The parchment—at least the section opened before her between the two rollers—was blank.
"This," Namtar said, "will be the Luminous Writ. The ancient Book of Luminosity. A book that is four books. A book of Sight, of Foresight, of Healing, and of Muse. It is the central scripture of our order, the holy text that every lumer knows by heart, every chapter, every one of its words . . . and it contains many words." She gestured at the quill that stood on the table. "And you will write it."
Maya's eyes widened, and she was so excited she hopped in her chair. For years Maya had begged Master Malaci to show her the Luminous Writ; the old man stored a copy in his library in Gefen. But Malaci had always refused.
"Your mother forbids it," Malaci had said, eyes sad.
Maya would plead, cry, even yell, attempting in vain to sway her mother. But Shiloh had insisted.
"You must not learn the art," Shiloh would say, over and over. "Lumers are slapped in chains. Lumers are sent to Aelar to serve the Empire. Forget about Luminosity."
Yet Maya had never forgotten. Whenever she had walked by the library of Gefen, she would gaze at the house longingly, imagining the massive scroll and the secrets within. And now—now she would write the Luminous Writ herself! Word by word, under Namtar's tutelage—no doubt discussing, contemplating, truly fathoming every word, her knowledge growing with every stroke of her quill.
"I expect the first chapter written when I return tonight." Namtar nodded. "Goodbye."
With that, the lumer hobbled out of the chamber, closed the door behind her, and the lock clanked.
Maya sat and blinked at the door. Frowning, she rose from the chair, walked toward the door, and turned the knob. Locked. Her frown deepened, and she returned to the table. The parchment was wrapped around the left roller; only the edge of the scroll was attached to the right bar. Maya stood up and tried to spin the rollers, grunting with the effort. Etzba by etzba, she managed to turn the scroll, exposing more parchment. Before long, she had rolled an entire zeret, several pages' worth. As far as she could tell, the entire scroll—the whole massive thing—was empty.
"How . . ." She tilted her head. "What am I supposed to write?"
She paced the room, thinking. She knew almost nothing of Luminosity, only what she had figured out on her own. How could she transcribe the Luminous Writ, a book she had never even read?
She knocked on the door. "Mistress Namtar? Mistress Namtar!"
No answer came. Maya walked toward the window, wondering if she could climb outside, but bars blocked her passage.
I'm a prisoner, she realized. I'm in a prison cell.
She groaned and sat back down. She stared at the scroll. Did Namtar really expect her to fill this entire book somehow?
Maya paced the room, her thoughts soon straying back to Zohar. To her family. She desperately wanted to know about them. Was Mother still in Beth Eloh, helping Shefael? Was Epher still alive? Were Atalia and Koren slaves in Aelar now, and were they mistreated? Was Ofeer still loyal to Seneca? As always, Maya thought back to that time in Beth Eloh, standing atop the tower above the palace, when Avinasi had taught her to use the Sight. Maya had gazed into the distance that day, had beheld Porcia and her hosts, but the luminescence had nearly consumed her, burned her away. Only Avinasi's aid had helped Maya control the magic. Without a powerful lumer to guide her, Maya dared not use the Sight, dared not summon such powerful magic again.
But I summoned powerful magic on my own before, she thought, remembering. I faced him. The man in the shadows. I wove luminescence around me, and I cast back the dragons of sand he had raised.
She still did not understand what power she had used then, which of the Four Pillars . . . or perhaps a fifth pillar, unwritten of in the books, forbidden to lumers. That power had frightened her, had nearly washed her away, leaving her mind barren of memories, a broken shell, healed only by the light of Suna by the sea. And still the dark figure haunted her nightmares.
Finally evening fell, keys rattled in the lock, and the door opened again. Namtar stepped into the chamber, staff tapping.
"Well, now," said the old lumer. "Have you written the first chapter as instructed?"
Maya narrowed her eyes. "Of course not. How could I write a chapter I don't—"
She shouted as Namtar's staff flew, slamming into her arm. Pain flared across Maya.
"What—" she began.
The old woman swung her staff again. It slammed into Maya's ribs, and she yowled.
