Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

  The cat slashed at my throat, quick as instinct. Bryndine was quicker. Still kneeling, she swept her left arm across her body in a backhanded arc, driving the edge of her shield into the snowcat’s head. The metal disk sheared through flesh and scraped bone, but drew no blood. Somehow, the cat kept its feet, clawed at me again, and then Bryndine’s shield punched through its skull with a dull crunch. It slumped to the ground and moved no more.

  Bryndine pushed herself to her feet. Her sword still jutted from the side of one of the beasts’ corpses a few feet away, and she strode over and drew the blade free. A dark trickle of blood finally flowed from the wound it left, and she wiped her blade clean in the snow before sheathing it. I had been confused before, but now I understood that she must have thrown the sword—a sword that I could barely lift with two hands—hard enough and accurately enough to kill the cat from ten yards away. I stared at her for a moment with my mouth agape, trying to imagine the kind of strength and control that would have taken.

  “Are you injured, Scriber?” Bryndine reached down to help me up.

  I took her hand and stood, still trying to understand what had happened. “I’m… fine,” I said. It was not entirely true—I had no wounds, but the moment of unexplained clarity I had experienced during the fight worried at my thoughts. What is happening to me?

  “Dragon-damned cats came out of nowhere,” Orya said as she and Sylla drew near. “What got them so angry?” She was limping, I noticed, and one of the cats had left four deep parallel gouges in her cheek that would almost certainly scar.

  “It was the Burnt.” I ran my eyes over my companions as I spoke, searching for signs of serious injury. Sylla clutched at her side where one of the beasts had parted her armor and underpadding to reach the flesh beneath; Bryndine had escaped the worst of it, though her right arm was wounded and bleeding.

  Bryndine nodded, apparently unsurprised. “I thought as much. They bled too little, and snowcats do not hunt in packs as a rule.” She looked at me for a moment in silent appraisal, then said, “It was fortunate for us that the snow stopped when it did. You hear the… the sorcery at times, Scriber. Was that…” She let the words hang without finishing her thought, but it was clear that she suspected my involvement in ending the snowfall.

  I shook my head sharply, unwilling to confess until I knew exactly what I had done. “I don’t know what happened. I… I’ll understand more when I read those books. We need to find the cave.”

  “No we don’t,” said Sylla.

  I swivelled to face her, ready to defend the need to keep searching despite the snowcat attack. After whatever it was that I had just experienced, I needed answers more than ever. But Sylla’s face showed none of the defiance I was expecting.

  She pointed back the way she had come, and I saw it. Half-buried in the high snowdrifts piled against the valley’s east slope, no more than twenty yards from where we stood, was the mouth of a cave. Fyrril’s cave.

  “We don’t need to look for it,” Sylla said again. “It’s right there.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  If not for the bravery of Prince Fyrril and the men who followed him, the entire history of the Kingsland would have been lost with the Forgetting. Much of that history survives today only because of Fyrril’s rebellion, and because of the songs of a minstrel who was fiercely loyal to his Prince. Fyrril died to give some measure of hope to the Kingslanders who, nearly five centuries after his death, would face the same threat he had; he died without knowing if his sacrifice would ever be remembered. That it was not for so long is one of the greatest tragedies of the Forgetting.

  — From Dennon Lark’s The Forgetting Remembered

  Beyond the mouth of the cavern, the passage turned sharply to the left and sloped uphill. The change in direction prevented the snow from travelling very far past the entrance, and the cold of the mountains kept the air crisp and dry. I could almost believe that the last tomes of the Archives might have survived there for nearly five centuries.

  Bryndine and Sylla walked with me, Sylla moving gingerly due to the wound in her side. I had bound the women’s injuries as best I could before doing anything else, and none of them had been terribly serious. The gouge in Orya’s thigh could have severed any number of arteries, but had missed them all; despite the limp it gave her, she had insisted that she hardly felt the pain and volunteered to stand watch outside while we explored the cave.

