Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

  Five simple wooden chests sat in the earthen room, sealed at the seams with a coating of ancient yellowed wax. Atop the center chest lay a sealed silver scroll case, glinting in the lantern light. It was engraved with the sigil of the burning tree.

  “Is that…?” I could hardly believe my eyes.

  “The royal sigil,” Illias breathed reverently. We both knew what it meant—someone of the royal family had left these chests. Someone like Prince Fyrril.

  I picked up the silver cylinder and began working at the wax seal as delicately as I could. It had been there for centuries, and I did not want to risk damaging the contents.

  Meanwhile, Debra and Bryndine levered a chest open with their picks, and the musty smell of old paper wafted out. Inside were stacks and stacks of books, each stamped with the symbol of an unfurled scroll.

  “What is that?” Sylla asked, pointing to the marking.

  “The Archival seal,” Illias answered. “These books come from the Archives. I have only ever seen three other books with that seal.”

  “So the Scriber was right.” She sounded disappointed.

  Bryndine ran a finger over the spines of several books and read the titles off one by one. “One Hundred Recipes, the Goose and the Gelding, a Woodworker’s Guide. This one says Eldeis ce Ina, I believe. The script is Elovian, I do not know all the letters.”

  “It means… something like ‘Law of Coin’,” I said, glancing at the book her finger rested on. “Taxation laws, perhaps.” I was interested in that one, though it sounded dry—the Scribers had very little knowledge of Elovian laws.

  “You speak Elovian, Scriber Dennon?” Wynne asked with a look of awe.

  I shook my head. “Not truly. No one does. We have a book of Elovian nursery rhymes at the Academy—one of the three books left from the Archives. I taught myself what I could from it, but the vocabulary and grammar are limited. Most of the language is lost.”

  “These books will change that.” Illias grabbed me in an enthusiastic embrace. “We’ve done it, Denn!”

  I returned the embrace half-heartedly. There was something nagging at my thoughts, something that was not quite right. These books… the titles Bryndine read… surely the Archives had more to offer than this?

  “This can’t be the entire Archives, though,” Sylla said, echoing my doubts. “There’s not even a hundred books here.”

  “It might be all they could save,” suggested Wynne.

  “Why bring them beyond the walls and leave them, though?” I wondered aloud. “And those titles did not sound like the greatest knowledge history has to offer. This is a great find, no doubt, but…” I hesitated. The further I went with this pursuit, the harder it was to escape it. I was not certain I wanted to commit to another idea.

  But it was impossible to resist; this was the work that I had loved since I was a boy. “There must be more,” I said. “These chests must be what they were forced to leave behind—they would have taken the more important ones elsewhere.” As I spoke, I flaked the last bit of wax from the silver scroll tube, and tipped it so that the rolled parchment within fell into my hand. With great care, I began to unroll it, though I needn’t have worried—the case had been sealed well, and the paper remained surprisingly supple.

  It was a page torn from a journal, written in a clear, strong hand. I looked at the date—early autumn, in the five hundredth year after the Burning. Five hundred years ago almost to the day. As I read on, a cold fist of fear closed around my heart.

  Father is no longer himself. Adello suspects sorcery—he says he can hear the whispers of it in the air, and it drives him to distraction. The rebels have been known to use such Wyddin tricks. It is only since Father was wounded in battle with them that he has changed.

  At first I hoped he was simply frustrated at the rebels’ unpredictability; the way they attack out of nowhere and disappear just as suddenly. But he has become a stranger to me. He speaks like a madman, preaching against the evils of the written word, threatening to burn the Archives. And his fear spreads to the people. All this when he should be concentrating on stopping the rebel attacks. Instead, he lets them happen, and does nothing. But only Adello believes me—even my brother will not listen. Oryn adores Father too much to see any flaw in him.

  I need the Archives. If the knowledge to undo this spell exists, it will be there. I cannot let them be burned. My men have found a way under the city walls. We cannot save every book, but I intend to smuggle the most valuable of them to my manor in Ryndport.

