“I understand that they may do just that by next week’s end.”
“And I will continue my work until they do,” Illias replied.
King Syrid raised a questioning eyebrow. “What work is that, Master Illias? Master Hantarin’s message was scant on details.”
“I have reason to believe that there is more to be found at the Old Garden,” Illias said. “There may be a tunnel beneath the entry dome on the west side, through which books from the Archives may have been smuggled.”
“Your Majesty, if I may speak,” Korus interjected smoothly. The King gave him a slight nod, and he continued, “It would be unwise to allow any Scriber access to the Old Garden—there would be public outcry, and the Children would be most displeased. But it is doubly inadvisable to do so when Scriber Dennon is involved, given his history.”
“I have nothing to do with this!” Distracted by the whispers flitting past my ears, and overly eager to counter Korus, I nearly failed to properly address the King. As he turned his eyes on me, I hastily tried to cover the lapse. “—your Majesty. I have no wish to enter the Old Garden. Do not deny Illias on my account.”
Korus could barely contain his glee. “But it was your theory that prompted this, was it not?” This must have seemed an ideal chance for him to take some measure of vengeance. I had outdone him in nearly everything when we were at the Academy, so much so that when it became clear I would always be Illias’ favorite, Korus had changed his focus to the School of Politics. Though he had become Hantarin Redmond’s most prized student, and was now one of the most influential Scribers in the Kingsland, he had never forgiven me.
I hesitated, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie in front of the King. “…Yes.”
Without breaking her stance or so much as shifting her eyes towards Korus, Bryndine said, “I have heard Scriber Dennon’s reasoning, and I believe it to be sound, your Majesty.”
Uran Ord took a step forward, and I almost thought he would lunge at Bryndine, but he stopped himself. “I must object, Majesty. I have told you of my cousin’s lapse in judgement—how can we trust her in this?” When he spoke, the whispers grew more frantic—agitated for reasons I couldn’t understand. I rubbed my temple vigorously and concentrated on ignoring them.
Elarryd Errynson had been silent until now, watching the proceedings thoughtfully, but now he came to Bryndine’s defense. “My daughter is many things, but she is no fool, Syrid. This may be a pursuit worth some amount of public disapproval. Can we risk allowing the Archives to remain lost because of past mistakes?”
Korus’ responded with such conviction that I was sure the argument was lost. “There is no evidence that the Archives were saved at all, Lord Elarryd. This is a misguided fancy, nothing more.”
The Lord Chancellor was not dissuaded. “Let us hear the Scribers out, and then we will know whether or not it is worth pursuing. It can do no harm, Syrid.”
The King nodded tersely, motioning for Illias to proceed. With unusual brevity, Illias summarized my theory, handing over several sheets of musical lyrics to support the claims.
“There seems to be some substance to this, Syrid.” Elarryd studied the papers with an interest that surprised me. Though he was Lord Chancellor of the realm and had a reputation for wisdom and intelligence, his warrior’s build and bearing made it difficult for me to see him as a man of knowledge.
The King looked at his brother with doubt in his eyes. “You would have me searching for old books while the Burners tear my kingdom down around me?”
“Those old books have much to teach us. You know that as well as I, we both spent time at the Academy.” Elarryd’s tone was calm, convincing; the practiced voice of a man who had spent years guiding his brother’s decisions. “Warfare and weapon-smithing, medicines and surgical techniques we have lost—things that might aid in this fight, and even if not, certainly in those after it. And it will hardly tax our resources. I am sure Master Illias can manage the matter, with your blessing.”
Syrid pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn it to the Dragon, Elarryd. It is not a good time for this. We have the Burners to deal with yet, and no matter how many of the bastards we kill, they never seem to run out. The realm starves with the poor harvests of late, and I have thousands of refugees begging for food that I cannot provide, claiming I have not fulfilled the Promise. I do not want the Children inciting them to riot over this. Besides that, it will earn the Council’s ire.”
