The Dark Ferryman

by Jenna Rhodes

  Nutmeg woke. Soft mattress and blankets surrounded her, warm with her body heat and that of Rivergrace, and of the still glowing coals in the nearby fireplace, and as she rubbed at her eyes, she could feel sleep falling away. She closed her eyes again, determinedly, but her mind filled with thoughts that tumbled around like a pile of puppies. A bit of breakfast might quiet her, she thought. Her stomach woke then and it was not about to let her sleep until she had a morsel or two to fill it. Not about to stop grumbling and rumbling like a cranky old man until she paid it attention. Better than thinking overmuch, though.

  She got up carefully and dressed, getting her soft boots on as quickly as she could, for the flagstone flooring held the night’s chill in it, and she shivered as it tried to sink into her. She opened the bedroom shutters and looked out into the shank of the morning, early but undoubtedly dawn. She closed the shutters but not carefully, in a hurry to get out of the room before she might awaken Rivergrace who lay on her side, auburn hair trailing upon her pillow, her eyes peacefully closed but with dark bruises of fatigue and worry still marking her face. She did not hear the rustle and quiet step behind her as something entered the room from the outside window and joined the deep shadows of its corners as she left it.

  Once outside the bedroom, the halls lay steeped in nighttime yet, although she could see the barest first light of dawn filtering through the shutters and covering drapes. A shadow fluttered behind her. Meg rubbed her eyes, still crusted with sleep, and turned back for a moment, listening and watching. An eerie feeling of not being alone crawled down her neck, but she couldn’t see anything in the draperied halls to prove it. She could smell the very faint aroma of baking bread and headed toward it, her thoughts filled with mornings with her family, tussling with her brothers for the first crust of fresh bread to fill with cheese and smoked meat. To her surprise, she found Lord Bistel perched upon a humble three-legged kitchen stool, carving bits of meat for himself.

  She dipped a curtsy. “Good morning, Lord Bistel.”

  “Come join me before the cook discovers we are stealing her most tender bites and kicks us both out.”

  Nutmeg hid her grin and climbed onto a tall stool herself. He served her quickly with a trencher of fresh bread, sprinkling it with meat still sizzling and pink in its juices, and pushed a wheel of cheese her way, and a crock of what looked to be sweetened berries to join it. A feast, all in all. She settled down to eating. They ate for a while in silence, enjoying the fare.

  She licked some juice from the corner of her mouth. “Is it true that you all have to write in the Books of All Truth? Is that the ritual you came to do?”

  “It is true that the historians and librarians of Ferstanthe hope we will. I’m not sure that many of us are up to the task. It is secret, although I can see that it’s not much of one,” he added wryly. He sliced a very thin sliver of cheese, so transparent she could almost see clearly through it as he held it up to sniff before he devoured it.

  “Why?”

  “Truth is a very wiggly fish, hard to catch bare-handed, and harder to hold onto without choking the life out of it.”

  “But you can write anything.”

  “Not in these journals. They are a Way, if you understand what I mean.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “Really, but if you tell anyone I told you, I’ll deny it, and you’ll be in a great deal of trouble all by yourself.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  He neatly sliced a piece of cheese for her. “Because it seems to me that you and your sister should know this. I’ve seen a great deal, young Farbranch, and the time of my seeing is drawing to a close. I leave here to go to the appointment that Lariel Anderieon made for me, and beyond that, I doubt I’ll see much more.”

  Nutmeg swallowed tightly. “Perhaps not.”

  “Indeed. So, my visit here, to write the Truth as I saw and remember it.”

  “So others can read it?”

  “That’s the strange thing about this part of the library. No one reads the books that have been left there.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “Why, indeed? Because there may be a day when nothing else can stand but these truths, and they must be borne no matter how heavy a burden, or else the walls of the world will collapse entirely.”

  “A last stand.”

  “Yes.”