  The light grew dim as we went further in, but we had come prepared. Bryndine detached a handheld oil lantern from her pack and used it to light the way. It was not long before that light revealed something that nearly made me scream with rage.

  At the end of the passage, our way was blocked.

  An enormous stone prevented further progress, completely obstructing our path. Peeking through the slivers of space around it, I could see that the passage opened into a larger cavern just beyond, but the light of the lantern did not penetrate far enough to see what lay within.

  My shoulders slumped. After coming all this way, it would be a cruel joke for our search to end here, but I did not see how we could get by. There were too few of us to move such a large boulder. Fyrril must have had it put in place to keep animals and the like from entering and damaging the books, but he would have had men with him to help. We did not have time to go back for the others and return before the winter began in earnest.

  “Well,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice, “I suppose this is as far as we go.”

  Bryndine regarded the boulder as though assessing an opponent. “I think not,” she said, setting her lantern on the ground. “We will try to move it.”

  She was a big woman, and strong, but I was certain that she was overestimating her abilities. She had to be. The boulder must have weighed thousands of pounds—it nearly filled the passage, more than eight feet in height and six across. But there was an undeniable command in Bryndine’s voice, and when she set her shoulder against the rock, Sylla and I moved to join her without hesitation.

  I had seen Bryndine Errynson do amazing things. I had seen her swing her blade hard enough to cleave a man in two, seen her take blows that would have knocked me off my feet. Outside the cave, I had seen her kill a snowcat by throwing a sword that should have been impossible to throw as far and as well as she had. I had seen her fight—and win—while outnumbered ten to one.

  This was the most incredible thing I had ever seen her do.

  Though Sylla and I pushed beside her, we were less than useless; to say we helped at all would diminish what Bryndine did then. She heaved against the giant rock, the muscles in her arms and neck bulging and cording with the strain. And the rock moved.

  At first I thought I had imagined the motion, but then I felt it again. The slightest movement, no more than an inch, but this time I heard the sound as the boulder scraped the stone floor of the cave. I was barely pushing, my feet scrabbling against the ground, unable to find leverage. Yet the heavy stone continued to inch forward.

  Sweat beaded on Bryndine’s brow despite the cold; her face was flushed and red, her square jaw clenched. She braced her foot solidly against the floor and put all of her weight, all of her preposterous strength, into another surge of effort. The boulder slid forward another half-foot, then a whole foot. Sylla and I fell back, unable to keep any kind of useful pressure on the stone.

  Bryndine gave a final, titanic shove, and the boulder flew forward, rasping loudly along the rock wall. Then, slowly and ponderously, the giant stone toppled, falling into the cavern that lay beyond.

  The crash of falling stone echoed painfully in my ears, and in the back of my head there was a vague concern that the rock might have damaged the books when it fell, but at that moment, I could do nothing but stare in awe at Bryndine. The blood of barbarian heroes and Elovian kings. I had never believed in the old saying about the Errynsons, but it occurred to me then that where Bryndine was concerned, it might have been more than just legend and gossip. I thought that Sylla migh
t mock me for staring so openly, but when I looked at her, she was watching Bryndine, and her eyes held nothing but pure admiration.

  Bryndine swayed on her feet, leaning against the side of the passage to steady herself, and Sylla immediately leapt to her side.

  “Are you all right, Bryn?” she asked, her brow furrowed with worry.

  Bryndine waved away the concern, though she was panting for breath and looked ready to collapse. “I will be fine in a moment. Scriber Dennon, take the lantern. Find the books.”

  Nodding, I took the handheld lantern and started into the cavern, clambering over the rock that had barred our way. I could already see a glimmer of metal by the lantern’s light, and I hurried towards it. What I found took my breath away.

