Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

  “For breeding horses,” added Elene. “It’s something we’ve always wanted to do.”

  Ivyla crossed her arms and said, “I don’t know how anyone could leave the Captain after all she has done for us.”

  Bryndine smiled faintly at the girl’s loyalty, but her eyes were solemn. “You owe me nothing, Ivyla. All of you are free to live lives of your choosing; that is what the Promise is for. I did not blame Wynne for seeking to enrol at the Academy, and I would not blame anyone for leaving after this is over. You have all earned your rest.”

  “Rest sounds dull,” said Orya. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Debra nodded her agreement. “Not much else I’m good at.”

  “What of you, Scriber Dennon?” Bryndine asked. “We have taken you from your life for a long time now. What will you do with yourself when this is done?”

  What will I do? I had not thought about it until now, but I would be no use to the company when the Burnt were gone. And what other options did I have? I was still unwelcome at the Academy, and most of the small towns I might have sought work in had been razed to the ground. I had no life to return to. “I honestly don’t know,” I said, attempting a nonchalant shrug. I can think about it later, I told myself. I have to keep everyone alive tomorrow first.

  “Might be I know someone who has suggestions,” said Orya, waggling her eyebrows at Deanyn. “Way she grabbed you when Korus got us out of the dungeons, I thought you two might be needin’ a private cell.”

  I flushed and glanced sidelong at Deanyn, more than a little bit interested in her reaction. I expected some clever retort or the like, but instead she surveyed the women around her with a pained expression, and then stood abruptly. “I have to… excuse me for a moment.” She strode away from the fire without looking back, and soon passed through the gap between the trees to the north and disappeared from sight.

  Orya looked stricken. “I wasn’t tryin’ to…” She started to stand, ready to go after the other woman.

  I held up a hand and got to my feet. “Let me.” I was startled by my own willingness. This was exactly the sort of personal situation I had always avoided. But it was different with Deanyn; I actually wanted to know what was wrong. I hoped—quite fervently—that it wasn’t the implication that there was something between us. Given the dangers we would face tomorrow, I felt terribly selfish for worrying over something so… adolescent, but I could not seem to help myself.

  Beyond the wall of fireleafs that ringed the clearing, the forest was dark. I regretted stepping outside the reach of the firelight almost immediately. “Deanyn?” I called softly, trying not to alert the dozens of hungry animals I felt certain were waiting just outside the reach of my vision.

  “Here,” she answered.

  I turned in the direction of her voice, and saw a faint silhouette sitting on a log nearby. I stumbled towards her, scraping my shin against a rock in the dark. “Why did you leave?” I asked, sitting down beside her. “Orya shouldn’t have said… Obviously it was embarrassing but… She didn’t mean anything by it. You know how she is.”

  “Her mouth gets ahead of her mind. I know. It wasn’t that.” Deanyn touched my hand lightly in the dark. “And it wasn’t you. I wasn’t embarrassed.”

  I allowed myself a moment of relief at that, despite everything else that I had to worry about. “What then?”

  She gave a self-deprecating snort. “Would it surprise you if I said that I’m afraid?”

  “A little bit, yes. I’ve seen you fight hordes of the Burnt. You didn’t seem afraid then.”

  “This isn’t the same. It’s the waiting. All this talk of what we’ll do after, and nobody adding the ‘if we survive’ at the end. It just makes me think how much I don’t want to die here.”

  I probably shouldn’t have, but I laughed. “That is what you’re worried about? Sky and Earth, Deanyn, I’ve felt that way for months. Nobody wants to die.”

  I couldn’t see her face in the dark, but I could sense her annoyance. “You don’t understand,” she said. “I… I told you once that I followed Bryndine for the excitement, and that’s partly true, but… what I really wanted was to prove I wasn’t like my parents. That I cared about something beyond myself. And now people are dead and everything is at stake and all I can think to do is make stupid jokes and worry about my own safety.” She hung her head. “Perhaps I’m not so different from them after all.”

