Sylla moved to take up guard outside the door, but as Bryndine stepped inside, she gestured for the other woman to join her. “My uncle’s guardsmen will suffice, I think, Sylla. If you are seen outside, everyone in the manor will know about my visiting the Scriber at this hour. And I’ve enough rumors to deal with already.”
“Why are you visiting me at this hour?” I asked. “I’ll assume you haven’t simply been overcome with desire.”
“Watch yourself, Scriber.” Sylla stared knives at me, but I was used to that; I was becoming a decent judge of which comments would get me a glare and which would risk actual knives.
“I apologize. But the question still stands.” I led them to the table where Illias’ songs sat untouched, and gestured for them to sit before doing so myself. The rooms I had been given were well furnished—the table was as big around as the massive bed, inlaid with gold trim, and surrounded by velvet-upholstered chairs. I held it back, but the ludicrous situation made me want to laugh: I should really not have been allowed to entertain the King’s niece in gilded chambers on velvet cushions.
“I came to let you know that we will be leaving for Three Rivers tomorrow, as early as possible,” Bryndine informed me. As she seated herself, the delicate chair beneath her creaked ominously under her weight.
“So soon? Surely you want to spend more time with your aunt and uncle?” I raised an eyebrow meaningfully. We both knew why she wanted to leave, but I had a small hope that she might actually explain herself for once.
Unexpectedly, she dipped her head in acknowledgement of my unvoiced meaning. “My aunt does not care for my choices, and I have no wish to subject myself to her disapproval. But that is not the only reason to leave. You should not have spoken against her at dinner; she was against your presence to begin with, and that did nothing to endear you to her.”
“I’d have said worse if I’d been there,” Sylla grumbled. “It’s the first time I’ve agreed with the Scriber.” I glanced at her, surprised, but she only glared at me, then began to leaf absently through the papers on the table.
Bryndine’s solemn expression hardened. “It is not your battle to fight, Sylla, nor Scriber Dennon’s.”
I had always thought that Bryndine’s position in the Army was because of her family’s influence, but it was becoming clear to me that her blood provided as many obstacles as benefits. It was hardly a boon for the Errynsons to have her flaunting the Mother’s law all over the Kingsland. I wondered at the determination it must have taken to defy her family for so long. I could not have done it; I had fled the Academy at the first sign of disapproval. The thought made me feel small, and angry with Bryndine for making me feel that way.
“So the King’s sister is displeased with me?” I asked. “Lovely, there go my hopes of ever being made a Baron.”
“She does not want it to seem as though the Ords have forgotten your role in the accident at the Old Garden—it would not please the Children.” Bryndine sounded almost contrite as she explained. “But my uncle thought it would look ungrateful to turn you away after saving Uran, and insisted on offering his hospitality. You would have been removed after your comment at the table, but it would not have been seemly to take back guest rights so abruptly. Tomorrow, they will ask you to leave quietly.”
“Who can blame them? I would not want me as a guest either.” I tried to be flippant, but it came out caustic. “The mad Scriber who tore down the Old Garden chasing fables—hardly fitting company for good, pious people.”
“You always speak as if there was no reason behind your actions, Scriber,” said Bryndine. “It could not have been so frivolous—something must have led you there.”
“Nothing sensible.” I did not want to explain myself to her, but she had heard much of it from Illias already. Better tell her now and have done, or I’ll spend the entire trip back to Three Rivers fending off questions, I reasoned. “You know most of it already.”
“I know that you suspected Prince Fyrril might have saved the Archives, but why beneath the Old Garden?”
“Sky and Earth,” Sylla groaned. “Are you two going to start talking Scriber talk?”
“Well, I don’t want to bore you.” Despite my decision moments before, I was willing to take the escape Sylla offered.
“Please, Scriber Dennon. I would like to know.” Bryndine gave Sylla an apologetic look. “I’m sure it will not take long.”
“I will be brief,” I confirmed. “I’m sure you’ll understand when I say this is not my favorite subject.”
