Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

  “It does sound familiar,” Bryndine agreed. “There is some extra meaning to it?”

  Illias nodded enthusiastically. “An entirely different meaning, in fact. Adello is mainly known for his songs of times long past—Erryn the Burner and The Wyddin’s Wrath and so on, the sort of tales tavern minstrels like to play. The Sages’ Curse seems to fit in perfectly at a glance.

  “But Denn noticed something peculiar about it. It makes no specific mention of time or setting; it only speaks of how the Prince is corrupted by Elovian lore concerning the Wyddin. And much of the melody, as well as the description of the Prince, is similar to another piece—one that had never been attributed to Adello. The Golden Prince. A somewhat scandalous ballad, considering it is written from a male perspective, about the singer’s adoration for the apparently handsome and virtuous Prince Fyrril.”

  “The Forgetter’s son?”

  “Ullyd’s son, yes. I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten everything you learned here.” Illias flashed his best teacher’s smile, the one that had encouraged me so many times in my youth. I had almost forgotten that he would have taught Bryndine when she attended the Academy—he was not just telling a story, he was testing his student’s memory. “We hadn’t credited The Golden Prince to Adello—it is rather different from his usual work. Fyrril was a contemporary of his, not a legend, and the song is rather shamelessly flattering.

  “But Dennon noticed the similarities, and took the two songs to the School of Arts. They decided it was very likely Adello had written both, based on the style and arrangement, and the nearly identical terms describing the Prince.” Illias peered intently at Bryndine’s face, looking for signs of enlightenment. “Now, what do you suppose that showed us?”

  She thought about it for a moment before answering. “It is Prince Fyrril in both songs, I suppose?”

  “Yes!” Illias pounded a triumphant fist on his desk, shaking the candles perched on it and making the shadows in the room jump. “And if both are about Fyrril, Curse of the Sages must not be about the Elovian cataclysm. That was centuries before Fyrril’s time. It is about the evils of Elovian knowledge, but during the Forgetting! Ullyd needed to spread fear to ensure the people supported his anti-literacy laws, and he must have commissioned Adello to help.

  “Not only that, but Fyrril had previously been thought of as little more than a footnote in history. He was Ullyd’s oldest son, but there is no record of his rule, not a single song or tale. But we now believe that he may have actually rebelled against his father, perhaps even tried to prevent the Forgetting—something that merited such a public condemnation. We would never have found any of it without Denn’s fine work.” He smiled proudly at me.

  This was not something I wanted to be congratulated for. “If any of it is true. I am not considered a reliable source these days.”

  “It is an interesting study either way, Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine said. “Is this what led you to search for the Archives? If Fyrril rebelled, he might have saved the books before they were burned.”

  I was mildly impressed that she had put it together so quickly. “That is what I thought at the time,” I said. “But it was a fool’s errand.” The bitterness in my voice surprised me—the wounds of my past were closer to the surface here. “Hundreds have gone looking for the Archives on some wild theory, and it never ends well. They say Prince Willyn was seeking them when he disappeared—one of the few men to fail out of all six Schools at the Academy. That is the sort of company I am in. The last in a long line of idiots.”

  “One mistake doesn’t invalidate all your work, my boy,” Illias protested. “That’s what this is, the continuation of your work.” He tapped the stack of music on his desk. “I’ve had every Historian at the Academy scouring Delwyn’s Hall for transcripts of old songs that cover similar themes. The School of Arts has identified hundreds of them as Adello’s since you’ve been gone. He was apparently quite prolific in his work for Ullyd. There is a trove of knowledge about the Forgetting here.”

  “What can we learn from these?” I asked. “That reading is evil? That knowledge corrupts? These songs were written to scare people! They tell us nothing about what actually happened!”

  “You thought differently once. This is what we do, Denn. We uncover the past as best we can.”

  “I was wrong when I thought there was something in those songs. Look what happened!” I swept my hand in a vaguely southward direction, towards Three Rivers. “I tore apart an irreplaceable piece of history. What will I do next time, burn down the Kingshome?”

