Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

  “I can’t help,” I protested. “I’m forbidden from the Old Garden.”

  “That does not mean that there is nothing for you to do. At the very least, you should be nearby in case he finds something—it was your theory, and you may be needed.”

  “I don’t want any part of it.”

  “You forget that I was with you when the idea came to you.” Bryndine’s tone was firm; a Captain’s voice, brooking no argument. “I saw your face. You will not convince me that it doesn’t matter to you.”

  “It does,” I admitted. It was not something I would have said aloud if I had been sober. “I’ve wanted little else since I was a boy. If there is something there to find, it could be the greatest discovery since the Forgetting. But I… I still dream of the men who died the last time.”

  “You always will, Scriber. Just as I will always remember Janelyn. That is the way of these things. Come with me tomorrow.” Again, she said it like an order, not a request.

  Somehow, I found myself nodding. “I… would like to help Illias. If I can. Without going into the Garden.” It felt like a weight had lifted off my chest, and I laughed with relief. “Sky and Earth, I would love it. I am beyond tired of teaching children and tending scrapes.”

  Bryndine smiled. “Good. Now, it is late, and you are not entirely sober—you should not be wandering the streets.” She stood and extended her hand, helping me to my feet. “Come, I will show you to the guest quarters. We have much to do in the morning.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Without Bryndine Errynson, the dig beneath the Old Garden would have ended before it began. She and her company were instrumental in one of the greatest discoveries since the Forgetting.

  — From Dennon Lark’s Life of Bryndine Errynson

  The sun was too bright, the autumn air too chill, and my head ached like Uran Ord’s must have after the rebel’s mace stove in his skull. That last, though, was almost a relief, coming as the normal result of too much wine rather than the chanting of unseen voices. I had not slept well either, waking repeatedly throughout the night from terrible dreams of destruction and death at the Old Garden. As Bryndine and I approached the partial ruin of the Kingsland’s oldest house of worship, I wondered what I had been thinking when I agreed to come.

  I wondered again why I was there when I saw the two figures standing with Illias and Korus outside the domed entrance of the Old Garden: the Eldest Brother and Sister, he in a sky-blue robe and she in an earthy brown. I could guess their rank by their hair—I did not know how they walked without tripping over it. The Children never cut their hair after taking their vows, something about growing as the plants sacred to the Mother and Father do. It made it easy to identify those of seniority and high esteem. Their hair always grew well past their waists.

  I knew their faces, too, as we drew nearer. Brother Cyril, the Eldest Brother of the Sky, was a short, skinny man with a gaunt face and wispy grey hair that reached to his ankles. Stout, jowly Sister Olynna, Eldest of the Sisters of the Earth, had longer hair still, the end of her brown braid brushing lightly against the ground. The leadership of the Children had not changed, apparently, since they censured me for my role in the Old Garden’s destruction five years ago.

  Illias’ incensed gesticulation made clear that whatever conversation he and the Eldest were having, it was not friendly. “The King has given his permission,” he insisted as we came within earshot.

  “And we are allowing you entry, Master Illias, but the King cannot control the will of the people.” Brother Cyril spoke as though he had just woken from sleep, but it was not due to the early hour; he had sounded much the same five years ago. The old man always sounded tired—the effort of supporting his head under all that hair, I suspected.

  “The will of the people?” Illias snorted contemptuously. “Better to call it the will of the Children—dishonesty is a sin, is it not? This is your doing. You’ve put the fear of the Dragon in them with your preaching!”

  “You question the truth of our words?” Sister Olynna made the sign of the Divide in the air before her. “May the Mother and the Father help you, Master Illias, if you cannot trust their chosen servants.” She shook her head in a show of saddened disapproval. This was the true leader of the Children, not the tired old man beside her—Olynna was shrewd, calculating, and an exquisite performer when she needed to be. She had been especially convincing the day she and Brother Cyril had publically condemned my soul to the Dragon.