I paused briefly to gather my thoughts, and when I continued I spoke quickly, to be done with it as soon as possible. “It seemed strange to me that Adello had gone from singing a… almost a love ballad to Fyrril, to denouncing him as a traitor. Especially when he still described him in the same terms: golden-haired and handsome and so on. I convinced myself that he might have been in on Fyrril’s rebellion—an agent within Ullyd’s court. If Fyrril knew he was losing and that he could not rely on written records, he might have tried to conceal directions in a form that would survive through the Forgetting, so that those after him might find where he had hidden the Archives.”
“Adello’s songs.” Bryndine nodded thoughtfully. “The bard would have been forced to support Ullyd to avoid execution, so the message would have to be obscure. Farfetched, but not impossible. But why the Garden?”
“It was a guess. Adello’s work for Ullyd is very religious in nature.” I tapped the pile of songs on the table, picking a random line from the one on top. “Look here: ‘The Mother’s condemning finger’, or here, ‘the path to the Dragon’s realm’—pick any song and you’ll find more of the same. The Old Garden is a religious site, and very near the site of the Royal Garden, where the Archives once stood. The two buildings would have been close enough for a passage to connect them through the Underground, to smuggle the books unseen.
“So Illias helped me convince the Council, and they convinced the King—we were granted permission to dig beneath the Old Garden. If we found no evidence that it lay over a part of the Underground, we would stop. But we did find a chamber.”
“I believe I know the rest,” Bryndine interrupted mercifully. I did not wish to speak of what happened next: the empty chamber, the east wall’s collapse, the deaths that I had caused. “But your reasoning was sound, Scriber. I would not call what you did ‘chasing fables’.”
“It was sheer idiocy. Clues hidden in song? A child’s fancy.”
“He’s right, Bryn—he’s an idiot. These songs are all the same, it’s all just stupid moralizing.” Sylla had continued to flip through the songs as I told my story, but I was taken aback to learn that she had actually been reading them. Literacy was not common among the low-born, unless they had Academy training.
Bryndine noted my surprise. “I teach all my women to read and write, Scriber Dennon.”
“Shocking, isn’t it?” Scorn filled Sylla’s dark eyes. “You’re not the smartest one in the room just because you’ve got your pin, Scriber. I know enough to see that all this ‘books are the path to damnation’ babble isn’t a secret message, which puts me a step above you.”
I should have been insulted, but something else distracted me. “Say that again.”
“You’re an idiot,” Sylla said.
“No, not that. Books are the path to damnation, you said.”
“What of it? That’s what these all say, more or less.”
I picked up one of the sheets and looked at the lyrics written there. It was right in front of me—how had I missed it before? I grabbed another of the papers, and another; it was the same on all of them.
Bryndine cleared her throat, and I realized I had been silent for a long time. “What is it, Scriber Dennon?”
“I…” I did not want to admit it to myself. It was a child’s fancy, as I had just said; it was completely absurd. I had already ruined my life going down this very road. But my mind was in motion after five years of relative inactivity, and I could no
t resist the momentum. “…I may have just found the way to the Archives.”
Chapter Twelve
Save for Master Illias, the Scriber’s Council is an inefficient, idiotic, ignorant body, completely obsessed with politics and appearances over actually keeping their oaths. I suppose it is hardly a surprise—the Schools were originally intended to vote for a Master based on merit, but any vote on something so intangible is bound to become a contest of popularity. And when the Masters make decisions based on pleasing the nobles and trying to keep favor among their Schools, the Scribers as a whole suffer for it.
But even if it is for all the wrong reasons, I cannot blame the Council for distrusting me. I barely trust myself.
— From the personal journals of Dennon Lark
As Bryndine had warned, the Baron and Baroness quietly ejected me from their manor early the next morning. The servants woke me from a dream—a dream of men dying as stone and glass rained from above.
Shortly after sunrise, I found myself loitering in the street outside the stables as Bryndine’s company packed and saddled their horses. I had my own mount for the trip to Three Rivers, at least—Bryndine had managed to get that much out of her aunt and uncle, a final reward for the service I had not actually performed for their son.