  “It was an accident, Denn. You can’t let that—“

  “Nine men died, Illias!”

  The old man sank back in his chair with a weary sigh. “I gather you are not here to return to your research, then?”

  “I’m sorry, Illias. I can’t. I shouldn’t have come.” This was becoming crueller than I had intended. I had only wanted to see Illias again, but of course it had raised his hopes. He had never hidden the fact that he wanted me back at the Academy. “I just wanted to see you, that’s all this was meant to be.”

  “And I am glad you came. If that is all this is, it will still be the best surprise I’ve had in years. But Denn… Stay here tonight, at least. Have a look at the songs.”

  “I can’t stay here, Illias. If you’d seen what happened at the gate… I’ll find an inn.”

  The old man gave me a look that nearly broke my heart. But staying at the Academy was out of the question. It had been a mistake to come to Highpass at all; it was not fair to Illias. I had to leave, and soon.

  “My uncle will have a room for you, Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine offered. “I must tell him about Uran’s wound, and he will want to reward you for your efforts on my cousin’s behalf.”

  Staying with Uldon Ord and Bryndine would barely be better than staying at the Academy. But I would never convince Bryndine to hide the story of her cousin’s injury. I considered asking her to leave me out of it, since I had not actually done anything of use, but she was difficult to anticipate—she might tell him anyway, out of honor or propriety or the like. And I could not refuse a summons from the Baron of Highpass. It would be easiest to simply accept the invitation, as much as I wished not to.

  “That would be best. It will make it easier for me to join you when you return to Three Rivers.” I stood up from my seat. “We should go.”

  “Wait.” Illias held up the stack of songs, his eyes begging me to accept them. “Just look at them.” I couldn’t bear to refuse. After everything Illias had done for me, he deserved at least this small concession.

  “I will look them over. If I notice anything of interest before I leave Highpass, I’ll tell you. But that’s all I can promise.”

  Illias smiled, though there was not much hope in it. “I… wish you well, then, my boy.” He turned to Bryndine and clasped her hand fondly. “M’Lady, it was good to see you again. You have my thanks for seeing Dennon here safely—it was kind of you. Millum Wren would have been proud.”

  “Thank you, Master Illias. I have always tried to uphold the Promise, as he taught me.”

  “He was a good man,” Illias said. “I was sorry to hear of his passing. Replacing him with Uran Ord is a bit like replacing your sword with a dull dinner knife, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “My cousin is… not the man Millum Wren was.” Bryndine’s response was polite, with no direct confirmation of the insult to the High Commander, but the slight hesitation hinted that she and Illias were of the same mind. “Few are.”

  “Yes.” Illias nodded sadly, and for the slightest moment I felt his eyes on me. “Few are.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Started by King Ullyd the Forgetter approximately five hundred years after the Burning, the Forgetting is perhaps the single most defining event in the history of the Kingsland, excluding the Burning itself. Ullyd instated harsh laws against reading and writing, burned books, and killed scholars. This dark period lasted nearly two centuries, c
ontinued by his successors even after King Ullyd’s death.

  The greatest loss of all was the Royal Archives in Three Rivers. A repository of all surviving history and craft that had been collected since the founding of Elovia thousands of years before, the Archives were a symbol of the very thing that Ullyd feared so much. When he ordered them burned, the past of the entire continent burned with them.

  — From Dennon Lark’s essay, Consequences of the Forgetting

  I had expected Uldon Ord’s hospitality to be tiresome, but not quite so tiresome as it ended up being.

  I saw the Baron and his wife only briefly when we arrived—Bryndine and I were brought to a large audience chamber where they waited, and she outlined the story of their son’s injury and recovery, giving me far more credit than I deserved. The Baron thanked me for my aid, insisting that I attend a small dinner they were having later that evening. Though I very much did not want to, I lacked any way to politely refuse an invitation from the Baron of Highpass and the King’s sister, and was forced to accept.