  “It is somewhat strange that Master Illias cannot find a single man willing to help him dig,” Korus said, affecting concern, though the smirk on his face made his true feelings obvious. It was then that he noticed Bryndine and me approaching, and that smirk grew into a malevolent grin. “Lady Bryndine, an honor as always. And Scriber Dennon! What luck. You are an expert on the Old Garden, perhaps you can advise us.”

  As the eyes of the Eldest fell upon me, I realized that my arrival could not have come at a worse time. I had expected Illias to already have digging underway, but clearly the Children were resisting the attempt, and my presence was just another thing they could protest.

  “This is an outrage!” exclaimed Sister Olynna. “You dare to bring this man here? Has King Syrid no respect for the sanctity of this place?”

  The loudness of her voice sent needles of pain through my head, but I tried not to show outward sign of my discomfort. It could not help for them to know I was suffering the consequences of a night of indulgence.

  I tried to repair the damage as best I could. “The King did not send me,” I said. “I am only in Three Rivers because my home was attacked by the Burners. I heard that Illias was here, and only thought to visit him. I meant no harm.”

  Korus’ smile disappeared; he had clearly hoped for something more incendiary. But he could not contradict me, not when the King had commanded that my involvement be kept silent.

  Bryndine caught on immediately. “The Scriber asked me to escort him. The city can be confusing to those who do not live here. It is my fault, Eldest. I should have known better than to bring him here.”

  Brother Cyril gave her a sour look from beneath drooping eyelids. “Your judgement is hardly something to be relied upon, Lady Bryndine.”

  Bryndine bowed humbly, and when she bent forward over the tiny Eldest Brother, her huge form cast him entirely into shadow. I found myself fighting back a chuckle.

  “You have my deepest apologies, Eldest,” she said. “With your permission, we will take our leave.”

  Olynna waved her away. “Of course. Take this man away. His presence offends us.”

  It was difficult to keep my temper under control around the woman, even knowing that Illias’ career was at risk. “Likewise,” I muttered, and though my voice was low, I was certain she heard me. She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. Apparently it was beneath her dignity to trade insults with a heathen like myself.

  “Wait a moment, Denn,” Illias said. “If I might have a moment to talk to an old student, Eldest?”

  “Are you sure, Master Illias? Dennon Lark is… a poor choice of companion, especially for a man of your station.” Olynna eyed me with contempt as she spoke, and I imagined how satisfying it would be to yank on that ridiculous braid.

  Illias gave the Eldest Sister an indignant look as well, but managed to hold his ire in check. “It will be brief.”

  Sister Olynna nodded curtly, and Illias pulled Bryndine and me a safe distance away.

  He kept his voice low. “What are you doing here, my boy? I thought you wanted no part of this.”

  Bryndine took responsibility before I could answer. “It was my suggestion, Master Illias. We hoped to see if Scriber Dennon could be of use without breaking the King’s ban. If we have caused you trouble, I apologize.”

  Illias shook his head. “Don’t worry over that—you could not have worsened the situation. The Children have spread the word that no one is to give me any aid, and no Scribers will help for fear of earning the Council’s ire
. I am at a loss, truly. I cannot proceed without workers, and I haven’t much time.” He gave me a small, sad smile. “I am glad to hear that you want to help, Denn, but I fear we have already lost this battle.”

  Accepting defeat would have been an easy escape, but I could not quite bring myself to do it, not with Bryndine watching, not after everything we had both said the night before. And besides that, an inspiration had come to me, chasing the lingering haze of last night’s wine from my mind. I wanted to see where it led.

  “They claim that they will honor the King’s wishes, though?” I asked. “It is only a lack of workers that stops you?”

  Illias nodded, looking at me curiously.

  “Then if you can find help, they will have to let you dig, or else directly disobey the King.”

  “Yes, but where—”

  “It so happens that Bryndine’s women are in need of employment.”

