The Burden of Memory

by Welcome Cole

  “How long do you suppose it’s been since last we opened this?” Lucifeus asked.

  “I don’t recall exactly. When we were kids. Not since.”

  “We must’ve been ten or twelve,” Lucifeus said as he stroked his moustache, “And since I’m thirty-seven, that’d make it—”

  “You’re forty-one!”

  Lucifeus laughed.

  Mal would normally fire him a look meant to hurt. Instead, he found himself laughing along.

  Lucifeus looked at him and gestured toward the box. “It’s your honor, Brother.”

  Mal licked at lips too dry. He rubbed his wet palms together and steadied himself. Prepared now as he was ever going to be, he reached in and lifted out a roll of rotting blue fabric and its unholy contents. He laid them carefully on the desk as his brother pushed the chest and locks back out of the way.

  The ancient cloth practically disintegrated on touch. Mal more brushed away the remains than unwrapped it. Inside the fabric was a tube as long and thick as his forearm. The tube’s smooth, glossy surface was black as hate and polished so perfectly that the only imperfection in it was the reflection of their distorted faces looking back at them.

  “The Drayma,” Mal whispered, “It seemed bigger when we were kids.”

  Solid gold caps crowned either end of the tube, each slightly wider than the tube itself, each cast in the conical image of coiled serpents with human faces and black gems for eyes. There were no breaks in the tube’s surface, no suggestion of how to open it. And despite the condition of the moldering fabrics that had cloaked it, the Drayma was as shiny and clean as if it’d just been polished.

  “No markings,” Lucifeus said, “No seams, no runes, nothing but the scales on the snakes.” He held it to his ear and gave it a gentle shake. “Doesn’t feel hollow.”

  “Try the serpents.”

  Lucifeus held the tube by each end and tried to twist off the coiled caps. The caps didn’t give. “Strange that father never mentioned how it operates,” he said as he studied it.

  “Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe no member of Lamys te’Faht knows.”

  “The creator knew.”

  “Excellent. I’ll see if Essie can conjure him up and we’ll ask him.”

  “I was just thinking out loud, damn you.”

  “Save it for the astronomers; thinking’s not your strong suit.”

  Mal took the Drayma from Lucifeus. He bounced it in his hands. It was heavier than he expected. He gripped the caps firmly with both hands and gave them another firm twist. The tube still didn’t yield.

  “Didn’t I just try that?” Lucifeus asked smartly.

  Mal held the black tube closer to the lamplight and turned it slowly in his hands. The lamp’s flame reflected so perfectly in the glossy tube, it looked nearly as if it originated there. “Maybe for security’s sake there’s no natural entrance,” he said as he studied it, “Maybe we have to break it.”

  “Pray, let’s not get hasty. Let’s endeavor to decipher the riddle first.”

  Lucifeus picked up the moldering red cloth and gave it a sharp snap. A cloud of red dust and wisps of thread filtered to the floor. He coughed and waved away the settling dust, then picked up the chest. “Perhaps there’s a false floor,” he said, rapping the bottom of the box, “Damn me, there must be something. A message, instructions, something to direct us.”

  As Lucifeus methodically worked the chest, Mal again studied the cylinder. On closer inspection, the black surface was more like an opulent fluid than a solid skin. The more he stared into it, the deeper and less tangible the surface appeared, like a night sky that had been robbed of its stars as it slept.

  One of the snakes shifted.

  He nearly dropped the Drayma. His heart kicked into pace. He held the coiled end toward the light, but found nothing amiss. Just a trick of light, he quickly told himself. It had to be.

  Then, as he studied the serpents, he saw it. Fragments of tiny, etched runes had materialized along the backsides of the serpents. They were scattered through the scales in odd elliptical patches as if the gold around the lettering had melted into itself to reveal them. At first, he couldn’t make sense of it. He hadn’t seen them a moment ago, he was certain of it. They looked like fingerprints. He rubbed at the scales, but nothing changed.

  Then he realized the truth. These were his brother’s finger smudges. Wherever Luce’s finger or thumb touched the metal, the scales had transformed into runes.

  “There’s nothing in this damned chest,” Lucifeus said as he again slapped the bottom of it. “Gods’ hooks, I do loathe riddles! Always have and always—”

  “Luce!”

  Lucifeus held the chest up to one ear and shook it.

  “Luce, look at this!”

  “What?” Lucifeus asked impatiently.

  “Hellsteeth! Just put that box down and look, will you?”

  Lucifeus did as ordered.

  “I think these are your fingerprints,” Mal said as he turned the Drayma in his hands, “I think the runes appear wherever you touch it.”

  “Nonsense. That’s an impossibility.”

  “An impossibility? Are you serious? After yesterday morning in the brig, you think this is an impossibility?”

  Lucifeus just stared at him.