  “You are,” I said firmly.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you’re here.” I was not entirely confident about what to say or do, but I clasped her hand and squeezed it and barrelled onwards. “Because I know you. You’re brave and you’re intelligent, and without your jokes I think everyone here would have gone mad a long time ago.”

  “That is… sweet, Dennon, but I think you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “I am quite serious,” I said. “I remember the first time we met, Orya said something that embarrassed me, and I didn’t know what to say—I never do. You made some clever comment and saved me. You didn’t know me, and you had no reason to help, but you did it anyway. That’s who you are.” I smiled at her. “In any event, if you are being this hard on yourself for a moment of fear, what about me? I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t afraid.”

  Deanyn was silent for a long time, and I could feel her eyes on me. I squirmed uncomfortably. Did I say something wrong? I had little experience with these sorts of situations, and choosing the right words had never been a strength of mine.

  And then, to my great surprise, she said, “You are a better man than you think you are, Dennon Lark,” and her hand gripped my collar and pulled me close, and she kissed me full on the mouth.

  When I was younger, the occasional woman had thought it might be interesting to pursue one of the Academy’s so-called prodigies, and I had gone along with it from time to time, out of curiosity more than anything. These relationships had not been plentiful and had never lasted long—I always said just the wrong thing at just the wrong time—but it was fair to say I had some experience with romance. And yet, when Deanyn’s lips touched mine, my heart began to beat wildly against my chest, and I couldn’t decide what to do with my hands. When she pulled back, I could only stammer. “I… I wasn’t expecting… That was—”

  She cut me off, with some amusement. “Don’t strain yourself, Dennon. You don’t have to say anything. Just… you promised me once you’d keep yourself safe. Do that, and we’ll see what happens after this is all finished.” Despite the darkness, I could tell she was smirking when she said, “If we survive.”

  I felt like I should say something meaningful, or romantic, but nothing leapt to mind. What came out of my mouth was, “I could ask you to make the same promise.”

  “What, to keep myself safe?”

  “No,” I said. “To keep me safe. You’re the one with the sword.”

  She laughed and drew me close again, and this time I found the confidence to fold my arms around her and kiss her back.

  * * *

  When we returned to the First Tree, most of the women had retired for the night. Bryndine and Sylla waited for us by the fire.

  “There you are,” said Bryndine. “I was about to send Sylla for you. You will need your rest for tomorrow. I have the first watch.”

  “I’m sorry if we worried you, Captain,” Deanyn said.

  “There is no need to apologize. The others have their bedrolls on the other side of the tree.” Bryndine gestured in that direction. “Scriber Dennon, please stay a moment. I would like to speak with you.”

  “Don’t keep him too late.” Deanyn grinned. “He gets terribly cranky.” She gave me a quick peck on the cheek before she left.

  Bryndine gave me a knowing look as I seated myself by the fire. “She is very fond of you,” she said.

  Sylla snorted derisively. “Shows how good her judgement is.”

  I did not reply to either of them. I didn’t know what to say. Wynne was
dead, and the lives of every woman in the company depended on me doing something I hadn’t any idea how to do, and yet… for the first time in years, I could almost believe that I might have some chance at happiness. The guilt of it was unbearable. How could I sit there and imagine a future with Deanyn when Wynne would have no future at all? And more will die still, if I don’t succeed tomorrow.

  After a moment, Bryndine said, “Sylla, you should rest as well.”

  “I’m fine,” Sylla said stubbornly.

  “Please, Sylla. I wish to speak privately with the Scriber. I will wake you when it is time to relieve me.”

  Reluctantly, Sylla nodded and stood. “Make sure you do. You need to get some sleep too, Bryn.” Then, with a suspicious glance in my direction, she strode away.

  “I will not keep you long, Scriber,” said Bryndine.

  “What did you want to speak to me about?”

  “You believe that Wynne’s death was your fault.”

  The bluntness of the statement took me aback, and I struggled for a response. “It… certainly feels like it was.”

