Scribes

by James Wolanyk

  A man wrapped entirely in black fabric, secured to the opposite end of the links, shot out of the passageway. His arms were bound to his sides beneath the wrapping, but his legs kicked and strained against the floor, adding to the cuts along dust-caked, red-splotched feet. His screeches were stifled beneath the covering, clipped and swallowed and suffocated, like those of a drowning man. As he writhed in the candlelight, his belt-hitched chains slowly reeled in by the guards, something flashed near his head.

  A metal ring had been set into the black fabric covering his neck, exposing a lone oval of flesh.

  Anna’s stomach clenched as she watched the guards move to opposing sides of the room, hauling their chains in spite of his muted screams and curling toes and thrashing, which only made the task of clamping his chains to the brackets easier.

  The guards stepped back to wipe their brows and shake out their tired arms, and the man hung before Anna like a spider’s cocooned prey. No matter how far he kicked or threw his weight around, he was trapped. His cracked and bruised toes barely scraped the grate.

  “Anna.” The orza was leaning around the captive in a bid to lock eyes. Her words were soothing, breaking through the man’s cries and the thumping of Anna’s heart. “Please, don’t be alarmed by his madness. He’s one of our foremost captains.”

  “Behold the Dogwood,” Nacek said while picking at his nails. “Rzolka’s bottom-shelf export.”

  Anna stared at the captive’s bundled body, wondering what Hazan had done to him and how he’d ever been a captain. She nearly forgot that she was expected to help him. “What happened to him?”

  “Har-gunesh,” the orza said. “The sun, dear. His unit was lost to the sands for nearly a cycle. There are many stories to be told about—”

  The man’s tortured grunts overtook the orza’s voice. Without delay, the guard to Anna’s left moved closer and drew a cudgel from his belt. The guard swung the weapon high and to the side, then delivered three strikes to the captive’s face. After a muffled cry of agony, the captive fell silent and hung his head, shaking.

  “Domik,” the orza snapped. “Mercy be upon him. Which mind do you seek?”

  The guard bowed his head, the metal rod hanging by his side. “Uzgun.”

  “Afymet,” she said in return. Momentary anger drained from her eyes. “Now, then. There are many tales to be told about the sun. I knew a Gosuri herbman who claimed that it infused him with celestial wisdom. Others, upon whom I tend the field of assent, believe that it scorches the mind.” She drew a defeated breath and pointed to the suspended man. “My hayajara is serving alongside one of my regiments until the end of the ru. I would wait for her return, for I hate to frighten you, but this man’s breaths may vanish in that time.”

  Anna met the shadowed faces of the men around the circle, even pausing to gaze into the tracker’s eyeholes. “Is this a test?”

  “This man requires your help, certainly, but we’re all mystified by your gifts.” She surveyed the hungry stares of those around her. “They wish to see your work, dear.”

  “On with it,” the wicker-hatted man growled. “Show us the marks, girl.”

  In the ensuing silence, Anna drew the blade from her belt. A dry mouth made swallowing impossible. Everything about the man terrified her, even as he hung still, barely breathing. Even as . . .

  Light surged from the back of Anna’s mind in a flash, incinerating every other instinct. It flowed into the recesses of her memories and whispered, sweet and omnipresent: Be still. It calmed her hands and warped her vision to a sliver of the chamber, intent on the man’s neck and its patch of flesh.

  His sigils were twelve-sided and asymmetrical, flickering past and jumping with every heartbeat.

  Her blade plunged through the skin, through muscle and surface vessels and sprouting hairs. Hayat’s tendrils spun around her fingers and flooded her airways, dense and pooling with its secrets. Cryptic symbols and true letters and cracking landscapes claimed her mind. Her hands moved with ruthless resolve, no longer worried about blood or life but desperate to unearth light.

  The blade drew closer to the starting incision, but the hayat bloomed, screeching to stall the rune’s end, to hold her hand, to follow light. And so she flicked her fingers, chasing.

  Light was just ahead of the blade, taunting her, begging to be tamed. Her hand moved in ways she’d only traced over hay or dirt or paper, obscured from her feeling mind.

