Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

  Illias’ arms tensed and anger flashed in his eyes. He looked as though he was ready to attack his fellow Master.

  Not wanting Illias to make trouble for himself on my account, I intervened hastily. “I understand, Master Hantarin. Thank you for hearing me.” I gave a small bow, then laid a hand on Illias’ shoulder. “I have nothing left to say but my goodbyes to Master Illias.”

  The Master of Politics gave a satisfied nod. “I am glad you can see reason; I feared you might not be so wise. I must return to the Academy, but I wish you a safe journey.”

  As soon as Redmond was out of sight, Illias let out a stream of profanity. “That pompous, Dragon-damned son of a whore! I hope the Father shoves a bolt of lightning right up his ass!”

  A throaty chuckle came from behind me. “Some mouth you got, for a Scriber.” Orya stepped up to clap Illias on the shoulder. “I like it. That other one seemed like a right prick.”

  “Not that we were eavesdropping, of course,” Deanyn said as she and Wynne joined us.

  I looked around for Bryndine, but she was not with them—apparently she had meant what she said about leaving the matter to the Scribers. Irrationally, that irritated me; she was the one who had pushed me into this. She could have at least cared enough to listen in.

  “How could he ignore everything you said like that?” Wynne demanded, hands on her hips, the very image of indignation. “Aren’t Scribers sworn to seek the truth?”

  “That matters less every year.” There was an edge to Illias’ voice that I didn’t recognize.

  “It’s for the best, Illias. There’s no reason they should listen to me.”

  Illias gave me a long, level look. There was something behind his gaze, a determination that made me nervous. “You were talking about the stained glass at the Old Garden. The Mother points—” He made the same error I had, and paused to correct himself. The Mother at the Old Garden was little more than shattered glass now. “Pointed west. That is not a very specific signpost.”

  “Why does it matter?” I asked. “The Council won’t let us do anything about it.”

  “But you have an idea. I know you well enough to know that, my boy.”

  “I thought…” I hesitated, but Illias just waited, staring at me with uncomfortable intensity until I continued. “It’s always the Mother pointing—the goddess of the Earth. That could mean… perhaps a tunnel, under the ground. Fyrril and his people would have had to get the books out of Three Rivers unseen. We know they could have gone through the Underground from the Archives to the Garden, but after the east wall fell, we never had the chance to check the west.”

  “So we will dig beneath the west wall and see if they went that way.” His tone was firm, decisive; this was not hypothetical. “With luck, we’ll find something that will make the next step clear. If Adello really did hide this clue in his songs purposely, there must be others.”

  “Illias, you can’t—”

  “I will.” He squared his shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. “Denn, I am an old man, and I am tired of arguing with the Council. I swore an oath, and I mean to make good on it before I die. No matter what Redmond and his dogs say.”

  “It’s a waste of time, Illias. Redmond was right.” My doubt was only worsened by Illias’ belief in me. If he pinned his hopes on my insane speculation, I was sure he would be disappointed.

  Wynne looked positively crestfallen. “Don’t say that, Scriber Dennon!”

  “Where’re your balls, Scriber?” Orya actually sounded puzzled—like retreat was a foreign concept to her. “Just go have a look around, if there’s nothin’ there, no harm done.”

  “I won’t go back to the Old Garden.”

  “It was one mistake, Denn,” Illias said, sympathy and exasperation battling each other in his voice. “What happened was not your fault, and if this theory proves true, it was barely even a mistake. You may be willing to give up because of that, but I am not.”

  “They won’t even let me in,” I protested, spreading my hands helplessly. “Korus would put a stop to it the moment he heard.” Korus Creven was the Royal Scriber—and an old rival of mine from the Academy. He had the King’s ear, and he would not sit idly while Syrid allowed me a chance to remove the stigma from my name.

  “If you’re never going to get in anyway, there’s no reason to protest so much,” Deanyn pointed out with a wry smile.