Bryndine insisted that I tell Illias of my theory before we left. I refused at first; the clarity I had experienced the night before felt weak in the light of day. But when she looked at me with her damnably blank face, it felt like she was judging me, and I relented. I could not let her see my weakness; I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
At least she spared me the need to return to the Academy—she sent Ivyla to fetch Illias. And with every moment that passed waiting for him to arrive, I grew increasingly doubtful. It was the dream that had ruined my confidence. I could not stop thinking of the men who had died because of my last search for the Archives.
I had felt something the previous night that I had not in a long time: the ecstasy of intuition, of pulling together disparate threads of information into a cohesive idea. That joy had driven me to the Scribers in my youth, and it had blinded me to the folly of my actions then. Had it done the same last night? And then there was the fact that I had started hearing mysterious voices and having painful fits. How could I trust my conclusions when I feared I was going mad?
“Don’t look so concerned, Dennon.” Deanyn had taken to dropping my title, a familiarity that most of the other women eschewed. “The man is a friend of yours, is he not? At worst he disagrees with you—he isn’t going to tar and feather you for a bad idea.” There were few secrets in Bryndine’s company—the women all knew of our late-night discussion already.
“It’s not a bad idea, though!” Wynne brushed a lock of brown hair from her face, her green eyes wide with excitement. “It could be the greatest discovery since the Forgetting!” She had taken to my wild theory instantly. Despite a lack of formal schooling, her passion for knowledge was impressive—if she hadn’t lacked money or sponsorship, she might have made a good Scriber.
“If there is anything to it at all.” My stomach repeatedly tied itself into knots and then untied them again. It might actually be worse if Illias believed me—humiliating myself again would be bad enough without damaging his reputation as well.
“There may not be, but it is a sound enough theory to be worth investigating,” said Bryndine, striding out of the stables with Sylla and Tenille at her side, all of them leading horses laden with supplies. “If you do not act on it, you will never know.”
“It’s more than that,” said Tenille. “It is a Scriber’s duty to pursue any opportunity to learn of the Kingsland’s past.” She had sworn the same oath; once she had learned of my epiphany, any chance of keeping it from the Scribers had disappeared.
I scowled. “Tell that to the Council. They’ll have none of it, not coming from me, and not after the damage that has already been done at the Old Garden.”
“Then they will be breaking their oath, not you,” Tenille said. “You don’t have to tell me of the Council’s problems—I know better than anyone, except maybe Bryndine. But their obstinacy doesn’t free us to ignore our vows.”
“I’m going to tell Illias, aren’t I?” I retorted peevishly. “I’ll look like a fool, but I’ll follow my oath; I don’t need reminding.”
“I don’t know why you’re all so concerned about this,” Sylla said. “The Scriber is addled in the head. There’s nothing hidden in those songs.” Despite the enthusiasm of her comrades, she was persistent in questioning my sanity.
“You don’t know that!” Wynne came instantly to my defense; it was almost touching how much the young woman wanted to believe me. “His ideas make sense, Sylla!”
“Anyway, Syl, didn’t I hear it was your sage words that inspired him?” Deanyn asked with feigned innocence. “You shouldn’t be so modest.”
Sylla just grumbled under her breath, fiddling with her horse’s bridle.
“Enough. Master Illias is coming.” Bryndine held up a hand to silence the conversation. “Back to work, all of you—this is a matter for the Scribers.” She led them back towards the horses, leaving me alone in the street.
Ivyla led Master Illias towards me, weaving through the light morning activity on the street. But they were not alone, and the sight of the bald, paunchy figure walking with the two of them tightened the knots in my stomach so badly that I feared they would never come loose.
Hantarin Redmond, Master of Politics, was essentially in charge of the Council. The Masters were all equal in rank, of course, according to custom—but that did not stop Master Hantarin from controlling every decision they made. With favors, flattery, and the sycophantic support of Joryn Ivynson, the Warfare Master, he made sure every vote went his way. Of all the Council, he was the one least likely to believe my theory; agreeing to support me in my previous mistake had cost him and the Council a great deal of political favor.