  Faster, faster, the lines came together, converging.

  Blood droplets sizzled against the hayat.

  Anna finished the cut.

  She pulled her hand away, examining the marks clearly for the first time. The man’s sigil was perfectly carved within the oval, and it pulsed with luminous white energy, pulling the blood and ragged skin back together. Dark blotches of bruising shrank and disappeared. But below the rune was something cryptic. Branching points moved down and away from Anna’s cuts, extending to the metal ring’s lower curve. It was a series of octagons crowded haphazardly into an oval.

  In Anna’s mind, it was light.

  She dropped the blade, a wave of euphoria coming over her.

  The man threw back his head and screamed. His arms contorted in spasms beneath the fabric, and his legs kicked wildly at the grate, the tendons beneath his skin tensing and snapping.

  No, no, no. . . . The word crashed through Anna’s thoughts.

  A pair of white orbs burned behind the fabric on the man’s face, exactly where his eyes should’ve been. Brighter than Shem’s, surging with uncontrollable energy. Flaring so intensely that it blinded Anna and seared the walls with crystal-shimmering refractions.

  Raising both hands to shield her eyes, Anna had to squint to discern anything in the chamber. It was brighter than daylight, washing out the flames that danced above candlewicks and bleaching the limestone walls. Screeching drowned out her frantic breaths, and as she gazed around the chamber for reassurance, she discovered that everybody was transfixed by the captive’s radiant eyes, marveling or recoiling or laughing.

  Except for Shem.

  His eyes rested squarely on Anna, awestruck before his new god.

  Chapter 14

  Every nerve in Anna’s body was primed, detecting subtle things that most would ignore, latching onto movements that showed the truth of a person’s mind. Movements like the trembling in the orza’s hands as she closed the doors to her study.

  The Dogwood men had been quick to hurry the screaming man out of the chamber, but their unease was obvious. And while Anna thought distantly of the man she’d marked, wondering who he truly was, if he’d ever recover from sun madness, if the glow in his eyes could be extinguished, she was unafraid. It was liberating to mark somebody without consequences.

  Nacek, Josip, and the wicker-hatted man had gazed upon Anna as though she walked the Grove itself. They were simple men to read: They wanted her gifts. In the proper applications, it was a harmless wish.

  Shem had watched as a supplicant, desperate to receive the blessing of her cuts. For better or worse, he would do anything to hold her favor. Even as he was escorted to his quarters, he longed to tell Anna sweet things.

  The tracker, by way of his mask, had been the most difficult to read, and it concerned Anna. The room had fallen silent in the aftermath, and while she’d mostly seen a mass of rotted smiles and eager eyes, she glimpsed nothing in him. There was something darker than disinterest in his silence. Bylka had never been a hub for news within Rzolka, but life altering developments—the burning of the northern fens, the assassination of bogaty—had always reached the town within a cycle. Rumors of other runes, which extended beyond the power to safeguard life, had never arrived in Bylka. For somebody as fanatical as the tracker, who knew so much about the bogaty’s hunger for such runes, there had to be some fascination with her deeds. Even if news of similar runes was lost to the sands of Hazan, there was li
ttle question that the orza would hear of it eventually.

  But the tremors in the woman’s hands told Anna that her markings were the first of their kind.

  Something deep within Anna revealed this truth. She couldn’t explain it any more than how she’d formed the rune, but she felt power, relief from some cryptic pressure. She’d been led to the study in a state of ecstasy, walking with the confidence that she was valuable and limitless, even if she couldn’t control the hayat. She welcomed its wild whispers.

  It helped me come this far, she thought, remembering the way that the man’s eyes burned with light’s glow. I won’t ignore it.

  The orza sighed. “I apologize for the lack of servicing.” She her way back toward the table, having locked the door with a sliding latch. “Most duties are attended to by Them, but I’m sure that the need for absent ears is apparent.”