  It was obvious that nothing I said would dissuade them, but I could not be part of it. “I can’t stop you from coming with us, Illias, but you’ll have to do this without me.” I looked at my toes as I spoke, so that I would not have to see the judgement in their eyes.

  “If I have to, I will, Denn.” Waving a hand in the air to get her attention, Illias shouted, “Captain Bryndine!”

  Bryndine walked briskly over from the stables. “Master Illias. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m going with you to Three Rivers. How soon can you get me there?”

  “Four days, perhaps, without killing the horses to do it. But it will be a hard pace.”

  Illias nodded with satisfaction. “The Council cannot convene with a member absent. They’ll have to wait a week to make the claim that I’ve abandoned my duties, and the debate will take at least a few days after that before they can vote to remove me. Until then, I am the Master of History, and it is within my rights to pursue this.”

  “You’ll lose your seat on the Council!” The prospect horrified me—he was going to risk his entire career because of my harebrained idea.

  He set his jaw stubbornly. “Not if I find something first.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Three Rivers is the capital of the Kingsland, where the Errynson family has dwelled for centuries in the palace known as the Kingshome. When Erryn first sailed upriver from the Wasted Plains, he and his people made their camp at the junction of the Salt, Rynd, and Conqueror’s Rivers and burned away the First Forest around the fork to claim the land as their own. That camp grew into Three Rivers—named, like the Kingsland itself, by the old barbarian sensibility of straightforward description.

  The city as it stands is not the same city Erryn ruled from, however—there is evidence that at some point before the Forgetting, a fire razed much of Three Rivers to the ground. The most telling proof is the Underground, a series of basements and cellars showing signs of the fire that were apparently built over and forgotten in the reconstruction. The criminal element uses most of this network of tunnels and buried rooms for illicit activity, but still more remains sealed away.

  — From Dennon Lark’s Cities of the Kingsland

  We made the journey from Highpass to Three Rivers at a pace that left me little time to dwell on the consequences of Illias’ decision, though I did find myself worrying about his physical well-being. Covering seventy leagues in four days was no easy ride for me, and I was half Illias’ age. But for the most part, the saddle sores and deep muscle pain that plagued me for much of the distance diverted my attention from anything else.

  There was one thing that cut through the pain, however—perhaps because it carried the threat of an even worse agony. As we left the foothills, the voices returned. They were faint and infrequent, never so focused as they had been the night Waymark was attacked, and the dreams of burning did not return, but it was enough to make me wary again after having been free of them for several days. Whenever I found myself riding beside a fireleaf, I slapped my mount into a faster gallop and put the orange-red leaves behind me as quickly as I could. I was certain that the Burnt would come upon us at any moment, and the slightest glimpse of movement in the hills sent my heart racing faster than my horse. But no attack came.

  It was early afternoon on our sixth day of riding when Three Rivers came into view. As we rode south down the Saltroad, the entirety of the Kingsland’s greatest city spread out over the hills and valleys before us, a vast wrinkled blanket of stone and straw and timber thrown haphazardly over the countryside, cut into thirds by the rivers that gave th
e city its name. East of the Saltroad, the Salt River journeyed with us towards the heart of Three Rivers, where it would join with the Conqueror’s River from the eastern plains and form the Rynd, stretching off into the west towards Ryndport and the sea.

  Three Rivers had never shown much evidence that intelligent planning went into its layout. Save for the Kingscourt to the east, where the historic buildings and noble estates sat along carefully laid cobblestone streets, the city was a mashed together disaster of styles, from thatched-roof cottages to stately marble manors and anything in between. A maze of interrupted roads and circuitous pathways dissected the southern Commoncourt and the western Tradecourt, and numerous arbitrarily placed bridges spanned the three rivers that separated the districts. Navigation through those streets was near impossible for anyone but long-time residents, and even they sometimes struggled with it.

  But the city I looked upon now was nearly twice as large and a hundred times as disorganized as the one I had last seen five years before.