"You will not become a lumer idling your time away." Namtar glared. "Only once you complete this book can you become a lumer." The staff swung a third time, and Maya raised her arm to block the blow, then screamed as the staff slammed against her wrist. "Tomorrow you will write the first chapter, or you will taste more of this staff."
The old woman turned to leave.
Maya ran toward the door. "You can't do this!" she shouted . . . but the door slammed in her face, and the lock clanked shut.
Maya groaned and fell to her knees. The blows from the staff blazed across her. Already bruises were spreading, and every breath hurt.
"Unbelievable." Maya shook her head.
Her belly rumbled. She hadn't eaten since the bowl of gruel that morning, and it seemed unlikely that Namtar would soon arrive to take her dinner order. She sighed and lay down on the floor.
She spent another night on the hard clay floor, and in the morning, Namtar arrived, again holding her staff in one hand, a bowl of gruel in the other.
"Today," Namtar said, "you will write the first chapter in the Luminous Writ. You will not be a lumer before you complete writing the entire book."
"How can I write a book I've never even read?" Maya said. "Won't you teach me? I—Ow!"
The staff swung again, cracking Maya on the cheek this time, a blow so sudden and painful she froze with shock. The wizened lumer turned to leave, taking the bowl of gruel with her.
"Wait!" Maya cried. She rushed forward and grabbed the door, then pulled her hand back as if stung. The door was searing hot, and welts appeared on Maya's hand. The door closed, leaving Maya sealed in the chamber—with no food and no hope.
"You are nothing like Avinasi!" Maya shouted at the door, then slumped down and sat against the wall.
The first time Maya had seen Avinasi, the royal lumer of Zohar had frightened her—an ancient, withered thing, glittering with gemstones and precious metals, painted with henna, wrapped in the finest silks, a jangling, shimmering creature, half flesh and half splendor. Yet now Maya missed her. Avinasi had perhaps been frightening, but she had helped Maya, taught Maya. But this lumer, this beast called Namtar . . . She was no teacher. She was just a brute. Just a mean old crone, and Maya realized: I'm her prisoner, not her pupil.
She returned to the scroll. She squinted at it, trying to see if she missed anything. She rolled the parchment all the way around one roller, then the other—a task that took hours and left her drenched in sweat. She peered under the table. She checked the walls for hidden compartments. She even tried to pry the bars loose from the window, hoping to find a clue in the garden outside.
"It's impossible." She lowered her head. "She only seeks an excuse to beat me."
No, spoke a voice inside her. She wants you to use the light.
"I can't," Maya whispered. "It nearly burned me last time."
How will you become a lumer if you fear the splendor of Luminosity?
She blinked tears out of her eyes and looked toward the ceiling. She didn't know who was speaking inside her. Was it her own voice? Was it Avinasi, speaking to her from across the distance? Or perhaps it was the voice of Luminosity itself?
In the Temple in Beth Eloh, the priests taught that lume was the grace of God, his spirit flowing into the world. The clerics were all male, able to pray to Eloh, to divine his wishes in ancient scrolls, but not to use his light. Only a few women every generation could reach into the grace, could weave it as one wove strands of cotton into fabric, luminating, refining, pulli
ng together strands of splendor into blessed form.
I can use the lume, she thought. I can See. I can find a Luminous Writ outside my cell, and I can gaze into it.
Maya did not know if Eloh created the lume, or if the lume was Eloh, same as she could not explain the wind nor the sea, the rustle of leaves nor the softness of sand. All were one. In the light, all were grace taken form. Waves whispering. Olive trees, ancient, twisting, and weeds growing from between old limestone bricks, pomegranates giving forth fruit, the seasons coming and going, the turtle doves singing and the rains of winter bringing life to a dry land. The song of harps filled her mind as the maidens danced, as wise elders walked through labyrinths of stone upon a holy mountain, as a people gathered, haunted, freed from slavery to sing and worship the light. From the smallest ants that scurried underfoot to all the works of men, from humble caves where fire had first glowed to vast empires of glory, all were one in the light. Eternal. Timeless. A serpent eating its tail, no beginning nor end, and not four lights but endless light—infinite.