Why he was with Illias I did not know, but I nearly bolted when I saw him. Let Tenille tell them if she is so concerned about oaths, I thought. But Illias was already disappointed in me, and I did not want to let him down again. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I held my ground as they approached.
“Scriber Dennon.” Redmond’s voice was smooth and guileless to the ear. “How nice to see you again. I was with Illias when this young lady brought your message, and I must admit, I was curious what our most infamous graduate had come up with.” His smile appeared genuine, but that was what made him so skilled at manipulation—he never seemed less than completely earnest.
“Master Hantarin insisted on coming,” Ivyla explained. I felt badly for the young soldier. She clearly feared that she shouldn’t have brought Master Hantarin back with her, but she was the disciplined, obedient sort; she could not have refused a Master Scriber’s demand. Behind Ivyla’s back, Illias shrugged apologetically, but I knew that he could not have stopped Redmond either. The Master of Politics was far too careful to let someone with my reputation leave before he learned why I had come. Especially after hearing that I had enjoyed the Baron’s hospitality.
“It is an honor to have the attention of the Master of Politics.” There was not a hint of sincerity in my voice. “Thank you for showing him here, Ivyla. You may go.” Ivyla nodded and stepped away to join her comrades as they made ready for the journey to Three Rivers.
“Well, don’t make us wait!” Us, Redmond said, though he knew full well that I had only asked for Illias. “What is it you had to tell us?”
I chose to direct my explanation at Illias, and tried to ignore Redmond as much as propriety allowed. “I looked at those songs you gave me.”
Illias’ eyes brightened immediately. “You found something?”
“Are you two still working on those old songs? How disappointing.”
“Hush, Redmond.” Illias gave the other Master a cross look. “Let him finish.”
Unconcerned, Redmond gestured for me to proceed.
I swallowed nervously, but managed to force the words out. “It was something Sylla said—that books are the path to damnation. That is, the songs all say that the path to the Dragon’s realm is paved with knowledge, reading, books and so forth. It occurred to me that it might not be a purely metaphorical path.” I handed a sheet to Illias, upon which I had underlined several key phrases. “The books are damnation, so the path to damnation in these songs—”
“—Might be the path that leads us to the Archives,” Illias finished. “That’s inspired, Denn! We were so busy looking at what the songs might be telling us to do that we missed the obvious: the truth is in what they tell us not to do!”
Illias’ enthusiasm was infectious, and I excitedly pointed to a line on the sheet I had given him. “Here, for instance, it speaks of the Mother trying to warn Prince Fyrril: ‘With censuring hand she showed that knowledge is an evil road’. Similar lines appear in most of these. It’s always the Mother, never the Father, and she’s always pointing or gesturing at something evil, warning people that it will lead them astray.”
I could see the understanding dawn in Illias’ eyes. “You’re not suggesting…”
I let it out in a rush. “It could be a reference to the Old Garden—not as the place the books are buried, but as a signpost, pointing the way. The stained glass of the Mother and the Father reaching across the Divide towards one another. I think Adello is telling us to go in the direction her hand is reaching.” I caught my mistake too late and corrected myself lamely. “Was reaching, rather.”
Master Hantarin let out a sudden bark of laughter. “Surely you’re joking, Scriber Dennon. You understand that the Council could never let you go anywhere near the Old Garden again?”
“Redmond—”
“No, Illias. I understand that you’re fond of him, but Scriber Dennon has made the Scribers look quite foolish in the past.” Redmond looked to me, his face a carefully composed mask of sympathy. “It’s not personal, son, but we simply can’t put any more resources into these fancies of yours.” He sounded eminently reasonable, and any confidence I still felt eroded away. It had been insane to think the Council might listen to someone with my history. Scribers never forget—and Master Redmond was one of the most powerful Scribers in the Kingsland.
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