  A crude wooden palisade had been constructed some distance from the walls, and within its perimeter milled what must have been tens of thousands of refugees. Even the new boundaries could not contain their number—tents and crude shelters spilled outside the palisades in all directions. As we drew up to the edge of this overflow, the stench of human waste and unwashed flesh made my stomach heave violently.

  Bryndine noticed my discomfort and reined her horse over to mine. “The smell is hard to take, but we will be within the true walls shortly. Try not to breathe through your nose.” She surveyed the makeshift shanties with a critical eye. “There are more here than when I left—the Burners force more people from their homes every day.”

  Instead of answering, I held my breath against the smell as best I could, and motioned her onwards impatiently. I felt for the plight of the refugees; it was the same as my own. But the stink made it difficult to maintain sympathy, and I wished to be through it as soon as possible.

  Soldiers of the Nineteenth Company patrolled up and down the Saltroad within the palisades, keeping the refugees from blocking the roadway and generally maintaining order. As we rode by, I noticed more than a few of them scowling at Bryndine; but when she looked, they only saluted. No matter what they thought of her, she was still an Errynson.

  At the gates, a Lieutenant of the Nineteenth halted our progress and approached Bryndine. “Captain Bryndine, King Syrid wishes to see you immediately.”

  “I am at the King’s command, Lieutenant.” Bryndine turned to me and Illias and dipped her head politely. “It appears this is where we part, Scribers.”

  The Lieutenant cleared his throat. “Actually, Captain, the Scribers are to come as well.”

  “Of course we are,” Illias said, chuckling cynically. “I imagine Redmond sent a bird the moment he learned I was gone. He knows how to play this game; he’ll have divested the Council of any responsibility for my actions.”

  The man had said Scribers, plural, it occurred to me. “I’m not a part of this, Lieutenant. There’s no reason to take me to the King.”

  “I’m sorry, but my orders are to see you all to the Kingshome. If you aren’t needed, it will be cleared up there.” The man gestured to a nearby soldier, who brought forth a horse and helped him mount it. “Please come with me—we should not keep the King waiting.”

  I balked at the notion. “This is a waste of time! I’m not—”

  Bryndine leaned over and gave my mount a slap on the flank, startling it into motion. “When the King summons, we can only obey, Scriber Dennon.” She kicked her own mount forward and her company followed her through the gates and into the capital. I went along grudgingly. Bryndine was right: I would never convince an Army man to disobey the King’s orders. They would almost certainly send me away when we reached the Kingshome, but until then, I had no choice but to follow.

  We were escorted south through the crowded markets of the Tradecourt, where the noise of peddlers shouting their deals and customers haggling over wares echoed in the narrow streets and made conversation between our group all but impossible. Eventually the Lieutenant cut east, leading us over the Salt River by one of the larger bridges, reserved for Army use and patrolled by men of the Twenty-Fifth. As we crossed into the Kingscourt, the change was palpable—the noise of the Tradecourt was like a physical weight pressing in from all sides, and the quiet streets of the noble district offered nearly instant relief.

  Unlike the rest of Three Rivers, the Kingscourt was a calm, lovely place—the guardsmen who patrolled the area at all hours of the day were well-paid to keep it so. The cobbled streets were shaded with carefully groomed elms, and though it was early autumn, few leaves lay on the ground—there were people here whose sole job was to keep the streets clear of such things.

  We rode through beautifully tended gardens and squares built around marble fountains and exquisite statuary, and at one point the road cut through a small park with a large fireleaf at its center. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried not to draw attention to myself as a low whisper floated through my head; I did not want to let on that a seemingly harmless tree could disarm me so, especially not here among the homes of the most influential people in the Kingsland.

  As we drew closer to the Kingshome, the buildings became more and more opulent, yet less and less impressive by comparison to the palace. The wide street was home to many grand sights—the partially collapsed Old Garden with its massive domed entryway that still baffled the School of Science; the newer Royal Garden, built where the Archives once stood; the huge manor of the Lord Chancellor; the great marble stairway before the White Hall, guarded by several white-cloaked Justices—but none of them were so awe-inspiring as the ancestral home of the Errynsons.

