Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

  “Doesn’t feel that way.” Gingerly, she laid a hand against the right side of her torso. “One of them hit me with a stool.”

  “Could have a broken rib.” Without thinking, I reached out a hand to probe the injury.

  She flinched as I made contact, but didn’t pull away. “I feel like you’re skipping over an important piece of this courtship, Scriber.”

  In my inebriated state, it had not occurred to me that I was essentially groping her without permission. “N—nonsense,” I stammered. “This is purely medical.”

  She chuckled, and the motion made her wince. “Of course it is. Is anything broken?”

  “Not that I can tell.”

  “Impressive medical expertise, that,” she teased. “But if I am not mortally wounded, I should go. Do you have a place to stay?”

  I shook my head. “I was going to rent a room here, but that seems unlikely now.”

  “If you can’t find a better place, I have a room at the River’s Song in the Tradecourt.”

  I nearly choked with shock. “I… that is generous, but…”

  “Calm down, Dennon. I’m not trying to seduce you.” She smirked at my artless reaction. “I only meant that there may be rooms available there. The cheaper inns are mostly full. People don’t want to stay outside the walls if they can avoid it.”

  “Oh.” Despite my embarrassment, I was relieved. I was fond of Deanyn, but it had been a long while since I had been with a woman, and longer still since I had made anything like a friend. I would only have ruined things, given the opportunity.

  As she turned to leave, a question came to my mind. “The others all had some reason for following Bryndine. Why do you?”

  She shrugged. “Why not?” With a mischievous grin, she strode away down the dark street.

  I thought about following her to the River’s Song. I did need a place to stay, though the Tradecourt inns were expensive—how Deanyn could afford one on an Army wage was something of a mystery. But when I moved to follow her, the combination of the blow to my head and the effects of the wine left me lightheaded, and I ended up leaning on the tavern wall to support myself. I eased myself down into a sitting position with my back against the wall, waiting for the world around me to stop its drunken swaying.

  It was then that I realized I was not alone. Sylla sat against the wall a few feet from me, holding her head in her hands.

  I was scared to speak—she didn’t like me at the best of times, and I had just watched her beat a man into unconsciousness in mere moments. So I sat in silence, holding my breath, hoping she would not notice.

  Eventually, she raised her head and looked at me. “Go away, Scriber.” Her expression was not one I had seen her wear before. She was annoyed by my presence—that was not new—but beneath it there was a grief that made her less imposing than usual. It may have been the wine, but I found myself feeling sorry for her.

  “Do you have somewhere to go, Sylla? A husband…” I realized how unlikely that was even as I said it. “…or family, friends?”

  “Would that make you happy, Scriber?” She laughed bitterly. “If I told you a tale about protecting my family, like Tenille? Or would you prefer something sad like Genna, nearly made to marry the man who raped her so her family wouldn’t be shamed? You could pat my head and pretend to understand. Maybe we’d become friends.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I killed my husband, Scriber. Not such a sympathetic story, is it? They’d have hung me for it, but Bryndine claimed I had the right to defend my life under Erryn’s Promise. The truth is, he was a drunk and he beat me, but I wasn’t afraid for my life—I did it because I hated him. I wanted him dead.”

  I stared at her uselessly, completely speechless, but she did not need any response. As far as I could tell, she was speaking just to say the words aloud.

  “So no, I have nobody. Nobody but Bryndine ever cared. I can’t just call this ill luck and go back to my life.” Her voice was thick with emotion, but I couldn’t say whether it was sorrow or fury. “Bryndine was my life.”

  I don’t know if she expected me to recoil in horror, to call her a murderer, or simply to leave her alone. But it was those last four words that struck me more than the story that came before them. “You could still stay with her, couldn’t you?”

  She looked at me with disgust. “And be a burden on her? She’ll have guards. Her father will marry her to a wealthy Baron or landholder, with more men than he knows what to do with. She would take me with her, but she would do it for my sake, not because she needs me. I couldn’t—” She must have seen the sympathy in my eyes, because she stopped abruptly, and her face twisted with fury. “Why should you care, Scriber? I don’t want your pity.” She pushed herself to her feet. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  She stalked away into the darkness, and I watched her go silently. Anything I said would only have made things worse. The only person who might have reassured her was not there, had not bothered to come.

  Sylla might have deserved her misery; she had killed a man, though he hardly sounded like a great loss to the world. Perhaps I should even have been concerned for my own safety, having just learned that a woman who disliked me was capable of murder. But all I could think was that Bryndine should have been there to talk to her.

  As Sylla moved out of my sight, I made a decision. Not a wise decision, but one largely facilitated by my dark mood and inebriation.

  I was going to go see Bryndine, and I was going to ask her why she had deserted her company.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It is possible that I have treated Bryndine somewhat unfairly.

  — From the personal journals of Dennon Lark

  The Kingscourt is heavily patrolled at night, but I had just enough wits about me to get over the bridge and past the guardsmen. It helped that I was wearing the elegant silk clothing given to me in Highpass, and in the darkness the stains of food and drink were not immediately obvious. But it was my pin that ensured unhindered passage. Even at that time of night, the guards were hesitant to stop me when I flashed the golden inkwell at them and claimed important business with the Lord Chancellor. Luck played a large part as well; if any of them had decided to come near enough to smell the wine on my breath, they would never have let me by.