  “Against what?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, and I’m not sure the House of Ferstanthe knows. There aren’t many prophets among us nor would we trust them if there were. We are contentious enough that we are our own doom, I think.”

  “Still, it seems to me,” and she tilted her head, unsure if she could match words with Bistel, but trying anyway, “it seems to me that truth is probably the most powerful weapon there could be, next to love.”

  Bistel smiled suddenly, his bright blue eyes crackling with the warmth of it. “Well said.”

  Pleased, she added, “How long does it take to write in your journal?” thinking that a lifetime could well take weeks, if not seasons. Grace had grumbled often about the intricacies of writing in Vaelinar script. She wondered if her quick scraps of letters to her family might be in the same vein.

  “I’m finished.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yes, it makes you wonder if I had that much truth inside me, eh? But it came out like a flood, and it was like riding tidewaters to keep up with it. I spent the night tidying up. I have kept an accounting with me and there was only a bit left to add to it before I put it on the shelves.”

  “And you wrote everything?”

  “I hope so. If not, perhaps next time.”

  “Can you tell me something?”

  He looked at her, as if weighing his response. “What is it?”

  “The aryn trees. Is it true they sprang from one tree, from a greenwood staff you planted when you came?”

  “Yes. And no. We had seeds, too, later.”

  “How did a warrior become a farmer?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “How, indeed. In the early days, we fought among ourselves, and it was bitter, and I took the only thing living that I had from the time before we were Lost and thrown to Kerith, and I drove it into the ground as if it could anchor me and shelter me from all that we were bringing down upon ourselves.”

  “But a staff. How could you know it was living wood?”

  “It had budded once or twice, just the smallest eye, and I had carved it off, and when it did so a third time, I realized that there was life inside that staff of greenwood that I could not, and should not, deny. My career was war, ensuring death, yet here was . . . was this bit of wood that I leaned upon, and it held life. So I planted it. Watered it. And this great tree sprang forth. Not all at once, mind you, it grew as any tree grows, at its own pace and taking seasons, but it undeniably grew.” He leaned back a moment, one expression chasing another across his face as if he decided something.

  Bistel took something from an inside pocket of his richly embroidered leather vest, and dropped it next to Nutmeg’s trencher. “I’d like you to have this.”

  A tiny gold key, on a beautiful gold link chain, sparkled at her. “What is it?”

  “My key to the closet holding the Books of All Truth. I am perhaps the oldest left of the Vaelinar, and like a tree, I know it can be better to bend rather than break. Some laws are meant to be . . . bent.”

  Her mouth opened and closed several times, seeking words. He stopped it with a finger lightly across her lips. “Lady Rivergrace will, I believe, need it. And, perhaps, yourself. Dwellers have a stock of wisdom all their own, and I’m fond of your people, but sometimes a bit of knowledge outside the boundary is needed, too. Not a word of this to anyone, or I’ll have betrayed my trust.”

  She nodded, both bewildered and thrilled by Bistel’s demand of her. He stood and gave her a brief bow, taking up his saddlebags which he’d stowed under the small table, and left without a backward glance. She watched him go, think
ing that her da would have liked to have met him, to talk of trees and destiny.

  She yawned, her stomach full, and made her way back to their room where Rivergrace still slept, although the shutter had been thrown open by the wind somehow and the room grown cold. She latched the shutter this time and crept carefully back under the blankets to sleep until the day dawned warmer.

  Rivergrace sneezed and dust motes flew like tiny spores of feather grass through the air, drifting down from the upward shelf and ladder where she perched, swirling in the beam of sunlight angling down from the high arched windows, until they landed nearly unseen on the stone floor. Her sister gave a pealing laugh.

  “Easy for you to laugh, I nearly fell off the ladder.”

  Nutmeg tossed her head from her sitting position at the bottom shelf, her lap full of scrolls. “A hearty sneeze, like a good laugh, shows the passion of a person. Everyone says that!”

  “Oh, they do?” Rivergrace slid a book out carefully to look at it more closely before returning it to its position.