  Anna nodded, unsure if the orza knew that even Rzolka’s droby received names. It was jarring to hear the orza order her droby around with the collective word Them, or, in the singular form, It. She wondered if flatspeak’s intricacies were lost in translation. “It’s fine, thank you.” She’d already poured herself two cups of mint tea, and had nearly finished a third by the time the orza settled into a rattan chair across the table.

  Droby seemed necessary for servicing the study: It had countless silver kettles, spoons, plates, and pipes to contend with. The walls were high and stacked with wax-sealed scrolls, all neatly tucked into cubbies and labeled, and the floors were covered in ox fur. Overhead a lantern glowed within the shell of a stretched skin, diffusing light with a yellow pallor. The room smelled of citrus and smoke.

  “Please, indulge yourself,” the orza said to the tracker, who sat uneasily on his own side of the table. Her smile withered as he remained silent. “What a remarkable day.”

  Bora stared down at her silver plate. Her skin glistened, suggesting she’d arrived from the baths.

  In spite of Anna’s awareness, Bora remained unreadable. But there was a probing curiosity about the northerner, and every so often their eyes scraped in quick brushes.

  “Bora, have you seen him?” the orza asked.

  Bora looked up with militant obedience. “Yes, orza.”

  “Release your thoughts.”

  She bowed her head reverently. “I’ve witnessed nothing comparable, orza. It is most unique.” A sliver of contempt, likely beyond the notice of both the tracker and the orza, crept into her voice.

  “My thoughts align.” The orza turned to the tracker, smiling. “She must be a gift from your gods. From your Grove, pan. Do you know what you’ve brought us?”

  Anna gripped the edges of her chair and fixated on the word brought, wondering if the orza thought of her as another crate of cargo, or one of her Its. “I just want to help the cause,” she said, drawing the attention of the entire table. It was strange how her soft voice was commanding. And marvelous.

  “So driven too,” the orza said. “And what did he tell you about this cause?”

  “There are wicked men in Rzolka,” Anna said, taking a moment to sip her tea and savor the fact that nobody challenged her or spoke out of turn. “I want to stop them.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. There are very wicked men, dear. Have you witnessed their actions?”

  Witnessed. Anna drew in a long breath. “I have.”

  The orza put a hand to the fabric above her heart. “How horrible. The stars weep for you, Anna.” She took a moment to compose herself, but her eyes crawled as though formulating questions, thinking. “Where did you learn to make such markings?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied. “It was just what I felt. That’s the only one.”

  “Bora, have you seen these before?” the orza asked. “The markings, that is.”

  Bora flicked her head to the side. “As I said, Nur Morza, they are most unique.” Her pointed look wasn’t lost on Anna.

  “Yes, that’s a fine word for it. Did Anna show you these markings while you traveled?”

  “No.”

  “Humility is the compulsion to heap sand upon miracles,” the orza said. “Or perhaps you were too shy.”

  The woman’s easy manner, which had seemed like a blessing at first, served the same function as the animal skins above the table. They clouded her demeanor into something imprecise, making it difficult to read her intentions. Most people carried their past in limps or knotted brows, and with one glance, Anna knew if they’d been maimed or coddled by life. Joyful faces were suspicious in Rzolka.

  Not everybody is damaged, she told herself, noting the delicate arch of the orza’s brows and her soft smile. Not everyone’s past is shameful. “Perhaps.”

  “Do you know what your attendant explained in his message?”

  “Which message?”

  “While you were so terribly harmed,” the orza said, pouring herself a cup of tea, “your attendant instructed mirror-glints to be sent to our riders. They sent the flashes with urgency, and now I see that it was done with good reason. He told us that your hayat carvings would last through the heshi, enduring without any sign of weakness.” She nodded at the tracker, satisfied. “And how true his words were, dear. Look. Even now, his markings remain.”

  Although the rage from that foggy morning had faded, the orza’s words were still bitter. The woman knew nothing of the rune’s origins, of a young boy named Julek, of kin who would sell anybody for a bag of salt.

  “Now, upon seeing you, what have we found?” The orza tucked an errant strand of black hair into place. “The Celestials knew your gifts, dear. You’ve spun hayat out of its primordial state, and now, now it may grow.”