  The Kingshome was a marvel of Old Elovian architecture, techniques lost since the Forgetting: arches and pillars so delicate the stone might have been spun on a loom; vaulted rooftops of impossible inclines; steeples tall enough to pierce the Divide. It shone in the late afternoon sun, smooth white marble and glittering gold, and from every spire flew the banner of the burning tree, ablaze in brilliant crimson.

  The Lieutenant brought us as far as the courtyard just within the gates of the palace, where he and Bryndine’s company were asked to wait. A guardsman in Errynson livery escorted Bryndine, Illias, and me further into the palace. I tried to explain that the King would have no use for me, but my complaints were not heeded; as Bryndine had said, I had no choice but to obey.

  We were not taken to the throne room—the King sat on Erryn’s Chair to receive important guests of high status, not two Scribers and his niece. Instead the guard led us to a large, airy council chamber where King Syrid waited.

  The moment we entered, the whispers began, swarming through my head like a hundred angry wasps.

  Uran Ord was there—he had to be. Though he stood beside the King of the entire realm, my eyes went first to him, not Syrid. Ord’s head was still tightly bandaged, the cloth wrapping pulled tight over the dent where his skull had been crushed inwards. How he could still function with such a wound was beyond my understanding. I tried not to make eye contact with him, but no matter where I looked the invisible swarm of voices buzzed in my head, calling my gaze back to the High Commander. Rubbing my temple with two fingers, I fought desperately to keep my composure, focusing my attention on the King as best I could.

  Syrid Errynson sat at the back of the room on a high-backed chair of gold and velvet. To his left there was an empty chair of similar opulence, a chair that had presumably sat empty since the death of Queen Anya; to his right sat his brother Elarryd, the Lord Chancellor of the Kingsland.

  Their father, the much beloved King Eddyl, was remembered as a ruler of great cleverness and wisdom, and as a warrior of great strength. His two sons, at a glance, appeared to have divided those traits amongst themselves. Syrid was drawn and gaunt, slouched under the weight of the crown that sat atop his bald head, but there was an intelligent look to his face and his keen eyes
were always in motion. Elarryd was almost the King’s exact opposite, broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with long golden hair like some hero out of legend.

  I had heard stories, and seen firsthand the size of their sister Hyrna, but it surprised me just how tall both men were. Neither was as large as Bryndine, but their height—near seven feet—was impressive. It is said that the blood of ancient barbarian heroes and Elovian kings give members of the royal family their legendary stature, and looking at them, I believed it.

  Finally, I noticed the fourth man, standing on the opposite side of the King from Ord. A handsome man, brown-haired with arrogant eyes—I knew his face well. Korus Creven, the Royal Scriber, gave a mocking bow as our eyes met, and I understood immediately that this meeting would not go well for me.

  “Your Majesty.” Bryndine knelt before her uncle, and Illias and I followed suit.

  “Rise.” Syrid had a look of annoyance on his face as we stood, but I saw the Lord Chancellor smile warmly at his daughter.

  “I bring Master Scriber Illias Bront and Scriber Dennon Lark, your Majesty.” Bryndine stepped to the side and took a rigid military stance, letting the King’s gaze fall upon me and Illias. He did not look pleased.

  “Master Illias. I have word from the Scribers’ Council that you are here against their wishes,” the King said with a frown.

  Illias looked the King directly in the eye. “That is true, your Majesty. But I am the Master of History still, and it is my prerogative to follow whatever path I deem necessary to uncover the Kingsland’s past, until such time as the Council removes me.” It was true—the Masters of the Council were officially allowed to pursue their goals without the King’s interference. Still, I worried that Illias was only hurting his chances by addressing Syrid so brazenly. Though the law said he needed no royal approval, in reality he would never be allowed to set foot in the Old Garden without permission.