  “They do! There’s a lady at Larandaril, I won’t be givin’ out her name, but all the maids talk about her. When she sneezes, it’s the most delicate little mfffft of noise. So, they say, can you imagine what she does in bed with her gentleman pleasuring her? Are you enjoying yourself, milady, he’d ask and she’d go mfffft and tell him, thank you, milord, I’m well satisfied now.”

  Rivergrace laughed at that, holding onto the top of the ladder tightly for fear she would topple from it, and when she’d caught her breath, she asked, “Honestly, Nutmeg, how do you think of such things?”

  “Not me! It’s those saucy maids.” Nutmeg rolled her eyes. “But at least it made you smile.”

  “That, and more. What you must hear.”

  “Oh, I’m up to my neck in gossip about the higher-ups. They think of me as one of them, you know, a servant.”

  Rivergrace looked down to see a shadow flicker across Meg’s face, as she picked up a scroll to examine it, and replace it in its bin. She scratched her eyebrows in thought, all merriment fled from her expression, and did not notice Grace’s scrutiny. She peered upward. “I’m not finding much on Kerith Gods,” she complained.

  “I didn’t expect to.” Grace descended the ladder with an armful of books and sat down next to her. “I’d probably have more luck on Temple Row, buying an old woman’s fetish to drive the River Goddess away.” She sighed, and scrubbed off a dusty book with the hem of her sleeve.

  “What about your other problem?”

  Rivergrace opened her book, not seeing its words, but thinking of Nutmeg’s question. Finally she answered, “I can’t ask Azel. From the way the apprentices spoke among themselves this morning, it’s under lock and key and forbidden to all but himself.”

  Something sparked in Nutmeg’s eyes. “Perhaps Lord Bistel could help.”

  “Our lord might well be the person to behead us, if we tried to get in.” Grace dusted her sleeve as she frowned.

  “He gave me a key at breakfast this morning before you woke.”

  “He what?”

  Nutmeg just stared at her, knowing she’d heard what was said.

  “I ate breakfast with you and he was nowhere about.”

  “Second breakfast,” Nutmeg corrected her firmly. “I was up at sunrise, being a bit hungry and all, and ate a touch earlier, too.”

  She hadn’t even noticed her leaving the bed. Rivergrace blushed a bit at having slept so soundly. “But why? Why would he do such a thing?”

  Nutmeg tilted her head as thoughts seemed to run through it. Finally, she repeated what the warlord told her. “He said he was the eldest of the eld, but he was also a grower of trees and knew that it was better to bend than to break.”

  They considered each other. Rivergrace said, “A sound thought.”

  “I thought so.” She lifted her wrist, where a chain and key were wound about it, and tucked into the hem of her sleeve so they would not jangle. “Should we try it?”

  Rivergrace pushed the library ladder to one side, and took a calming breath. “It’s what we came for, isn’t it?” She followed Nutmeg through the labyrinth of rooms, ducking twice when they passed an apprentice scribe or librarian hurrying through the myriad of rooms and halls. Azel kept them busy it seemed, their hands ink stained and their arms filled with journals as they moved throughout the wings of the library, in such a hurry they never saw Grace and Meg approaching the banned rooms. The air in the wing hung heavily as they drew near, as though seldom stirred by living bodies, although sconces burned here where windows did not break the solid walls. A heavy grille, locked and forbidding, shut away the final room.

  Nutmeg looked about quickly, then took her key and put it in the tiny, intricate lock. A twist and the gate fell open, moving on well-oiled hinges despite the fact it looked as though it was rarely used. They moved inside quickly and shut it behind them, and the lock snicked smoothly into place. Rivergrace swung about, but Nutmeg took her by the hand. “It’ll open,” she said reassuringly.

