Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

  “No,” I said, but we both knew it was a lie. “No, I can still—”

  “It’s… it’s all right, Scriber Dennon.” She patted my arm, and her eyes seemed to focus on something very far away.

  “Wynne?” Bryndine took Wynne’s hand in her much larger one, squeezing it tightly. “Wynne, look at me.”

  As if from a dream, Wynne said, “I was going to be a Scriber.”

  My eyes blurred with tears. “You are, Wynne.” Fumbling at my neck, I unclasped my Scriber’s pin. “It’s as you said. Being a Scriber is about serving the Kingsland. Seeking knowledge and keeping oaths. You are a Scriber.”

  Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “I am?”

  “One of the best.” With trembling hands, I attached the golden inkwell to the collar of her tunic.

  She smiled before she died.

  A sob tore itself from my lungs, and the world lost focus. I was aware only distantly of women crying, comforting one another. Deanyn, I think, was kneeling beside me, holding me, saying my name. Bryndine, still holding Wynne’s hand, called for something to wrap the body. None of it mattered; I was barely conscious of any of them. Their voices were dull murmurs, their faces featureless blurs. All that mattered was Wynne. She was dead, and all my hopes for redemption had died with her. That I had found her a sponsorship meant nothing anymore—I had still gotten her killed. Like all the others.

  It should have been me, I thought, reaching out a hand to close her empty, staring eyes.

  And then she blinked.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  We know the truth now. We may even have a chance to stop the Burnt.

  If I were a pious man, I would pray to the Mother and the Father not to let me fail Bryndine and her company. But I have never been pious. When I close my eyes, I don’t commune with the gods. I just hear Korus saying, “Don’t botch this, Lark.”

  — From the personal journals of Dennon Lark

  Bryndine’s dagger still lay by my side, and I had it at Wynne’s neck before she could move. “Get out,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “Get out of her.”

  “We are not your enemy.” It was Wynne’s voice, but at the same time it was not.

  Beside me, Deanyn started at the sound. “Dennon, what…”

  “The Burnt.” They had fooled me with Uran Ord, and with Genna I had let hope cloud my judgement, but I had seen the life leave Wynne’s eyes. I had already let her die; I would not let the Burnt have her body. “Get out.”

  Deanyn and Bryndine were on their feet instantly. The women drew their weapons, making ready for battle. “Are there others coming, Scriber?” Bryndine asked urgently. “Do you hear them?”

  I frowned. I could hear nothing, not a single whisper since we entered the forest. I let the dagger stray from Wynne’s neck as I glanced down at the half-stitched wound in her side. The bleeding had stopped. I looked up at Bryndine, confused. “The Burnt have her, but… there are no voices.” It made no sense. If the Burnt could hide their voices from me, why had they not done so before?

  “We are not of the Burnt,” said the thing inside Wynne. “We have come to help you.”

  Bryndine’s eyes were hard and her voice was cold. “We will not hear you while you desecrate our friend’s body.”

  “We are sorry. This is not our way, but we had no other choice. You must listen.”

  I did not remove the dagger. “You are one of the Wyddin?” I asked.

  “We are of the Wyd,” it said, which I took to be an affirmative answer.

  “Then why can I not hear you? Why don’t you speak into my mind?”

  “We are of the Wyd, but we can no longer touch it, human. The madness of the Burnt consumes it. We would become as they are.” It gestured at Wynne’s body. “This is the only means by which we could speak with you, though it is sacrilege of the worst kind to use a human body in this way.”

  The Wyd. I knew that word. Fyrril’s books had spoken of it, but its meaning had never been clear. “What is the Wyd?” I demanded.

  “You do not know? The Wyd is everything. It is the Earth and the Sky. It is the voice of the world.”

  The books had said that the Wyd gave the Sages their power. I wanted the Wyddin to leave Wynne’s body, but I could not let this opportunity pass—I was very close to the answers I had been seeking for months. “Why can I hear it?”

  “Some humans are born with the Gift of the Sages, as it was called in Elovia. Many were blessed in those days. Now, perhaps one in a thousand.”