That light flowed across Maya.
She was afraid. It thrummed across her. Her hair rose as if flowing underwater. She gazed upon it—upon the kingdom beyond.
Control it! Weave it!
Maya sucked in air, trying to grab the tendrils. To use the Sight as Avinasi had taught her.
Focus! Focus or it will burn you.
She trembled. She wept. She had to remember who she was, where she sat, to See. She looked at the scroll. She looked at a hundred scrolls. The Luminous Writ—she saw it! She saw it beyond the walls. In other chambers in this very house, full of letters, scrawling letters, other pupils writing, transcribing, delving into the wisdom. Deserts. She was gazing too far. Streaming deserts and cities rising and falling, endless parsa'ot, and there—a great scroll, larger than the others, hidden under the palace of Beth Eloh, thousands of years old, generations of lumers guarding it, tending to it. The city walls rose, and the city wept, and dark wings darkened the sky. The eagles swooped. The people wept. Blood washed the labyrinth, and a great cry rose from Beth Eloh, and the people gathered around the Temple, crying out for aid as the walls fell, as the corpses filled the streets. He sat on the throne. Her brother, Epheriah Sela, his beard thick, a crown upon his head, a sword on his lap, a great king of ruin as the city fell. His chest was open, a dark cavity where his heart had once pumped. The people wept. And there—light. Soft light. Weaving together, forming an archway that opened in the wall, and through the arch . . .
Maya wept.
"Through the Gate of Tears she will enter," she whispered, tasting her tears. "All in white. All in light. She will bring healing. She . . ."
The figure in white raised its head, and Maya saw his face, gray, furrowed, staring with yellow eyes.
She screamed.
She fell, tumbling from the Luminosity, ripped from the light, tossed down into the cruel world like Adom, the first man of God, fallen from Eloh's grace. She hit the floor, coughing, spasming, weeping.
For a long time she lay, daring not move, until the visions faded from her and the sun set.
In the evening, the door opened again, and Mistress Namtar entered the room. Maya was sitting in her chair, facing the empty scroll, and raised damp eyes toward the old lumer.
"I tried," Maya whispered. "I tried to use the Sight, to read the copy of the Luminous Writ outside this room, to transcribe the words into my scroll. But . . . it was too much. Too much light. It overwhelmed me, and I saw visions. I used the Foresight, I think, and . . ." She lowered her head. "I failed. You may beat me now with your staff. I did not write a word."
Namtar stepped closer, and Maya winced, expecting a blow. But instead, the lumer placed a wrinkled hand on her shoulder, her touch gentle.
"Your power is strong." Once more, sadness filled her voice, the same sadness Maya had seen in the old eyes on the first day. "Stronger than in any student I've taught. Pain is often the curse of greatness. The brightest lights cast the darkest shadows."
Maya stared at the lumer through her tears. "But how can too much light be bad? How can too much grace hurt me so much?"
The old woman stroked her hair. "I cannot promise you a life of peace, of joy. A lumer often walks first through shadow, shining a light so that others may not fear. It is often a life of pain. Too much wealth corrupts the soul, and too much power corrupts the heart, but too much luminescence, Maya . . . it's like a blazing sun that will burn those who cannot harness it." Her eyes hardened, and she pulled back her hand and formed it into a fist. "You must harness it. There are shadows around you, Maya, and your path is brighter than any I've seen, leading to . . ." She looked away. "I dare not look deeper. The Foresight is murky, and it's a skill you've not yet learned."
"I saw something," Maya whispered. "I saw . . . a gate. A gate that had not been opened in centuries. And a figure of light, only it had a face of shadow. Did I use the Foresight?"
Namtar would not meet her gaze, and red rimmed her eyes. She rose quickly and turned away.
"Girl!" she called. "Girl, here!"
A girl shuffled into the room, dark and demure, two black braids falling across her shoulders. She held a tray with a meal, which she placed on the table by the scroll. A bread roll steamed beside a block of cheese, dry figs, a bowl of chickpeas, and a mug of ale. The girl bowed her head at Maya, daring not meet her gaze, and retreated from the room.