  If I could have come up with any excuse, I would have done so eagerly. The Baroness obviously did not want me there. Hyrna Errynson was an imposing woman, more than six feet in height—several inches taller than her husband, who was not a small man. Her face was pinched into a perpetually sour expression, her golden blond hair pulled back into a severe bun, and when she peered down upon me, I knew what an insect must feel like in the moment before being squashed. It was clear that she knew who I was and disapproved of my attending the dinner, but she did not openly gainsay her husband’s invitation. Despite her low opinion of me, though, she saved her most disapproving looks for Bryndine—the sight of her niece in Army browns did not please her.

  The Baron himself was considerably less frightening, despite his size. He had the look of a man who had once been muscular, but lost most of it to fat—his broad shoulders and chest still held the impression of strength, despite his sagging flesh. Seemingly oblivious to his wife’s disapproval, he made a grand showing of his gratitude, but the magnanimity felt insincere, a charade put on for the sake of appearances. He ordered his men to escort me to my quarters and supply me with whatever I needed to prepare for the evening, and I followed them out, glad to escape from the Baroness’ judgemental gaze.

  The rooms were very fine, all velvet and satin and gilded trim, but I did not spend much time enjoying them right away. Instead, I immediately had the servants draw me a hot bath. Scouring off the grime and blood of the trek from Waymark was uncomfortable but incredibly satisfying, like peeling off an old scab.

  When I returned to the bedroom, my coarse, travel-stained clothing was gone, replaced with a dashing outfit of Highpass grey and gold. The fine Raen silk was lighter than breath against my skin, and it was easy to see why my own clothes had been deemed insufficient by comparison.

  It was all very luxurious, but I had no illusions about the evening. Years earlier, when I was being lauded as the Academy’s most promising young graduate, I had attended many such formal events. Despite all the elegant trappings, they were never anything but a dreadful bore, and the Ord’s affairs were worse than any. The family claimed to be of purer Elovian stock than any bloodline left in the Kingsland, and tried to prove it by only hosting the most prim, proper gatherings imaginable.

  Finally, the appointed hour arrived, and I was led to the dining chambers. I ended up seated at a remote corner of the table, far from the Baron and Baroness—my invitation was borne of propriety, not of any desire for my actual company. An elderly landowner sat at my right, in deep conversation with his neighbor about the dreary minutia of taxation, and to my left, an enormously obese noblewoman tried to catch the attention of the handsome young men seated at the other end of the table.

  I caught bits and pieces from the others, mainly Uldon Ord boasting to the younger nobles of serving with King Eddyl during the seventh Barbarian Incursion thirty years before. I made a concentrated effort not to engage with anyone—the only thing less interesting than being ignored for the whole night would be actually speaking to the guests.

  Hyrna Errynson’s hand in the seating arrangements was obvious—in addition to hiding me far from the influential guests, she had surrounded her niece’s seat in eligible nobles, all of them from old, wealthy families. Bryndine’s chair was still empty; she had not yet arrived in the dining hall. The thought of her being wooed by any of the pompous young fools at the table was so ludicrous that I could not help but smile. Not one of them would stand taller than her shoulder, and she could probably best any three in a fight.

  When Bryndine finally arrived, I nearly fell out of my chair in shock. She wore a ruffled dress of Errynson brown and crimson and a formal shawl that barely fit around her broad shoulders. Her short boyish hair was hidden under a fashionable lace cap, and matching lace gloves covered her large hands. The effect would have been transformative, but she wore it so uncomfortably that I could only see how poorly it fit her bulky frame; how little she belonged among these people.

  She kept her back straight and her chin up as she moved to her seat, maintaining a grim dignity. When her aunt introduced her to the other guests, she acknowledged them tersely but politely, her mouth set in a thin, determined line. Even seated, she loomed like a giant over the men to either side of her. The fat cow beside me tittered into her hand at the sight and tried to disguise it as a cough; everyone heard, and despite Bryndine’s effort to appear unaffected, I saw her cheeks flush.