Elarryd smiled wryly at his brother. “That is usually the way of it. Nothing ever happens when it would be most convenient.”
There was frustration in the King’s eyes. “You could not have waited until the rebels were dealt with, Master Illias?”
“If I gave the Council time, they would have stopped me, Majesty.”
Korus could not restrain himself any longer. “Your Majesty! You cannot move against the Council on this.” The barely contained joy had left him, replaced with tense indignation. It must have been torture for him to watch the argument turn in my favor—or what he saw as my favor, though I was not fighting for it. “This is not the time to risk losing the support of the Children, the Scribers, and your people. If you support another of Lark’s theories—”
Elarryd cut him off before he could go further. “Then let us remove Scriber Dennon from the matter. His name will not be mentioned, and he will not enter the Old Garden. Give Master Illias access until such time as the Council removes him—he has perhaps a week before that happens, ample time to look into the matter. If he finds anything, the Council will have to admit their mistake. If he does not, all you need do is abide by their decision to dismiss him at that time, and they cannot say you have ignored their wishes.”
Syrid drummed his fingers on his chair as he mulled the suggestion over. “The Children will still be a problem.”
“That is not insurmountable,” said Lord Elarryd. “Without Scriber Dennon’s involvement, they have less reason to oppose the intrusion. If a tunnel is found, the Scribers will not be long under the Old Garden’s walls; if it is not, they will be gone by week’s end.”
“So be it.” The King thumped his fist decisively against the arm of his chair. “You have one week, Master Illias—make good use of it. Scriber Dennon, you are not to set foot within the Garden.” Though I had not wanted to take part to begin with, something twisted in my gut at the King’s declaration—some small piece of hope I had buried long ago finally laying down to die. It was not a pleasant feeling.
“This is unacceptable!” Uran Ord’s bellow was far louder and angrier than was proper in the presence of the King. There was no reason for him to care so much about this; the matter barely affected him, and he was not known for his piety. But for reasons I could not begin to guess, he was furious, and the voices surrounding him shared that fury. “All knowledge burns,” they hissed, and each word sent a new wave of pain throbbing through my head.
Syrid looked at his nephew with irritation. “If my High Commander finds it so difficult to accept his King’s decision, perhaps I need a new one.”
“Your Majesty, surely you can’t mean to let these Scribers defile—”
“Enough, Uran!”
The High Commander shut his mouth sullenly, but his eyes were filled with rage, and though only I could hear them, the enraged voices did not cease.
The King waved a hand towards me and Illias. “Korus, help Master Illias with the arrangements. The guards will see Scriber Dennon out. We are done here, and I have a family matter to discuss with my niece.”
He could only mean the matter of Bryndine’s disobedience to the High Commander. I had nearly forgotten that she stood to be punished for trying to save the people of Waymark. It was an injustice, but there was little I could do about it, even if I had been allowed to speak for her—I could not have gotten more than a few words out past the terrible noise in my head.
I tried to catch Bryndine’s eye as the guards led me from the room, to give her some indication of my support
. But she only continued to stand at attention before the King, her face a solemn, impenetrable mask.
* * *
“What was the King’s mood?” Tenille asked, pacing a matted path into the grass in the front courtyard of the Kingshome.
“Not pleasant. But he agreed to let Illias into the Garden, so…” I shrugged. “I can’t say how he will deal with Bryndine.” It was a weak answer, but I was too distracted to give better—Uran Ord monopolized my thoughts. There had been a powerful anger in him, and in the voices I had heard; it might constitute a danger to the King. I felt I should tell someone, but how could I explain it without sounding mad? And to whom?
Rubbing my temple, I surveyed the courtyard around me. It was large and open, with entrances to the different wings of the palace in all directions. The main doors, huge panels of varnished oak, sat at the end of a wide path lined with tall marble pillars. Guardsmen were posted at all doors, and there were a number of them gathered to one side of the area, standing around a patch of earth where the grass had been worn away over the years by many armored feet. Two men were sparring in the middle of the small crowd, while the others shouted their encouragement.