  The cave went back some twenty feet, and against the far wall sat ten chests like the ones we had found in Three Rivers, all sealed and seemingly intact despite the long years they had waited there. Ten chests—twice as many as our last find, and if Fyrril was to be believed, full of the most important books the Archives had contained. Atop one of the center chests sat a flat rectangular box crafted of silver, with a burning tree embossed into its surface.

  “They’re here,” I said, my voice breaking. “The Archives are here.” There was something damp on my face, and I realized I was crying. This was everything I had worked for my entire life, and despite many, many bumps along the way, I had arrived at last. Those who had died had not died for nothing. The lost history of the Kingsland waited in those chests.

  With something approaching religious reverence, I opened the silver box. A leather-bound journal lay within—Fyrril’s journal, the source of the pages we had found in our search. A small piece of parchment lay on top of the journal, scrawled with a message in a hand I now knew well.

  Whoever has discovered this place, I hope that it is not too late for you to make use of these books. This journal holds my story, all I have done and learned. In the chest beneath are all of the books I found relevant to my research. The others contain the most important works I could save from the Archives.

  My men and I will do all we can to preserve the Kingsland, though it will almost certainly end in torture and execution. I have done little right, I fear, and the kingdom suffers for my failures. But perhaps if this information is used well, our deaths will have been worth something.

  The despair in the short note was heart-breaking. Fyrril had given everything to defy his father and preserve these works through the Forgetting. He had deserved better than a rebel’s death.

  Bryndine laid a hand on my shoulder, startling me; she and Sylla had approached from behind as I read the note. Embarrassed, I hastily wiped the moisture from my cheeks.

  “We cannot afford to stay long, Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine said. “It will be hard enough getting back with the snow as deep as it is already. We must try to outpace the next blizzard. Most of these books will have to remain here until the Scribers can return.”

  “I know.” I tapped the lid of the chest in front of me. “We need to bring as many books as we can carry from this chest.”

  “We will take all we can. You can read them on the road.”

  Though I wanted to read everything in the cave immediately and a hundred times over, I shook my head. “Better that I read them somewhere safe, sheltered. They are old, and I don’t want to risk damaging them.” This was another thing driven into me at the Academy until it was instinct—a book was a precious thing, not to be read on horseback or around a campfire, not to be exposed to the wind and rain and grime of the outdoors. And these books were more precious than any I had ever handled.

  Bryndine raised an eyebrow. “There may be vital information in Fyrril’s journal. It is a long journey back to Three Rivers, if you mean to wait.”

  I smiled, thinking of my conversation with Deanyn a few nights before. “Actually, I know a closer place.”

  * * *

  We arrived in Waymark a little over a week later.

  Slogging through deep snow, our packs laden with heavy tomes, it had taken us four days to return to camp. After that it was a safe and uneventful journey south out of the mountains, despite a few light snows before we descended into the foothills. Tenille’s injuries did not slow us a great deal—with her limbs splinted and her ribs wrapped, she had insisted that she could ride, ignoring my objections. To her credit, she kept pace with the rest of the group and gave no complaint, though every bump must have been excruciating for her.

  It was torturous to hold myself back from opening the books until we arrived in Waymark, but I was a Scriber, and Illias had taught me well. A week of waiting was nothing compared to centuries of history, and every text had to be handled with care until they could be preserved and recopied at the Academy.

  We entered the village just before noon. It was deserted, as expected, and the fire at the Prince’s Rest had claimed every building on the east side of the road. I had no particular fondness for the place—it had always been a hiding spot, not a home—but it was upsetting to see it so reduced, nothing left but ash and empty houses.

  The fireleaf in the center of town still stood, untouched by the fire; the ground around it was an unbroken carpet of flame-red. Not a single leaf remained in the boughs of the tree, and for once, I was able to approach a fireleaf and hear no hissing voices calling for vengeance. It was not a comfort—I understood too little about the nature of the Burnt and their relationship with the fireleafs for the change to be anything but foreboding.