  Understanding lit Illias’ face, and then excitement. “By the Divide, Denn, I have missed you these five years! That is perfect!” He turned to Bryndine hopefully. “What about it? Will you help?”

  “Nothing would please me more, Master Illias. But I am hardly in favor with the Children—they will likely object.”

  “They have no strong grounds to do so,” I said. “You are no longer with the Army. And you are of the King’s blood.” I was convincing myself as much as her—saying the words aloud, I could almost believe them. “It puts them in a difficult position. They would have to not only object to the King’s decree, but deny his niece as a blasphemer, which would show tremendous disrespect to the Errynsons. They may not want to throw down that gauntlet.”

  “I thought you were pinned in History, not Politics, Scriber Dennon.” Bryndine smiled very slightly at me—more than I was used to, from her. “It is worth trying.”

  “Master Illias!” Sister Olynna called out impatiently. “Are you quite done?”

  Illias turned to her with a smile. “Done, Eldest Sister? No, I rather think I am just beginning.”

  * * *

  The plan worked perfectly. Though they did not like it, the Eldest had little choice but to let Illias proceed with the dig—they were unwilling to openly offend the royal family when simply waiting a week would rid them of Illias just as surely.

  The women embraced the work with enthusiasm. It gave them reason to stay together—as well as payment for their services, as Illias still commanded the coffers of the School of History—for at least another week. By the next day, the excavation was well under way.

  I could not enter the Old Garden myself, of course, but the Lord Chancellor’s manor was only a short distance away. Despite the embarrassing circumstances by which I had first come there, I was allowed to stay. In fact, when Bryndine told them of my role in keeping her company together, her parents welcomed me quite warmly. Unlike most of Bryndine’s relatives I had met, Elarryd and Branwyn Errynson were nothing but supportive of their daughter’s desire to serve the Kingsland.

  Wynne acted as a messenger, keeping me apprised of their progress. At first she had little to report, but her passion for the work was evident even when she could tell me nothing but that they had removed more rubble from the Underground chamber beneath the Garden. The girl really should have been a Scriber. I found myself wishing I could share in her enthusiasm. But whenever I saw her I felt only stomach-twisting dread—every time, I was certain that she had come to tell me of some awful disaster.

  With little to do but wait for Wynne’s visits, I spent my first free day reacquainting myself with the twisting streets of Three Rivers. It was a different town than it had been when I left five years before. Always crowded, it was doubly so now with the constantly arriving refugees, yet the lively, animated quality that had once possessed the Kingsland’s capital was gone. People still haggled with merchants, but they did it desperately, with the implication that a lower price might mean survival for another day. Many begged for food, though there was little to be found; with the crops in Three Rivers and the Bridgefort failing, people horded what they had. Children no longer played in the streets—they stayed to their homes, or their tents in the filthy sprawl beyond the walls. What bound the city now was not a sense of community, but a sense of fear.

  Everyone I spoke to had a different tale or rumor about the Burnt: that they could command the weather, make crops wilt and decay, even control minds. But for the most part, people would not speak at all. Even my Scriber’s pin was not enough to quell their distrust. With so many joining the Burnt, any stranger was treated as a threat. Thinking back to that night in Waymark, when Hareld Kellen had charged at me with an axe, I could hardly blame the frightened citizens for their reluctance to trust a new face.

  After that day, I kept to the Lord Chancellor’s manor. I was already hated by most anyone who knew my name, and wandering the streets with the mood in the city being what it was felt like tempting fate.

  On the fourth day of digging, Wynne arrived at the manor, breathless with excitement, to tell me that they had cleared enough debris to begin searching for the theoretical passage under the west wall. She assured me that safety was their first concern, but still I sent her back to Illias with a warning to proceed cautiously.

  That night I lay awake in bed, consumed with the fear that morning would bring terrible news. When I did finally fall into sleep, it was a sleep plagued by nightmares of men dying under falling glass and stone.