Namtar rose to follow.
"Wait," Maya said. "Please. Teach me. What am I to do?"
Namtar stared at her, eyes now dry. "Focus. You are to focus. If you cannot . . . the light will burn you."
With that, the old woman left the chamber, locking the door behind her.
The next morning, Namtar did not visit her. Only the meek girl with the black braids visited the chamber. Again the servant didn't raise her eyes, merely placed a bowl of oatmeal on the table, then retreated. Maya could have bounded for the door, overpowered the girl, and leaped outside to freedom. But she remained in her seat, letting the servant lock her in the chamber.
I will not leave this place, Maya thought. Not even if the door were open. I must stay here. She took a shuddering breath. I must do this.
She stared at the blank scroll. She closed her eyes. And she ignited the lume.
At once, the light flowed across her, tugging her toward the future, across the desert, branching, breaking apart, like the antlers of a deer, like a candelabrum with a thousand branches, like roots twisting in the forests of Ma'oz, like rivers flowing in the northern hinterlands, lives, countless lives and ancient stones, kingdoms rising from sand and falling, and—
Stop.
She sucked in air.
Control it. Tame it.
She breathed deeply, breath by breath, focusing on the air as it entered and left her lungs. She wove the light around this central pillar.
"Only a little," she whispered. "I need just a small light."
In the great sky of starlight, she wove a little candle. In the great grace of Eloh, she sought a single blessing. As a child, on the festival of Lel Urim, Maya and her siblings would light candles and march through the dark villa, up and down staircases, through shadowy halls, singing songs to banish the shadows. Maya had always feared that festival, feared the shadowy house when Father would douse all the lanterns, turning it into a haunted castle, but she had always drawn comfort from her siblings, from her song, from the candles they lit. Today she would be as that girl, carrying the smallest of torches, seeking illumination in a labyrinth that threatened to engulf her.
With a deep breath, chin raised, she wove a strand of luminescence around her palm. Around her, empires rose and fell, the future twisted in infinite coiling paths, and countless voices sang, but Maya kept breathing, kept focusing. She rose to her feet, the light in her palm, feeling the clay beneath her feet, the animals that burrowed underground, the sea outside, the desert rolling, and—
Focus.
Tame it.
; She returned her mind to the single strand in her palm. Like the child she had been, moving through the dark house with her candle, she sent out this little light. And she saw.
She saw the house around her, chamber after chamber, pupil after pupil, seven girls locked in seven rooms. She saw the servant grinding pine nuts with a bowl and trestle, saw a bird flit through the pantry, saw . . . scrolls. A library of scrolls! Here in this house, by the eastern wall, the windows overlooking the sea. Standing in her chamber, Maya sent her light into the library, toward the scrolls on the shelf, into the parchment . . . and she read the words.
The Luminous Writ.
In the beginning there was light from darkness.
Her eyes darted back and forth as the letters shone across her vision.
She sat by the table and she lifted her quill.
At first Maya hesitated. The calligraphy she read was a masterpiece, each word a work of art. If she made but a single mistake—a spilled drop of ink, a bad curl on a letter, or God forbid a misspelling—she would ruin her entire parchment, a scroll that was probably worth more than this entire house. Scribes in Zohar trained for years before being allowed to write a single letter on costly parchment. Maya had studied some calligraphy from Master Malaci, but she had mostly scratched her letters into clay or sometimes wax tablets imported from Aelar. To write even a single letter on such expensive parchment, let alone hundreds of thousands of words . . .
She took a deep breath. She had never used Muse much, the great power of Luminosity coveted most, perhaps, among the Four Pillars. It was Muse that had raised temples and palaces in Aelar, that had built Beth Eloh, that wove wonders around the Encircled Sea. Maya had used it only rarely, and not since dancing for the bone raiders in the desert.
Yet now she summoned that fourth pillar, the grace of art, of creation. With her quill, she wrote onto the parchment.
In the beginning there was light from darkness.
Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3) Page 12