  A question formed in my mind, one I could not think how to ask without sounding foolish. “Am I…” I hesitated, glancing self-consciously at the women around me. But I had to know. “Am I a Sage?”

  It chuckled in a way Wynne never had, with a mild, patronizing sort of amusement. “Is a rock a mountain? Is a pond the ocean? No, human, you are no Sage. Their power rivalled our own. We can feel the Gift in you, but it is very weak, as it is in all humans born after Elovia fell.”

  I had not been prepared for such a flat dismissal. All this time I had been expecting some great revelation that would give meaning to everything I had been through, but apparently the voices were little more than a random fluke of birth, so meaningless and unimpressive that this creature barely cared. I had never asked for this “gift”, but after all the pain it had caused me, I felt an absurd need to defend it. “I stopped the snow in the Salt Mountains,” I said. “The Burnt called it down and I stopped it.”

  “The Salt Mountains belong to the Dragon,” it said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The Burnt strayed far from their birthtrees to follow you there. Even without your intervention, their power might have failed. But we do not mean to insult you, human—your gift is necessary to put the Burnt to rest. We are here to tell you how.”

  I do not think the Wyddin intended arrogance. It simply took for granted many things that I did not know, and was not used to having to explain them. But hearing that slight condescension in Wynne’s voice—Wynne, who had never been anything but completely earnest—made my hand shake with anger. The dagger’s blade nicked her skin, opening a small wound that did not bleed. “Tell us then.”

  “You will need to release this body, human. There is a place we must bring you.”

  “Not while you have Wynne.” I would not risk the Wyddin fleeing with her body. “Tell us what you have to say and go.”

  Bryndine laid a hand on my shoulder. “Let the creature stand, Scriber Dennon.”

  “But—”

  “I do not like it any more than you do, but this is why we came.” She looked down at the Wyddin without expression. “You say ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. Do you speak for all your people?”

  “All who were not burned.”

  “Then we will listen. Say what you have come to say, and take us where you must take us, and then leave Wynne in peace.”

  It nodded Wynne’s head. “As you wish.”

  Shaking my head, I kept the dagger against Wynne’s throat. I knew that Bryndine was right, that we had come to speak with the Wyddin, but I was not entirely certain whether I cared anymore. Releasing the creature felt like letting Wynne go.

  “Please, Scriber Dennon,” said Bryndine. “Wynne died for this. Do not rob that of meaning.”

  She was wrong. Wynne had died for me. Nothing we found would make that a worthwhile trade. But I handed Bryndine the dagger with a wordless grunt of frustration, and stood.

  The Wyddin climbed awkwardly to its feet, then stumbled, as though it did not understand how to balance on two legs. Bryndine grabbed Wynne’s arm and helped the creature find its footing.

  “You are free,” she said. “Take it as a gesture of good faith. Now tell us how we can stop the Burnt.”

  “We will tell you how you might,” the Wyddin answered. “There is no certainty in this.”

  Sylla stood inches from Bryndine with her sword in hand, watching the Wyddin with a level of distrust she usually reserved for me. “Why would
you help us kill your own kind?”

  “You misunderstand,” it said. “We will not help you slay the Burnt, nor could we. We wish to give them peace.”

  “Doesn’t seem to me like they much want peace,” said Orya.

  “They want it badly, but do not know how to achieve it. They live in constant, unending anguish. In their madness, they think that vengeance will end their suffering. It will not.” It described the fate of the Burnt in a flat, factual tone that I found unsettling, though it made sense—the Wyddin were accustomed to sharing thought and feeling directly, not showing them in ways humans could understand. “Our trees had never been harmed on such a scale before your Burning. When the forest was set aflame, the pain of it echoed and grew with each birthtree that burned. As long as the Burnt remember, it will never stop. But if you do as we say, you can give them sleep, for as long as the life of the world, and without dream. It is all that can be done.”

  “Why do you need us?” asked Bryndine. “Why have you not done it before now?”