  Anna glanced into her empty cup. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “These markings have never entered the world,” the orza whispered. “Under your steady hands, your shadow, new worlds will blossom.”

  It was overwhelming. In some ways she’d only been a vessel for the rune, surrendering control to its energy, its demands, allowing her fingers to move as an instrument for something grand. But even as she resisted her importance, she recalled the symbol from her meditation, remembering its shape within the fog, the way she’d once seen light as unreachable.

  “She stays with me,” the tracker said, drawing a sharp look from both northerners.

  “Yes, of course,” the orza said. “That was always the arrangement. Your chambers are in the northern rise, and as with the others, your sleeping quarters have been stocked with some provisions from home. River-blood delicacies, I should say.”

  “What about her?” the tracker asked.

  Anna glanced at the man, but he stared too intently at the orza to notice. A telltale glossiness in his eyes spoke of dusk-petal withdrawal, which would leave his mind more addled than usual. Until he found a new vendor, anyway.

  “She’ll be quartered in our finest chambers.” The orza nodded up to indicate a higher floor. “It’s just beside the spire keep.”

  “Beside me,” the tracker said. “I want an eye on her.”

  She gave a reproachful hum. “She’ll love her quarters, and you’ll grow fond of yours. I can assure you, if safety’s the thorn in your mind, that the Dogwood Collective will keep uninvited specks of sand from getting into her chambers. There are guards from the first dawn to the final moon, and—”

  The tracker shook his head. “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “Won’t do to have her sleeping in those parts.”

  “And why not?” the orza asked, sipping her tea and adding a pinch of black sugar. “Certainly you’ll be able to visit her as you wish, and you’ll be paid in full for your contract, pan, but you have no reason to escort her so closely.”

  “Fuck the contract.” The tracker pushed back his chair and cracked his neck to one side. “Our breed drafted it, so she ought to stay with us too. Their blades came
close to her.”

  The orza’s smile hardened. “We’re in a bastion of friendship. Breed should not separate us.”

  “She’s right,” Anna cut in. She leveled a scrutinizing gaze at the tracker, remembering his promises of warmth and luxury and safety. Of unified effort. “We have one cause. And Bora kept me safe.”

  The tracker’s slippery eyes danced around the gathering “She won’t sleep near the sukra. Not a chance.”

  “Such things aren’t your decision,” the orza said.

  Bora stared at the tracker, likely full of a thousand barbed thoughts. But the orza’s presence stilled her.

  “Word was she’d slip back into the sand,” the tracker spat. “What’s the right of it?”

  “Bora has always maintained quarters in this place,” the orza said. “She moves around as she wishes, of course, but she’s a close-hearted friend. If she wishes to stay, then I’ll hear no more about the matter.”

  Bora glared at the tracker. “For now, I would remain, orza.”

  The orza smiled. “And so it is.”

  “So it is,” sneered the tracker. He stood and turned his weary eyes on Anna. “Come our way when you want your own blood.” He glared at Bora, then the orza, his stare thick with cruelty. “Not one whisper to her. And you’d better believe I have their ears, sukry. You push us, and it’ll be the most expensive dungeon in the flatlands.”

  The orza sampled her tea. “I suggest you honor our cause’s arrangements, pan.”

  Whatever it meant, it only sharpened his glare. Without another word he stalked over to the doors, threw open the sliding locks, and disappeared around a corridor’s bend, leaving an uneasy void in the study.

  The orza spooned black sugar into her cup. “I’m sorry, dear. As I told you, Har-gunesh is a cruel god. He harms the mind as much as the flesh. In time his mind may heal, likely by your markings’ guidance. As it stands now, there’s little to be done for him.”

  Amid the clinking silver plates and fire-hardened glass, Anna realized that it wasn’t Har-gunesh destroying his mind. It wasn’t his exhausted supply of dusk-petal, or his feeling mind run amok. She was hesitant to call it care, or affection, but there was a sense of protectiveness, one bordering on the paternal, perhaps, bolstering his anger. And now, no longer sailing or riding kators or walking on trampled moss paths, there wasn’t a business incentive for him to protect her.