  My little cottage with its roughly made Scriber’s shingle was unburned, as I had hoped, and everything I had not been able to carry with me when I left was still there: quills and ink and parchment, a lantern and dozens of candles, and most importantly, my solid oak reading desk.

  The women unloaded saddlebags full of ancient texts, stacking them carefully beside the desk. Between Bryndine, Sylla, Orya, and myself we had managed to carry much of the contents of that single chest from the cave: sixteen books, all of them written in Old Elovian. With my limited knowledge of the language, I could tell that they were all works concerning the Sages and the Wyddin, but delving deeper would be difficult.

  When the books had been unpacked, Bryndine came to inform me of the plan. “We can spare the rest of the day here, Scriber Dennon, and we will stay the night. Tenille needs the rest; the ride was hard on her. We leave in the morning. Will that suffice?”

  “I would prefer more time,” I said. “Deciphering Old Elovian is not an easy thing.”

  “I understand, but we need to report anything you find to the King as soon as possible. You will have more time when we arrive.”

  I spread my hands. “I will do what I can then. See that I’m not disturbed. And tell Wynne I may call for her later—I’ve been teaching her something of Elovian, and I may need an assistant for the translation.”

  She nodded and left quietly, closing the door behind her.

  Opening Fyrril’s journal for the first time after a week of waiting—after a lifetime of waiting, really—was among the most thrilling experiences of my life. It held the same wonder as reading my first words, as having Illias attach the pin to my collar at my graduation. It was the realization of a dream I had held since I was a boy. The true events of the Forgetting had been lost for five hundred years, and this was perhaps the only accounting of them left in the world. I would be the first man in centuries to know what had truly happened.

  Some of the story was familiar, mirroring events I had lived through in the last few months: the beginning of the rebel attacks, assaults on small villages with no warning and no trace left behind; the panic of the people; the vain attempts of the Army to put a stop to it. But most of it was new, tales of figures whose lives had been all but forgotten.

  Fyrril wrote of his father, a kind man and a good king who he loved dearly, whose apparent descent into madness broke his son’s heart—a very different Ullyd from the reviled man history remembered. He wrote of his younger brother Oryn, so desperate f
or his father’s approval that he supported the Forgetting and was named heir in Fyrril’s place. And he wrote of his closest friend, Adello, whose loyalty never faltered, who dared to remain in the King’s court, acting as a spy and informer after the Prince rebelled. The bard must have suffered greatly—if he had heard the voices that surrounded the ensorcelled as clearly as I did, every day in the capital would have been torture.

  The journal outlined Fyrril’s ill-fated rebellion from beginning to end. After Ullyd was wounded in battle with the rebels, he changed, becoming fearful of the written word. He gathered the support of the Children in his crusade against Elovian knowledge, blaming it for the rebel attacks. The people followed their King in this, burning books and murdering scholars. Finally, Fyrril felt he had no other choice; he rescued as much of the Archives as he could, and turned against the King.

  Fyrril began his rebellion with the strongly held hope that he could still save his father and the Kingsland from the rebels’ sorcery, but as his men died and his city was besieged, as more and more people turned against him, the Prince fell into despair. He blamed every loss and every death on his own inadequacy, his failure to find some cure for his father. As I read, I was struck by a desire to somehow speak with this man across the years that separated us, to tell him that it was not his fault, that he had done more than anyone could have asked.

  Two pages were missing, the ones we had found, left as marks along his path. The entries surrounding those more clearly outlined the Prince’s plan. Knowing he could not win, he had decided to at least preserve some record of the truth, so that others might eventually learn what had really happened, and perhaps fight back against his father. He sent a last message to Adello, telling of his destination in the Salt Mountains, where he planned to hide the books. He implored the minstrel to work clues into his songs for those who might someday follow Fyrril’s trail. And then, with three hundred of his most loyal men, he abandoned Ryndport and left for the mountains, though the guilt of doing so nearly broke him.