  Adello begs me to reconsider. He fears that opposing the King will be my death. My own fear is that if I do not, the rebels will burn the kingdom to the ground.

  And then, scrawled in a hastier script below:

  I am Prince Fyrril Errynson, and with this act I have openly rebelled against the King. Whoever reads this, if my men and I have failed, I beg of you—go to Ryndport. Find the books and finish what I started. I will leave what trail I can. And whatever they say of us, know that our motives were pure. We sought only to keep the Kingsland from destruction.

  “What does it say?” Wynne tried to peek over my shoulder.

  “Is it a message from Fyrril?” asked Illias.

  “It’s a page from his journal,” I replied. “Dated 500 AB—the early years of the Forgetting.” I handed the page to Illias.

  He looked it over briefly. “The father he mentions is Ullyd, of course. And this brother, Oryn, interests me—I have always wondered who sat the throne after Ullyd, if not Fyrril. The rebels, though… we have no record of them, if they were not part of Fyrril’s own rebellion.”

  “But they sound familiar, don’t they?” My gut twisted with dread. Dread, and terrible certainty. “Mysterious rebels, unpredictable attacks, rumors of sorcery?” Silently, I added strange voices and sudden madness to the list, thinking of Uran Ord, of Josia and Hareld Kellen—and of myself.

  “If not for the year, it could be describing the Burners.” Bryndine frowned. “What are you suggesting, Scriber Dennon?”

  It was so obvious, and yet so completely impossible. “Everything that is happening right now,” I said, “has happened before.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Is there something more to these voices, or are they only in my head? I need to know. I need to find Fyrril’s research.

  — From the personal journals of Dennon Lark

  “Do you mean to say that the Burners have existed for five hundred years, Scriber?” King Syrid arched an eyebrow. “Nonsense. What have they been doing until now?”

  Bryndine had insisted that we tell the King of what we had found immediately—Fyrril’s message made our previously academic pursuit very relevant to the security of the kingdom. So it fell to me to explain myself to a King who still saw me as the man who had torn down the Old Garden, and a Royal Scriber who was all too happy to discredit anything that came out of my mouth. It was not a task I relished.

  “I do not think that it is the same group, your Majesty,” I said, trying to keep the impatience from my voice. “But the similarities must be more than coincidence. These rebels may have found some record of the ones Fyrril mentions. We know so little of their motives; perhaps that is because they have some information we lack. Some secret that allows them to move so quickly and strike so suddenly.”

  “Surely you do not believe these claims of sorcery, Lark?” Korus asked with a sneer.

  “No,” I answered, though it was not wholly true. If the voices I heard were some Wyddin magick that the Burnt had uncovered, it would explain a great deal that I desperately needed explained. “They clearly have some secret we do not understand, some trick these other rebels had first. We must see where this leads—it may be vital to stopping them. And besides that, it is our duty as Scribers. I believe you swore the same oath I did, Korus.”

  “Scriber Dennon is right,” said Elarryd. “If it was only the books, the trip to Ryndport could wait until the danger has passed, but if there is a chance of learning more about
the Burners, we must take it.”

  To my surprise, Korus nodded his head. “Their findings are… not insubstantial,” he said grudgingly. “It is worth pursuing. But I would not leave it in Scriber Dennon’s hands, Majesty.”

  At that, Illias stepped forward. “With due respect, your Majesty, that is not your decision. Korus forgets that the Scribers are not under the King’s command. I am the Master of History, and I have charged Dennon with following Fyrril’s trail while I see the books back to the Academy.”

  Illias had informed me earlier of his intention to return to the Academy. He had already sent a bird to Highpass to deliver the news and save his seat on the Council—there was at least a day left before the vote could be taken to remove him. When I asked him why he would abandon the search after putting so much effort into it, he had given a number of answers: that his “old bones” were not ready for another hard ride; that the wagon back to Highpass would be much more comfortable; that someone needed to ensure the books were properly cared for. I suspected, though, that his chief motivation was to force me to take charge.