  “We cannot. When your people burned our forest, we whose trees were spared removed ourselves from the Wyd so that we would not share in the madness of the others. If we open ourselves to it again, we will become as the Burnt, or be destroyed. It must be a human with the Gift.” It pointed Wynne’s hand at me. “We have waited many years for one like this to come to us.”

  “If I am so weak,” I asked with a scowl, “how can I possibly be of any use?”

  “You must wake the Eldest.”

  “The Eldest?” Orya sounded as puzzled as I felt. “They’d let the Dragon bugger every one of us and not lift a finger to help. And what’ve the Children got to do with it anyway?”

  “Do you think that your people were the first to worship the Mother and the Father?” Again, that slight almost-arrogance colored its voice. “The humans who call themselves Eldest learned the name from us, centuries ago. We do not speak of them. We speak of the true Eldest, the first of our kind.”

  Deanyn raised an eyebrow. “You want us to fetch your parents? What will they do, scold the Burnt and send them to their beds without dinner?”

  The Wyddin actually seemed affronted by the question. “The Eldest have great power, human. The Wyd is theirs to command, and only they can resist the agony that corrupts it. Their word binds us all. They will command the Burnt to join their slumber, and the Burnt will obey.” It shifted Wynne’s feet in a surprisingly human show of impatience. “Come, mount your horses. We will take you to the First Tree, where the Eldest sleep. Any questions you have, we will answer on the way.”

  Sylla objected before the Wyddin even finished speaking. “It could be a trap, Bryn.”

  Elene nodded. “Let Selvi and me scout ahead first, Captain.”

  But Bryndine’s face hardened with resolve, and she shook her head. “No. We must not delay. We are not well hidden here; those scouts may still lead others back to us. And the Kingsland suffers more with every hour that passes. We came here to speak with the Wyddin—if it is a trap, so be it. Without their help, we are doomed regardless.” She strode to her horse and mounted gracefully, then looked down at the Wyddin that bore Wynne’s face. “Lead us.”

  It did not take long for us to mount once more, and soon we were following our Wyddin guide into the trees. It sat astride Wynne’s mount with a stiff, unnatural posture, but had no apparent difficulty directing the animal towards the heart of the First Forest. I rode at the head of the company, alongside Bryndine and the Wyddin, unwilling to let Wynne’s body out of my sight.

  The smaller maples and birches of the outer forest gave way to great oaks and towering firs, and more and more often, broad-trunked fireleafs bursting with green leaves. The air was thick with the earthy smells of the forest: old soil and sap and decaying leaves, laced with the sharp scent of evergreens. Overhead, the canopy thickened as we made our way deeper, and sunlight penetrated only in scattered patches, breaking the shadows with thin shafts of brightness. We picked our way through heavy undergrowth—undisturbed for centuries, it was so tangled in places that passage was impossible—and around huge trees that often grew too closely together for our mounts to fit between. At times it seemed the forest had blocked our way altogether, but our guide always found some path that the horses could manage.

  As we wended our way through the woods, I thought back to what the Wyddin had said earlier. You must wake the Eldest. Whatever I was meant to do, I was quite certain I could not. I had no more control over the voices I heard than I did over the beating of my heart. I glanced sidelong at the creature riding beside me. Even looking at the thing while it was wearing Wynne’s form made me sick to my stomach, and I certainly did not want to hear it speak with her voice again, but I could not deny my curiosity. Finally, I blurted, “How am I supposed to wake these Eldest? I know nothing about them.”

  “You must speak to them through the Wyd, and convince them of your need,” it replied. “We cannot tell you what words will suffice, only that they will not wake easily.”

  “Why? Why do they sleep at all?”

  It looked at me for a long while, and I thought I saw a glimmer of sorrow in Wynne’s green eyes. “What short lives you humans live. To have forgotten the Eldest already… you remember so little.”

  “Tell us of them,” Bryndine said. “It may be useful.”