  “Geryn is a very impressive young man, Bryndine. He has been running his father’s holdings for years, and stands to inherit them all.” The Baroness gestured at the young man seated to Bryndine’s right, and they exchanged awkward courtesies. “Geryn, surely your father has told you that a good wife is necessary to running a household?”

  “Y-yes, m’Lady, he has.” The quaver in his voice revealed his discomfort; he was a handsome lad, and I am sure he envisioned his future wife being much more comely than Bryndine Errynson. The rumors of how young Herryk Rafynson had died all those years ago could not have helped either—what young man wanted a bride that might kill him?

  “Bryndine, what of you? You must find a husband soon. I fear my brother has been too distracted by his work to do his duty as a father.” The woman’s approach to courtship had all the subtlety of a drunken Ryndport sailor in a dockside brothel.

  “I have been busy with the Army—”

  “There will be no talk of that blasphemy at my table, Bryndine,” her aunt interrupted sternly. “Elarryd has been remiss in letting it go on so long.” She frowned at her niece with a distaste that bordered on overt disgust. “It is that woman’s influence, no doubt. I fear you are paying the price for your father’s… poor choices.” She was speaking of Bryndine’s mother; it was no secret that Hyrna Errynson had strongly opposed her brother’s marriage.

  Bryndine met her aunt’s eyes with defiance, but to my surprise, her usual iron composure did not last. After a moment, she broke eye contact and hung her head.

  “I’m sorry Aunt Hyrna. I didn’t mean to offend.”

  I don’t know what possessed me to speak. Pity, I suppose. “I have to admit,” I said, “I was glad for Lady Bryndine’s blasphemy when she saved my life.” My tone was conversational, but even so, I was directly defying the Baroness. The chatter at the table died instantly, and I cursed my foolishness as all attention turned to me.

  “Scriber Dennon, you forget yourself!” Uldon Ord barked, his chins quivering.

  “My apologies Baron; Baroness.” I cast about for a delicate way to extract myself from the situation. “I only meant that Lady Bryndine did a great service to the people of Waymark, not that it was an appropriate place for a woman. No doubt her success was due more to Erryn’s blood than anything.” I hoped that would save me from punishment—it would be hard to fault me for admiring the royal family.

  “No doubt,” Ord agreed after a brief silence. He seemed cautiously appeased, or at least willing to let the
awkward matter drop. “But mind yourself in the future, Scriber. Now, let us talk of other things. As my wife says, this is not fitting discussion for the table.”

  The insipid conversation among the guests slowly resumed, but Hyrna Errynson remained quiet for a long while, staring at me with disapproval etched in her sour face. And Bryndine looked at me as well, with what might have been puzzlement; it was certainly not gratitude. Given our less than warm relationship, it had probably shocked her as much as it did me when I came to her defense.

  Her reprieve came to an end before long—her aunt touched her on the arm to get her attention, and introduced the next of her potential suitors. Glad to have evaded both women’s attention and come through my social gaffe essentially unscathed, I resolved to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the meal, and lapsed into quiet boredom.

  * * *

  Bryndine called upon me later in the evening, several hours after the dinner ended. I hadn’t expected visitors, and was surprised when I heard the knock at the door; more so when I opened it and saw her. Sylla was with her, and appeared no more pleased to see me than usual, but she did not batter down the door or try to twist my arm off, so I counted myself lucky.

  Bryndine looked much more at ease than she had at dinner. The ill-fitting dress had been exchanged for a simple shirt and trousers, and although it was still strange to see her out of her boiled leather and Army browns, she looked almost like herself again.

  “Scriber Dennon.” She inclined her head slightly in greeting. “May I come in?”

  I shrugged. “If you please.” I did not know what she wanted, but if I tried to send her away, Sylla would probably snap my neck. And besides, I was glad for the interruption. I had been staring at the stack of papers Illias had given me for an hour, trying to decide what to do with them, and getting nowhere.