  The next morning, when the servants woke me shortly after sunrise to tell me Wynne had arrived, I knew beyond doubt that the worst had happened. With growing terror, I dressed myself and descended the stairs to meet her, my heart beating so wildly that I feared it might shatter my chest.

  And then I saw her face, and I realized why she had come—the reason that I had tried so hard not to consider, had scarcely even thought possible.

  Her expression was one of absolute elation. “We found it, Scriber Dennon,” she said. “You were right!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The story goes that when the Mother and the Father wanted children, they first created the Dragon, the Sea God, collector of damned souls. He was too powerful and tempestuous, and he denied their love. Then they created the Wyddin, but the tree spirits were subservient to their core, and sought only to please their makers. The final, favorite children of the gods were humans, who were mortal and thus reliant on divine guidance, but also possessed dreams and desires of their own.

  But humans could not live in the primordial realm where Earth and Sky were one, so the Mother and the Father created the Divide, separating the realms—and themselves—forever. Should they ever cross the Divide to be together, it will collapse and the Sky and Earth will rejoin, destroying mankind. For our survival, they sacrificed a love beyond mortal ken.

  The vast majority of Kingslanders believe that story. Needless to say, ruining the oldest and holiest of Gardens has somewhat harmed my reputation.

  — From the personal journals of Dennon Lark

  “The King can go swim with the Dragon for all I care, Denn. You are coming with us,” Illias insisted.

  For the second time that week, I stood outside the huge dome of the Old Garden’s entrance. Acting on Illias’ command, Wynne had practically dragged me from the manor towards the Garden, explaining the situation as we walked: they had uncovered the westward passage just before dawn after working throughout the night, and by sunrise, had cleared the old tunnel enough to pass through. At that point, Illias had decided that they would go no further unless I was there—despite the fact that I was forbidden by royal decree to enter the building.

  “Illias, we’ve discussed this! Even if I was willing to disobey the King, I wouldn’t go in there.” I could barely even look at the building without seeing the faces of the men who had died there. Bryndine had talked me into helping from a distance if I could, but I was not ready to do more than that—entering the Old Garden was out of the question.

  “You only need to enter the Garden to re
ach the tunnel,” Bryndine said. “You will be within the walls for mere moments. I think we can justify that to my uncle.” She was becoming as bad as Illias. Neither of them would give me any peace.

  Wynne shifted impatiently, eager to get underway. “Just think what we might find down there! You have to come, Scriber Dennon.”

  “Just go,” I said. “I’ll be waiting to help interpret anything you find. You don’t need me.”

  “But I want you there,” Illias replied. “This is your discovery, Denn.” He threw his hands up in frustration. “Damn it to the Dragon, you need to find a way beyond all this self pity!”

  I rubbed at my temple. “I said I would help, and I will. Why is that not enough?”

  Illias had never look so annoyed with me. With a level of anger usually reserved for his fellow Council members, he said, “Because I didn’t teach you to sit and wait while others do your work for you!”

  My own anger flared in response. “And what a disappointment I must be! You’ll never let it go, will you? You are not my teacher anymore, Illias! You’re just an old man trying to use me to prove you haven’t wasted your life, and I can’t!”

  He struck me across the face. Hard. The force of the blow reopened the gash on my bruised cheek, and I cried out in pain.

  “Wasted my life?” Illias’ face twisted with a rage I had never before seen in him. “Never say that to me again, boy! I do not need you, or anyone, to prove the worth of my life!”

  I stared at him open-mouthed. This was the gentle, kindly man who had raised me, and yet I barely recognized him now. I wanted to apologize, but in the face of such fury, I could not find the words.

  “If none of my students ever amounted to anything, I would still not count it a waste. But you, Denn—you are worse than that by far. I almost wish that you were a failure. It would be easier to take than this… cowardice! You could accomplish great things, if you were not so paralyzed by the thought of making a single mistake!”