  It gave a single nod of Wynne’s head. “The Eldest were the first of the Wyddin,” it began, “created by the Mother and the Father in the time before the Divide. When the Earth and Sky were separated to make the world, the Mother and the Father charged the Eldest with watching over mankind, and they swore to do so gladly. And from the Eldest we were born, the lesser Wyddin, to aid them in their task.”

  “I always heard the Wyddin hated us,” Orya interrupted from behind. “For takin’ their place as the favorite children.”

  “Those lies came later. No, we treasured mankind. How not? Humans were our beloved younger brothers and sisters, clever and creative and always curious. But some viewed us with distrust—your kind has always been given to superstition, and our… intangible nature confounded them. They fled from our forests to the plains. Those who remained, though, lived their lives in the presence of the Eldest, and the strength of the Wyd seeped into them. The Eldest taught them of the Mother and the Father, and showed them how to open their hearts to the Wyd and harness the Gift of the Sages—but only for peaceful means.”

  “The Elovians,” I guessed, hating myself for the eagerness I heard in my voice. I could not forgive the creature for possessing Wynne, but there was no denying the draw this tale held for me. I had never dreamed that I might hear the story of Elovia from one who had lived during the fabled kingdom’s golden age.

  “Yes. Those humans founded Elovia, and it was a peaceful kingdom. Our two races lived in harmony for many years. Using the Wyd, they erected great cities and palaces, and coaxed endless crops from the land. But in time, the tribes of the plains grew jealous of Elovia’s prosperity. War began.

  “The Elovians had their Sages, but the people of the tribes were born warriors, unmatched throughout history. Humans were greater and more powerful then—the divine might that created them still lingered within. Imagine an army of men and women, all as tall and strong as this one.” It pointed at Bryndine, and I imagined tens of thousands of her charging towards me with swords drawn. The image was terrifying. “The war lasted generations. Hundreds of thousands died. Each side made demons of the other, and their hate grew with every battle.

  “It might have gone on for centuries more, but for Alistan, the last king of Elovia. After his wife and son were killed by the tribesmen, Alistan begged the Eldest to teach him and his Sages how to use the Wyd as a weapon. To turn the Earth and Sky against their enemies. He claimed it would be used only in defense, and eventually the Eldest relented, trusting the humans to use their power wisely.

  “In truth, King Alistan meant to use this knowledge to seek vengeance, to destroy the tribes entirely. He
had the Sages summon the fire that burns in the belly of the world. But the Wyd is only a language, at its heart—it can make requests of nature, but not truly command it. The Earth’s fire was too mighty to be controlled. It rose up and swallowed Elovia whole, leaving nothing but smoke and ash.

  “The Eldest were heartbroken. It was their duty to protect and guide mankind, and they had failed. Swearing to remove their power from the world so that such a thing could not happen again, they entered a deep sleep, leaving us to watch over your kind in their place. And with their absence, the strength of the Gift dwindled in humankind, and was forgotten.”

  There it was. The history of Elovia laid bare in a way it had not been for a thousand years. Yet something was missing from the tale, and a terrible suspicion gnawed at the back of my mind. “All of our stories tell of how the Wyddin hate mankind,” I said. “How they destroyed Elovia. But if your story is true, the King and the Sages were at fault.”

  “No more than we were, human. It was our duty to teach and guide them. If they misused the Wyd, we led them to it.”

  I waved a hand dismissively. “Share the blame if you like; that is not the issue. My question is this: our first queen, Aliana, was supposed to have been the last princess of Elovia. She would have been King Alistan’s daughter?”

  The Wyddin nodded, but did not speak.

  “Then she could not have been ignorant of her father’s role in the cataclysm. She chose to hide his mistake, to blame you instead. Erryn would not have been difficult to convince; he was of barbarian stock, and his people never trusted yours. And Aliana must have known what the Burning would do to you—she grew up in Elovia, alongside the Wyddin.” The pieces fell together in my mind, but it brought no exhilaration, no excitement. I did not want it to be true, though I was certain that it was. “It was not done simply to clear the land—it was an attack. They meant to destroy you.”