  “I don’t care in the slightest who leads this nonsense, Master Illias,” Syrid said. “I do not share your confidence—five hundred year old books have nothing to teach us of the rebels. But if my councillors wish it, you have my blessing. I cannot spare an escort for you, however. We need every man to defend against the Burners.”

  “We need no soldiers, your Majesty.” Illias gestured towards Bryndine. “Your niece and her company have agreed to join Dennon.”

  Syrid frowned. “Bryndine is no longer with the Army. She should not be acting as some… mercenary. It reflects poorly on the Errynson name.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Syrid.” Elarryd spoke to his brother in a way few others would dare. “The Scriber needs some kind of escort. No one is going to notice, and if they do, we will say Bryn is going along to visit Prince Alyn.”

  “It has been some time since I have seen my cousin, Majesty.” Bryndine’s face remained expressionless, but her voice had a hint of amusement in it.

  “Fine, fine. It doesn’t matter.” The King threw up his hands. “Let us be done with this. I have more important things to consider.”

  Bryndine and Illias turned to leave, but I stood my ground. I would get no better opportunity than this.

  “One last thing, your Majesty. I have concerns about the High Commander.” I could no longer justify staying silent, not after reading Fyrril’s note. If there was even a chance that Ord had been somehow possessed or ensorcelled by the Burners, as ludicrous as it seemed, I had to say something.

  The King gave a wry snort. “You are not the only one. What are these concerns, Scriber?”

  His response was not entirely unexpected; I had hoped for something like it, given the annoyance he had shown his nephew during my last audience. “I fear he has returned to service too soon after his injury, your Majesty. If it is not too much of an intrusion, may I ask if you have noticed any strange behavior from him of late?”

  “He has not been entirely himself,” Elarryd said.

  “He has been acting like a fool, you mean,” the King growled. “The last useful plan he had was weeks ago, and your daughter ruined it.”

  Bryndine bowed her head at the accusation, and I was tempted to defend her. Uran Ord’s “good idea” had been to use Waymark as bait for the Burners. But angering the King would not help me make my point.

  “I fear that he is not fully recovered, your Majesty,” I said as sincerely as I was able. “A head wound is more than just a physical danger; there can be mental effects as well. Bed rest may be the best thing for him.”

  “Majesty, Uldon Ord will be furious if you remove his son,” Korus warned. “As will your sister. They will take it as an insult.” There was an actual political concern there, but I felt sure that his intention was more to contradict me than to advise the King.

  “Am I to suffer an incompetent High Commander because I fear my sister?” Syrid drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and looked at me thoughtfully. “I will take your advice under consideration, Scriber Dennon. Is that all?”

  It was the best result I could have hoped for. With luck, the King would send Ord back to Highpass, and even if not, at least he had reason to keep his nephew from making any important decisions. It was in Syrid’s hands now; there was nothing more I could say.

  “It is, your Majesty.” I bowed before the King, then followed the guards from the room.

  * * *

  “You will do fine without me, Denn,” Illias said, patting my shoulder. “It was your ideas that took us this far, not mine.”

  The courtyard of Lord Elarryd’s manor bustled with activity. Bryndine and her women busied themselves strapping supplies to the horses, making ready for the journey to Ryndport. Though they were no longer entitled to wear the tabards of the King’s Army, it was strangely comforting to see the company back in their rough travelling clothes and boiled leather armor. A number of Scribers worked alongside them, hauling the heavy chests retrieved from the Underground into the wagon that waited in the street.

  Word had come from the Academy the day before, commending Illias for his work—it made me smile, imagining the distaste on Master Hantarin’s face as he put his name to that letter. With the Council’s approval, every Scriber in Three Rivers was suddenly eager to lend a hand in getting the books to Highpass. Even Korus had come, if only for appearances. He stood on his own, watching the work with a sour face and making no move to help.

