. “The School of Arts has tried, but…”

  There are some things I will never forgive myself for, and Bryndine had found one. It was not a subject I liked to dwell on. She seemed to sense my reticence, and we walked the rest of the way to the History building in silence.

  Illias’ private study was on the top level of the building, and I led us straight there. It was easier once we were inside; those within were busy with classes or sequestered in silent study, and had not witnessed the scene at the gate. My presence went largely unnoticed as we climbed the stairways to the fourth floor.

  When I knocked on his office door, a muffled grunt of invitation answered. He was in; that was a blessing. I had feared I might have to search the entire campus for him. I entered hastily, not wanting to risk being seen by anyone who knew me, and Bryndine followed. Sylla remained outside by the door—it was hardly necessary to stand guard in the middle of the Academy, but given our reception at the gates, I could understand the impulse.

  “What is it? I’ve work to do.” Illias had his head down, bent over a thick tome with age-yellowed pages, so that all I could see was the thinning grey hair atop his head. His quill hand was scribbling down words on a pile of clean, new paper, and he barely took the time to look at it as he copied. A smile I could not repress teased the corners of my mouth upwards. This was exactly how I remembered him. Morning, noon, and night, always bent over a book in study, or copying old works to ensure their survival.

  His office had not changed either; it looked exactly as it had when I was ten, sitting at his desk and listening to his stories of times past, the stories that led me to a lifelong love of history. Dozens of oil lanterns hung from the ceiling and candles littered every flat surface. The many sources of flickering light cast hundreds of shadows that danced merrily along the walls. Illias hated a dark room; he hated not being able to read.

  “Illias…” I didn’t know what to say. It had been too long.

  His head snapped up at the sound of my voice, and a warmth tingled through my veins at the sight of his familiar lined face, the grizzled grey beard that grew all the way down his neck, the piercing intelligence in his faded blue eyes. “Is that… Denn?” His mouth curved into a joyous smile, revealing crooked yellow teeth. It was not a handsome smile, but to me it was the most welcome thing in the world.

  “Illias, I—” My words were choked off by a sudden tightness in my throat. There were tears in my eyes as the old man rose from his seat and rushed towards me, pulling me into a tight embrace.

  “My boy.” His voice was thick with emotion. “You don’t know how often I’ve hoped it was you on the other side of that door.” Then, more sharply: “It’s been five Dragon-damned years.” He released me and took a step back, cuffing me lightly on the side of the head. “What took you so long?”

  “Well,” I answered, still blinking back tears, “they held me up at the gate.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Wyddin were said to possess great power over the Earth and Sky and all natural things, letting them control the weather and possess the bodies of animals and other such tricks. If the legends of Elovia are to be believed, the Sages harnessed this power. They used it to raise great palaces and temples from the Earth, to call down rain on their crops, and to decimate opposing armies by summoning lightning upon them and sundering the ground beneath their feet. In the end, though, the power was more than the Sages could control, and the Wyddin destroyed the kingdom utterly.

  Clearly, much of this has been exaggerated and fictionalized over time. But I hope that by studying the old legends, I can come to understand some kernel of truth behind what really destroyed Old Elovia. It may make a good final project, to earn my pin.

  — From the personal journals of Dennon Lark

  From the moment Bryndine and I sat down at his desk, Illias struggled to contain himself. He was barely able to sit still while we reminisced. I knew the man well—he wanted to tell me something, and would be impossible to talk to until he did. I feared what it might be. I did not want to discuss any real Scriber business; Illias still wanted me to resume my work with him, and I was not ready for that. But after a quarter-hour of barely getting through to him, I realized it was pointless to avoid the issue.

  “Out with it, old man. What are you hiding?”

  Instead of responding to my question immediately, he pulled open a desk drawer and drew forth a thick sheaf of papers covered in musical notation and lyrics. Lifting them a few inches above the desk, he released them with a theatrical flourish so that they fell with a heavy thump. “Look at all of it, Denn! This is everything we’ve found since you left.”

  I didn’t move, but Bryndine leaned forward to examine the papers. “Music? Is there some meaning here that I am missing, Master Illias?”

  It must have seemed strange to her; an historian so giddy over a stack of songs. But I knew what they
were, and all the enjoyment I had felt at seeing Illias again drained out of me in an instant.

  “You’ve heard of Adello, of course?” Illias looked up at Bryndine with an eager expression that I knew well. He was a born teacher; there was little he loved more than finding gaps in knowledge and filling them in. But these were gaps I would just as soon he left unfilled.

  “The bard?”

  “Yes, of course you know him. Much of the famous songs and myths that are popular today are his work. And you know he lived during the Forgetting, I assume.”

  “Vaguely, yes. I had never given him much thought.” Bryndine motioned for Illias to continue.

  “When Dennon was a student here, he put a great deal of time into the idea that we could learn much about our past by looking into such things. Tales passed down orally, rather than the written words that were destroyed in the Forgetting. Many such songs and stories were put to the page by the early Scribers after the Forgetting, but Denn sought out and transcribed many bits and pieces of old folk songs himself as well. He began by looking into the legends of Old Elovia.”

  I tried to interrupt. “Illias, don’t. None of this—”

  He simply talked over me, ignoring my protests. “His work impressed the Council enough that he was granted full Academy backing for his research after he was pinned. He and I worked to develop a number of popular theories about ancient Elovian history. But it was quite by accident that our pursuit turned towards the Forgetting and the Archives. One of Adello’s songs…” He turned to me with frustration in his eyes. “What was it called again, Denn?”

  “Curse of the Sages,” I answered with a sigh, shifting uncomfortably as I resigned myself to hearing the story of my failed career. One did not easily stop Illias when his didactic instincts took over.

  “Yes, I always forget the name. In any case, it is commonly thought to be a tale of the Elovian cataclysm, and as such was included in our research. A Prince’s love of reading leads him to dark Wyddin lore recorded by the Sages, and it destroys the kingdom. You may have heard it.”