  “You could as easily blame me. If I had let Selvi and Elene defend us sooner, or allowed you to begin your treatment earlier…”

  “It wasn’t you that she died to save.”

  “I thought you would say that.” She gave me a long, thoughtful look. “Millum Wren told me something about guilt once. Do you know why they call me the Bloody Bride?”

  I couldn’t imagine the relevance, but I nodded. “Herryk Rafynson’s death.” It was a well known story. When Bryndine was younger, she had been engaged to the son of Baron Hurryd of the Bridgefort, until the boy had been slain trying to fight off bandits while they were riding together in the countryside. “The rumor was that you killed him. Nonsense, of course.”

  A small, sad smile crossed her face. “Actually, it is not so far from the truth. Our families saw fit to withhold certain details from the public story. It was not Herryk who tried to fight the bandits. It was me. I might have waited for our escort—we had only ridden a short way ahead, and they would have come before long. But I was young, and eager to be a soldier. They killed Herryk because I fought back.” She lowered her eyes to stare into the fire. “I blamed myself, of course. As much as those spreading the rumors did. I had wished to prove myself a warrior, and it cost a man his life. For a time, I abandoned my hopes of joining the Army.

  “But a year later, I met Master Millum at the Academy, and he was never one to accept excuses. I will never forget what he said to me: ‘If you think you are responsible for his death, then take responsibility for it.’ I began my Warfare training the next day.” Bryndine fixed me with an intent stare. “Do you understand, Scriber Dennon? We owe it to those who died to do more with our lives. If you wish to hold yourself responsible for Wynne’s death, I cannot stop you. But you must use that guilt.”

  Finally, I understood what she was saying. “To speak with the Eldest.” According to the Wyddin, emotion was key to touching the Wyd. I expected fear would serve well enough when the Burnt came, but a healthy amount of remorse could not hurt.

  “Yes. Can we rely on you?”

  I sighed. “I hope so. I don’t want anyone else to die.”

  “We need more than hope, Scriber.”

  This woman had saved my life more than once. She had risked everything to protect the Kingsland. I owed her this. I owed it to all the women who followed her, and all those who had died. I owed it to the history of the Kingsland itself, a history that I had studied all my life, that would forever remain distorted by lies if we did not survive.

  I looked her in the eye. “Bryndine,” I said, “I will not fail you.” I didn’t know if it was a promise I could keep, but I meant to try.

  She smiled. “I do not think you will at that, Scriber Dennon. Now get some sleep.”

  I stood, and was about to walk away, but I hesitated. Who knows what will happen tomorrow? There were things I had to say. “I am only here because of you, you know.”

  She looked up at me with a frown. “I am sorry, Scriber. I never meant for your involvement to go so far, but we need you.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” I couldn’t blame her for assuming it was a complaint; she had heard enough of those from me. “I would be dead a hundred times over without you, and even if I wasn’t, I would be wasting my life somewhere. You took me out of Waymark and forced me to do something of worth, and… you gave me a place to belong. That is something I have not had in a long time. Deanyn told me that I was a good man tonight, and I don’t know if that is true, but if it is, I think it is because of you.”

  Bryndine Errynson could stare down snowcats and fight armies, but she did not know how to deal with praise. I had never seen her blush, but she blushed now. “I don’t… surely you owe more to Master Illias than to me.”

  I shook my head. “No. I owe Illias a great deal, but not in this. He tried to convince me to return to the Academy for years, but he was part of the reason I could not. When I failed, I was failing him as much as myself. Imagine if you had done something to shame Millum Wren—would you have believed him when he told you it didn’t matter?”

  “I take your point,” Bryndine said. “But I will not take credit for another’s deeds. You are a good man, Scriber Dennon. I suspect you always were.”

  “Perhaps, but without you I would never have known it. I would never have left Waymark.” I grinned. “I spent so much time annoyed with you that I didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late.”

  She laughed at that, a rare thing for her. “I spent a great deal of time annoyed with you as well,” she said. “Let us say that we owe each other.”