  “You don’t need to keep saying that, Illias.” I grinned at the old man. “I am not trying to get out of it this time.” In truth, I was eager to get underway, though not because of any newfound confidence in my abilities—if there was something in Ryndport that might explain the voices I had been hearing, I needed to find it.

  “I wish you would bring help, though. Bryndine and her women are capable, to be sure, but a few pinned Scribers…”

  I shook my head. “I have Tenille, if I need her. Anyone else would only be trouble. I am still not popular, and I’ll not spend the trip trying to keep a group of resentful Scribers under control.” It was only half true. I was more worried that I might be seen having a fit, or reacting to invisible whispers. Until I could say for certain that it was not madness, I would not let another Scriber see me like that.

  “If you insist, my boy. It is in your hands now.”

  “Illias… about the other day, at the Old Garden…” I did not want to raise the subject, but it might be the last time I saw him for weeks.

  He raised a hand to stop me. “Don’t apologize, Denn. I went too far.”

  “Even so, I’m sorry if I have ever… disappointed you.”

  “I am proud of you, my boy. Never doubt it.” He gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze. “I just wish you would take some pride in your accomplishments from time to time.”

  “I’ll be proud when my accomplishments outdo my failures,” I said.

  Illias rolled his eyes. “What other Scriber has discovered so much in recent memory? But be stubborn about it if you wish, my boy. I am just happy to see you working again.”

  Before I could reply, Branwyn Errynson approached us with an offering of hot tea. “I hope I’m not interrupting, Scribers. I thought you might like a drink.”

  Branwyn was a slight woman with light brown hair, blue eyes, and delicate features. It was hard to imagine that she had given birth to a giant like Bryndine; clearly her daughter had inherited more from Lord Elarryd’s side.

  “Thank you, Lady Branwyn.” It was a bit strange to have the Lord Chancellor’s wife waiting on us; she could just as easily have sent a servant. But I accepted a cup and took a sip, and Illias did the same.

  “I wanted to speak with you before you left, Scriber Dennon,” Branwyn said. “To thank you again for helping Bryndine. I was worried for her—she has never wanted anything but to serve in the Army.”

  “She was doing Illias a service by assisting h
im,” I replied, uncomfortable with her gratitude. “I had little to do with it.”

  “It was your suggestion, Scriber,” she insisted. “Bryndine told us what happened. She is never happy without a purpose to serve, and you gave her one when she needed it. I know she is grateful to you as well, though she might not show it freely.”

  It was pointless to argue; I didn’t want the attention, but clearly I was helpless to stop it. “I am glad I could help, then.”

  “My husband wants you to know that if ever you require a favor from him, you need only to ask. He would have seen you off himself if he were not in council with the King.”

  “The Lord Chancellor is most generous,” said Illias. “That is not an offer many men hear in their lives.”

  “I—I thank you, my Lady,” I stammered. “And Lord Elarryd.”

  “You are most welcome, Scriber Dennon.” Branwyn smiled at my obvious discomfort. “And don’t look so nervous. You have nothing to fear here.” With that, she left to speak with her daughter, who was overseeing the last of the preparations.

  By the time we finished our tea, the horses were packed and ready. I said my final goodbyes to Illias while the women bid farewell to their own loved ones. Bryndine bent down to give her diminutive mother a peck on the cheek; Tenille embraced her two young boys and kissed her husband. Hylda’s daughter clung tearfully to the silver-haired woman—the girl was quite pregnant, and did not want her mother to go.

  When the goodbyes were done, we mounted our horses and followed Bryndine from the courtyard. But as we filed from the gates of the manor, I heard a clatter of hooves. Not from our company, but from the north, towards the Kingshome, and approaching rapidly. And with the hooves, there was a low whisper—the word “Pain” hissed in my head.

  “Stop!” It was Uran Ord, galloping down the street to meet us. He was dressed for battle, his bandaged head covered by an open-faced helm, and his sword was drawn. As he neared, the voices grew louder.