The sight of the guardsmen tempered my fears somewhat. The King was well-protected, and from threats more real than voices in my head. I took comfort in dismissing the voices as some flight of fancy, but there was a deeper fear beneath it—the fear that I was only lying to myself. Though I tried not to, I couldn’t help but think of Josia Kellen, lying dead on a dark hill.
But there was nothing I could do either way. Even if I tried to warn the King or his guards, no one would listen.
Sylla spat on the grass at my feet, bringing me back to the conversation. “We all know what Syrid will do,” she said. “He’s been waiting for the excuse.”
“The King could have disbanded us at any time.” There was no optimism in Genna’s quiet voice. “He might not now.”
“If Bryn hadn’t refused to let it drop, he’d never have let her wear Army colors to begin with,” Sylla retorted. “If she’s in the Army, at least she’s under his control. But that’s not going to be enough now that she’s disobeying orders. We’re done.”
“We’re not.” Deanyn leaned serenely against a marble pillar and spoke with a seeming lack of concern. “Whatever happens, I have no plans to go anywhere. We may not wear the same uniform after today, but you lot won’t get rid of me that easily.” An easy smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I say we go out tonight and get good and drunk. If things go one way, it’s a celebration; the other way, we’ll drown our sorrows.”
Unsurprisingly, Orya was the first to voice her support. “Now that’s an idea. All the cryin’ in the world won’t help more than a good drink. And if it’s good news, first round’s on me.”
Tenille stopped her pacing long enough to frown at the two women. “This is not something to be taken lightly, you two. Be serious.”
“I take drinking very seriously,” Deanyn replied, affecting a solemn expression.
Tenille snorted—a mix of amusement and annoyance. “You don’t have to convince me of that.” She paused, and her frown relaxed into a slight smile. “To be honest, I could use a drink.”
A chorus of agreement followed Tenille’s admission.
“Tonight then,” Orya said. “The Doused Tree. And Father bugger any of you who try to get out of it!” She looked meaningfully towards Genna—the quiet woman’s cheeks went red at the obscenity, but she indicated her acceptance with a nod.
“What delightful companions you’ve found since last we spoke, Lark.” I turned to see Korus standing behind me, eyeing Orya distastefully. “So ladylike.” He must have foisted Illias off on a subordinate as soon as he was able, just to catch me before I left.
“I’ll show you ladylike.” Orya was completely unruffled, and followed up the statement with an obscene gesture.
Korus pointedly ignored her. “Why did you come back, Lark? Was it not enough to destroy a priceless piece of art? When this new idiocy of yours goes wrong, it will embarrass the King at a time when he needs the people’s support most.”
“I already told you, Korus, I didn’t want any part of this. I tried to tell Illias not to come.”
“Not hard enough, it seems.” A shallow, cruel smile played across his lips. “At the very least you are being kept out of it—I shudder to think what the Children might do if you were allowed back into the Old Garden.”
“They’re not letting you in, Scriber Dennon?” Wynne frowned. “It was your idea.”
“No, I… I told you, I don’t want to be part of it, Wynne.” Despite what I said, disappointment still lingered. The short time I had spent studying Adello’s songs in Highpass had stoked a long dead fire inside me; quenching it again was no easy thing. “Korus is right, it would only cause problems.”
“Mother in the Earth, Lark. You’ve somehow found someone with little enough sense to believe in you.” Korus sneered at Wynne. “You do know who this man is, don’t you girl? You would be hard pressed to find a Scriber less qualified for the work.”
“Don’t be so hasty, Korus. There’s always you.” Tenille stepped forward, putting herself between me and the Royal Scriber. “Leave off. Dennon hasn’t done anything wrong.” She had no more reason to love Korus than I did; he had been part of a very vocal opposition to her unusual training at the Academy.
He tried to maintain his bravado, but backed away a step at Tenille’s advance. “Tenille. Lady Bryndine does like to surround herself in false Scribers, doesn’t she? That’s hardly a surprise, I suppose—she prefers false soldiers as well.”