  It was not until I reached the Lord Chancellor’s manor that I realized I would never be allowed in so late. There were men at the gate, and Elarryd’s household guard would certainly know that their master had not summoned me.

  Somewhat bafflingly, in retrospect, it struck me as a good idea to climb the wall around the manor. I crept around the side of the estate where no street lanterns could betray my presence and tried to scrabble up the tightly fitted stonework. My fingers found no purchase; the gaps were too small, the stones too smooth, the wall too tall to simply grab the lip and pull myself over.

  I thought I could see a larger gap in the stones above my head, and jumped to try and reach it, but it was too high. With the sort of logic that only a drunk man can fathom, I decided that I needed a running start, and backed away to the other side of the street. Hurling myself forward as fast as I could, I leapt with my arms outstretched, reaching for the handhold I thought I saw—but there was no gap, only a stray shadow. My hands crashed painfully into solid stone, and I toppled backwards to the ground, crying out as I landed hard on my back.

  The Lord Chancellor’s guards were upon me before I regained my feet, hoisting me roughly and dragging me around to the front gate of the manor. When they threw me up against the wall, the light of the nearby lanterns glinted off my pin.

  “A Scriber?” The first guard was understandably puzzled. “What are you doing here?”

  “He’s drunk, I smelled it when we were moving him,” the other said. “And look at that cheek—he’s been in a fight already tonight.”

  “What’s a drunk Scriber want here?” The first man prodded me in the ribs.

  Confidence seemed a better idea than apo
logy. “I need to see Bryndine. She knows me, tell her Dennon needs to speak with her.”

  “At this hour? I don’t think so.”

  “I need to talk to her!” I insisted belligerently.

  “Scriber, you ain’t getting in. Might be we should have you arrested for trying to break into the Lord Chancellor’s manor, but you’re pinned, and I don’t want it on my head if you have real business here. Come back in the morning.”

  I could see that I wasn’t going to get anywhere with the guards, but I was determined to see Bryndine, and drunk enough that my next action felt less idiotic than it actually was.

  “Bryndine!” I bellowed, twisting my head towards the manor house. “Bryndine, it’s Dennon!”

  “Shut your mouth!” One of the guardsmen cuffed me across my swollen cheek and I squealed in pain.

  “What is going on out here?” Elarryd Errynson’s deep voice sounded from beyond the gates.

  “Trespasser, your Lordship. Caught him trying to climb the wall.” The guard sounded almost sheepish. “Beg pardon, Lord Elarryd. We shouldn’t have let him wake you.

  “Let me see him.”

  The two guardsmen hauled me through the gate; on the other side, the Lord Chancellor of the Kingsland stood waiting outside his front door. He wore silken nightclothes and an annoyed expression, his blond hair mussed from sleep.

  “Scriber Dennon. I thought I heard your name. Father in the Sky, are you mad? Is this about being banned from the Garden?”

  “I need to speak with your daughter, your Lordship.” Despite my drunkenness, I could tell that I was treading on dangerous ground. “I—I’m sorry for waking you.”

  “You need to speak with my daughter?” Elarryd was incredulous. “It is past midnight!” He leaned slightly closer, and his face darkened even further. “Are you drunk? Sky and Earth, this is… Do you know what could have happened to you? I am the Lord Chancellor of the realm! You could have been killed for skulking around my home, and it would have been thought just!”

  “Father, it is fine. I will speak with him.” I had not noticed Bryndine until she spoke; she was hidden in the shadows behind the doorway. Unlike her father, she did not look to have been sleeping—she was still dressed and tidy.

  “Absolutely not, Bryndine. Such behaviour cannot be rewarded. And I would not have him wake your mother.”

  She stepped outside and laid a hand on her father’s shoulder. “Please, Father, return to bed. This is my concern.”

  Elarryd took a deep, frustrated breath, then nodded. “Fine. I will trust you to handle him.” He turned to the guards with what I hoped was grim humor. “But if he starts bellowing again, by all means, kill him.”

  Bryndine and I replied simultaneously, her voice far less nervous than mine:

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “Thank you, your Lordship.”

  “And Scriber Dennon, remember this: I would be very displeased if you said anything to upset my daughter.” The Lord Chancellor looked me meaningfully in the eye, then turned and strode back into the house.

  “Come, Scriber. We will speak inside,” Bryndine said, and I followed her through the front door.

  She led me into a large study off the main foyer, with a fire still burning in the hearth despite the hour. The decoration was surprisingly humble. I had expected gold and velvet, but the Lord Chancellor’s manor was plainly adorned, with few valuables on display.

  Bryndine seated herself in a chair before the fire, and motioned for me to take the seat beside her.

  “You have been drinking.” She swept her eyes over me as if she could gauge my sobriety at a glance. “Are you sober enough to speak sensibly?”

  “I am a Scriber,” I said, offended despite the fact that I had not made a sensible decision in hours. “I always speak sensibly.”