  They moved through the stacks. The journals here were all slim, and bound in leather with gilt lettering upon their spine, each shelf arranged by familiar House and Stronghold names as they scanned them. Vaelinars past and present, most of them now past, had evidently written in these books . . . or had been meant to. Grace paused by the books marked ild Fallyn, then walked past. These were secrets she was not meant to know, or they would not be locked away. What purpose they had been foreseen for, she didn’t know, but she wouldn’t tempt fate by riffling through these pages. She came to look for mention of herself and no more.

  She trailed her fingers along the shelves as she walked by slowly, reading each shelf and each title, not knowing what she should search, and hoping that she would know when she saw it. Nutmeg plopped down on the floor just inside the grille, one shoulder to the first bookcase, and took out a slender book marked Treatise on the Natives of Kerith. As Grace slanted a look toward her, she said defiantly, “It’s a book about me, and I ought to be able to read it.”

  Her sister had a point, so she merely nodded and pressed deeper into the room, feeling the air itself draw close about her as if it was a curtain seeking to hide the contents of the shelves and bar them from her. She pushed each step forward as it grew more and more difficult to move, and finally stopped when it seemed she could go no farther even though the back of the room lay shadowed beyond her. She put a hand out to a shelf to steady herself. With great effort, she turned her head to look at the titles.

  All but one was blank, or the gilt letters so ornate they blurred before her vision, making them unreadable. The sole spine she could read wavered before her sight and then, as she narrowed her eyes, the title solidified before her: Violations of the Ways and Judgments Thereof. A dry title only a historian could love, she thought, as she reached for it, thinking of Bistel’s advice. She touched it and a tide rose in her, a tide of shock and awe and fear and eagerness, that surged through her being so that she could scarcely hold the book in her shaking hands. She opened it carefully and began to read of the dreadful deeds of misguided Vaelinars and ambition and magic, of revenge and greed and justice, and of love and hatred. To succeed in building a Way built your line into a House or Stronghold or Fort. To fail was to be executed summarily—not only the perpetrator but all of his or her immediate bloodline. As precious as Vaelinar blood with its magical abilities could be, they did not hesitate to annihilate it if their Law was violated.

  She could understand that, in a way. Taking the bright threads of the world and entangling them in a new way, spinning out webs and knots where none had existed before, yes, she could understand the heavy judgment on those who did so and those who did so badly. To make and un-make the fabric of life itself carried a heavy responsibility. She closed the book and put it back on the shelf. Had her mother and father attempted to break that Law and fled the consequences? She had not seen their names among the judgments. If they were the descendants of lawbreakers, she
would have to know names that she did not. Rivergrace had no idea who her grandparents might be. She rubbed eyes growing weary.

  Her elbow knocked a book off a shelf. She fumbled for it and caught it just as it hit the floor and fell open in her hands.

  Warring Gods read the title page. She turned it.

  A Kernan priest had written this treatise. Thin, it hardly seemed more than a document of rambling speculation, but someone had thought it of enough import to bind it and place it here, in Ferstanthe’s inner library. She leafed the page over and began to read:It has been surmised that our sleeping Gods have little knowledge of the events which brought the Vaelinars to our lands. Of course, debates on the veracity of that can be heard on any temple corner, from the youngest acolyte to the most esteemed scholar. How can an arrival which sent a blast through the northwestern lands and laid low an entire forest go unnoticed, even to an omnipotent eye closed in slumber? It could not. What I propose then is to examine the evidence that the event was noticed and that our Gods, although in quietude, are pondering their response.

  It may be noted that when Vaelinars died in the first centuries of their occupation that their souls were taken in a ceremony dubbed “Returning.” A ritual kept private (and rightly so) lends itself to few witnesses outside those of Vaelinar heritage. We do have, however, two or three letters (see below) which relate the unusual circumstances of such a Returning. The body of the dead appears to grow translucent and the soul, seen as a gossamer aura, the beauty of which is attested to many times over, is drawn away from the planes of Kerith, both physical and spiritual, and Returned to the hands of its own rightful Gods.