There was sibilant sound from behind, metal scraping on leather, and I turned to see Deanyn casually holding her drawn sword in hand. “Don’t mind me, Scriber Korus. Just playing with my false sword.” She tested the edge of the blade against her thumb. “But wait, that’s quite sharp, isn’t it? That can’t be right. We could hurt someone with these.”
Korus went slightly pale at the implication. “I am the Royal Scriber! I won’t be threatened by the likes of you!”
“What about the likes of me?” Orya cracked her knuckles, her wide eyes and wild hair giving her a distinctly unstable air. “Like you said, I’m no lady. I wouldn’t know if it’s good manners or not to hit the Royal Scriber.”
Orya and Deanyn’s show of defiance prompted the support of the other women. Wynne, who I had never thought of as threatening before, glared at Korus with an ire that I hoped never to see turned in my direction. Genna’s timidity evaporated as she clenched her hands into fists. Dark-skinned Leste placed her hand on the hilt of her saber; Debra needed no weapon but her heavily muscled arms to look threatening.
Even those I barely knew came to my defense—I had said no more than two words to Rylene during our travels, but the scowl on her scarred face was chilling as she stepped forward. Only Sylla remained still, but as she glanced between Korus and me, I got the impression that it was only because she couldn’t decide which of us she wanted to hit more.
Korus, finally realizing that these were not women to be trifled with, looked absolutely terrified. He half-turned to leave, then glanced back over his shoulder, opening and closing his mouth as though he couldn’t decide whether to stand his ground, call the guards, or simply bolt. It was priceless.
“That’s enough,” Tenille interceded. “Korus is right, we’d be punished for harming him.”
Masking his relief with arrogance, Korus gave a curt nod. “Yes, quite sever—”
Tenille continued, interrupting the threat. “Of course, a smart man like him must realize that whether or not we were punished, he would still be hurt. A smart man might leave Scriber Dennon alone and go.”
Korus opened his mouth to respond, but Tenille just tipped her head towards Orya and raised an eyebrow. He took another look at the wild-eyed blond woman, clamped his mouth shut, and stomped away in a petulant huff. Snorts of muffled laughter followed him; the women enjoyed his ignoble r
etreat as much as I did.
But in his absence, I found myself uncomfortable. I hadn’t expected these women to come to my defense so readily, and I didn’t know what to say to them. Embarrassed and awkward, I muttered an unintelligible thanks, avoiding eye-contact, and hurried towards the main gate to leave.
“Dennon, wait.”
I looked over my shoulder to see Deanyn striding after me.
“What is it?” My voice came out more snappish than I’d intended, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Come out with us tonight.”
I was taken aback by the offer. “What? Why?”
“You seem like you could use a drink. Banned from the Old Garden and all.”
“I didn’t want to be part of that,” I insisted, though it rang false in my own ears.
She shrugged. “Come anyway.”
“I—Perhaps. I will think about it.”
Not one to push, Deanyn just gave a simple nod. Her easy manner made it difficult to maintain my embarrassment.
Mustering my courage, I asked her, “Why did you all… do that? Defend me.”
She shrugged. “Why wouldn’t we? We’ve been travelling together for weeks. You’re not bad company on the road. You might be a bit of an ass sometimes, but who isn’t?” She grinned to show she was joking. “And you’ve helped the Captain out a few times; I can count on one hand the people who are willing to do that. I like you. Most of the others feel the same way. Wynne in particular, though your pin might have more to do with that than your personality.”
“Most of the others barely know me,” I objected. “And I know that Sylla loathes me.”
“Sylla is a different story.” She looked like she might explain, but instead she just smiled teasingly and said, “In any event, it needn’t be entirely about you. Korus insulted us too.”
Once again, I didn’t know how to respond. Not to the mild accusation of narcissism—which, I was fairly certain, had been said in jest—and certainly not to the admission of affection. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came to mind.
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