  She accepted my word with a nod. “You are here to ask why I did not join the women at the tavern, I assume?”

  I should have heeded her father’s warning, but I was in no condition to be wise. “They worship you! You should have been there, to… reassure them, give them some sort of hope!”

  “And if there is no hope to give?”

  “Father above, are you completely heartless? They were devastated!”

  “Is that what bothers you, Scriber Dennon? My composure? My… heartlessness? You have said as much before.”

  “It bothers me that you can desert those women when they need you most!”

  She looked into the fire silently for a time before speaking again. “Do you know why I chose to serve in the Army, Scriber?”

  “No. I don’t.” A few weeks before I might have attributed it to her high birth, the whim of a spoiled noble. But not anymore.

  “My parents were only allowed to marry because Father made it an issue of Erryn’s Promise. My mother is not of high birth, as I’m sure you know.” She looked at me as if expecting a snide remark, but I said nothing, so she went on. “They often told me that as long as the King’s Army stands in defense of the Promise, every citizen is free to live a life of their choosing. I grew up idolizing the Army for that.

  “But the Promise is not always perfectly followed. My uncle would not allow me to wear the uniform, not even at Millum Wren’s request. I could imagine doing nothing else, so I went where the Army was called and gave my aid whether it was asked for or not. You must have heard some version of that story as well.” A hint of bitterness crept into her voice. “The Bloody Bride loves killing men so much that she joins whatever battle she can find, or the like.

  “It caused a great deal of public outcry, particularly when I started gathering other women to join me. In time, my father convinced the King that he could better control us if we were part of the Army. We were given only safe assignments, far from the public eye, but still I counted it a victory, for myself and for the Promise. Every day since, I have had to fight to hold on to that victory.”

  “What does this have to do with anything?” I demanded. My wine-addled mind had no patience for stories—I had come to berate her, not to be lectured.

  “Only this: my position was hard-earned, and always precarious. The men would have been glad to claim that I was too soft to be a soldier, too womanly, too emotional. Any excuse would have been enough for my uncle to remove me. I have spent years practicing to hide my feelings from sight. I am not heartless; I have only done what I had to do.” She hung her head. “Though now it seems it was all for naught.”

  “That changes nothing,” I said. “If you care, why did you not come tonight?”

  “Why is it so important to you, Scriber?”

  “Because you are supposed to be braver than this!” I had not meant to say that; I had barely realized I felt it. “I was perfectly happy to hide in Waymark, you know. And then you came along, with all your talk of duty. You took all the bile thrown at you by the people and the Army and your family and you just kept going. You made me feel like a coward, and I hated you for it!”

  Rising from my chair, I began to pace angrily before the fire. “Do you know why I told Illias about my idiotic theory, or gave that little speech in Waymark?” I glared at her, daring her to answer, but she just stared inscrutably back. “I didn’t want to look weak in front of you! And then tonight you did what I would have. You ran away. So now I have to wonder, what was the Dragon-damned point of any of it?”

  “You do not understand.” I was surprised by the despair in her voice. “How could I face them? They have lost everything because of me. Everything they fought for. What could I possibly say to them?”

  “Anything at all would have been better than staying away.”

  Her eyes narrowed; her jaw clenched. I could almost see the last of her self control evaporating. “And what of me?” she asked. “Am I not entitled to be upset? I have lost everything as well, everything I spent my life gaining!” She pounded a fist against the arm of her chair, and the wood splintered beneath her knuckles. “Sky and Earth, why must you always bait me, Scriber?”r />
  It was the reaction I had hoped for since meeting her in Waymark, but seeing her iron mask shatter at last did not bring the satisfaction I had expected. “It was never my choice to stay with you! Why even agree to speak with me, if I anger you so? Why carry me in your wagon, or bring me to Highpass? You could have rid yourself of me at any time!”

  “Would that I had,” she snapped. “You have never been anything but rude and arrogant.” She was silent briefly, and then her face softened and she slumped back in her chair. “But in a way, that is what drew me to you. You are rude, but no more or less so to me because of my blood or my sex. There is a certain honesty to it. And I suppose you are only being honest now. Perhaps I deserve your anger.”

  I stared at her for a moment, trying to control myself, and then I could not hold back anymore. I began to laugh—not some mild chuckle, but a mirthful torrent from deep in my belly that doubled me over and sent me collapsing back into my seat.

  “What is so amusing, Scriber? If you are too drunk to control yourself, you may leave.” There was still anger in her voice, and I knew I should be careful, but I was helpless in the throes of my amusement.

  “It’s… just so perfect!” I gasped for breath. “I dislike you for being brave, and you… you keep me near because I am rude?”

  Her lips rose into a slight smile, then a larger one, and then she was laughing with me, and I realized I had never heard her do so before. The sound was as clear and vibrant as a Garden bell; not at all what I expected. It was a long while before we composed ourselves.

  When she had collected herself once more, Bryndine said, “We are both fools, it seems, but neither of us need be cowards.”

  Finally mastering my laughter, I straightened in my seat and looked at her with apprehension. “What do you mean?”

  “I will speak to the women. You are right; I owe them that much. And you will go to Master Illias, to see how you can help.”