  I chuckled along with her. “If you insist.” I looked over my shoulder, to where the others were sleeping, though the First Tree sat between us and them. “I suppose I should rest.”

  “Go,” she said. “And sleep well. We will need you at your best tomorrow.”

  I nodded and turned away, but her voice stopped me after only a few steps. “Scriber, wait.” When I glanced back, the glow of the fire seemed to cast a shadow of uncertainty across her eyes. “Do you truly believe we can succeed?”

  Not really, I thought. Not if it depends on me. But I couldn’t say that aloud; I had promised her that she could rely on me.

  I was going to give a glib answer to cover my doubt, but when I looked at her face, something stopped me. There was such strength there, such dignity, even with doubt lining her features. I could see all of her legendary ancestors in those steel grey eyes, in that determined jaw and golden hair, and I wondered how I had ever thought her plain.

  This is what the blood of kings and heroes looks like. In her veins ran the blood of Elovians and tribesmen going back to the beginning of time. The blood of King Erryn and Queen Aliana, who had, despite all their sins, forged a kingdom and a peace and a Promise. The blood of Rynd the Explorer, and of Delwyn the Scriber King, and of poor, brave Prince Fyrril. All of them were there in her face, in her broad shoulders and her impossible height, in her stubbornness and her strength and her grace. Looking at her now, I could almost believe that she would save us all. The fate of the Kingsland was not in my hands alone—Bryndine would be there with me, and she would not let me fail.

  “Yes,” I finally said, and I was surprised to find that I believed it. “Yes, I think we just might.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The battle in the First Forest was the most incredible, terrible thing I imagine I will ever experience. It was at the same time both the worst and the proudest moment of my life. The worst because of the friends that I lost there; the proudest because it was likely the most important thing I will ever do. Because there are only a half-dozen people left in the world who can say that they stood with Bryndine Errynson that day, in defense of the Kingsland and the Promise.

  And she was glorious.

  — From the personal journals of Dennon Lark

  Dawn came too soon.

&
nbsp; Sunlight made it to the floor of the clearing in patches, wherever it could avoid being tangled up in the web of shadows cast by the branches of the First Tree. Where the light reached the ground, it sparkled off the dew and scattered rainbows across the rich green grass. On the whole, the effect was far too idyllic. I found myself wishing for clouds.

  In the brightness of the morning, the task ahead seemed too real, too immediate. I wanted to close my eyes and pretend it was all a dream, but I could not. The women had already donned their armor, strapped on their shields, readied their weapons. The horses had been taken as far from us as Selvi and Elene could lead them in an hour and secured there, so that the Burnt could not turn our own mounts against us. Everything was prepared.

  The time had come.

  Standing before the First Tree with the sun reflecting off her golden hair, Bryndine Errynson silently swept her gaze over her company. Only nine sets of eyes looked back at her—mine, and eight others. Eight, of what had been near twenty when they had first come to Waymark. Too many women lost, and I knew Bryndine felt their absence. I could see it in the tightness of her lips, the slight wrinkling around her eyes. But she could not show any weakness now, not with those who remained depending on her. No, she would be strong for them. She would be strong right down to her last breath, I suspected.

  She would have to be. The women seemed to dread what was to come as much as I did. The Kingsland had never given them reason to sacrifice their lives eagerly.

  “I will not lie to you,” Bryndine said at last. “If we make our stand here, we fight for a kingdom that would not grieve to see us slain. The Army does not want us. The Scribers have abandoned us. The people have turned against us. They think that we are blasphemers, or traitors, or worse.” She drew herself up to her full height then, and held her head high, and her voice rang out like a hammer on steel. “But they also need us!

  “All of us here have sworn oaths. We may not all have said the same words”—she looked in my direction at that—“but in the end, all of us have vowed to do the same thing: to serve and protect the people of the Kingsland. All of the people of the Kingsland. Not only those who we approve of, and not only when we wish to do it. Keeping an oath when it is easy to keep means nothing—it is what we do when those oaths become difficult that defines us.