  “Fine!” Mal said, holding it up to him, “Show me how impossible it is. Take it.”

  With a quick nod, Lucifeus said, “Right. That’s precisely what I’ll do, then. I shall endeavor to prove how ridiculous your claim is.”

  “Take it,” Mal said, again offering the cylinder to him.

  “I will.”

  “Do it.”

  “Sink me, I will! I’ll take it right now.”

  “Do it!”

  Lucifeus reached for the cylinder as tentatively as if it was a trap. He paused just before the ends, then looked up at Mal.

  “Do it,” Mal whispered.

  Lucifeus nodded. He then gripped the snaked ends firmly. He’d lifted it no more than a foot when he dropped it and staggered back from the desk. The cylinder bounced against the desk surface and rolled for the edge where Mal caught it before it fell.

  “Calina help us!” Lucifeus whispered, “I felt it. Under my fingers, I felt it moving.”

  Mal held the tube closer to the light and inspected the snakes. Sure as night, along the sides of the scrolled serpents were more tiny runes. They rose up from the gold like tree roots cresting the surface of the dirt.

  “It’s you, Luce. I was right. Your touch unveils the message. Something’s written under here, and you’re the key to bringing it out.”

  “Pray tell how that’s possible? I’ve touched it before, when we were kids. This didn’t happen then.”

  “I don’t imagine the time was right. Damn us both if this doesn’t confirm our decision. We were exactly right. It is the time for Lamys te’Faht to rise.”

  “Why doesn’t it change where you touch it?”

  “You’re firstborn. You’re the bearer, not me.” He grabbed his brother’s hand and thrust the cylinder into it. “Touch it. Touch all of it.”

  Lucifeus held the Drayma out before him. He looked at Mal as if waiting to be talked out of it. Finally, he shook his head and cautiously caressed the gold. His eyes swelled as he ran his fingers and palms along the coiled snakes.

  “Gods’ hooks!” he whispered, “Feels like they’re growing up from the gold as my hands pass over it.”

  Mal watched him working the gold for several moments. Then he said, “That’s enough. Let me see it.”

  Lucifeus thrust it into his waiting hands as if glad to be rid of it. Mal held one golden end into the light. Just as he expected, the scales were nearly all gone, replaced by a string of raised writing following the backs of the coiled snakes. It began at the grotesque human heads and spiraled down along their snake-like bodies.

  “They look like the runes on your pendant,” Mal said, “I can’t make any sense of them.” He handed it back to Lucifeus.


  His brother hesitated a moment before accepting it. “I hate that you can’t read them,” he said, scowling, “We should both be able to.”

  “What difference does it make?” Mal pulled the lamp closer and turned the flame up. “I doubt it’s even a real language. It’s probably just some magical writing that only members of the Faht can read. I doubt it can even be taught to outsiders.”

  “You’re not an outsider.”

  “You know what I mean. To those not born to the Order.”

  “You should’ve been.”

  “And I should’ve been witty and light of heart. Now what does it say?”

  Lucifeus held it beneath the light and leaned into it. “It’s pretty small. Damned eyes aren’t what they used to be. There was a time I could scratch my name on the wing of a fly. Now I can’t see anything closer than arm’s length. Whatever happened to—”

  “Luce! Just read it!”

  “All right, all right,” his brother said, holding the Drayma out to arm’s length, “It says... damn me, it’s small. It says ‘Secrets cannot live in the heart, for that is the bastion... the bastion…”

  “What? The bastion what?”

  “It’s so damned small. It says the bastion... the bastion of truth. Secrets, like... like blood… live just beneath our skin, which is the wall rightfully separating us from… from the universe.’” He frowned at Mal. “Damned riddles. I bloody well hate them!”

  “There must be something more here.”

  Luce turned the tube over. “Hmm, same useless message on the other end. Sink me, I knew it’d turn out this way.”

  “Read it again.”

  Lucifeus grumbled a complaint, but again read the inscription out loud. “Secrets cannot live in the heart, for that is the bastion of truth. Secrets, like blood, live just beneath our skin, which is the wall rightfully separating us from the universe.”

  “Let me see it,” Mal said when Lucifeus finished.

  “Maybe we’re not supposed to open it yet, after all,” Lucifeus said as Mal studied the Drayma, “Maybe we misread the hack’s confession.”

  “Aye, I’m sure the hack said ‘Goelvar’ by accident.” He tapped the glassy surface with his nail. It was hard and unyielding, like polished onyx or bloodstone. “Give me your knife.”

  “What?”

  “Are you going deaf as well as blind? Give me your damned knife.”

  Lucifeus slipped the dagger from his boot and pressed it into his brother’s waiting hand. “What exactly are you going to do with that?”

  “Blood,” Mal said as he considered the tube.

  “Blood. You’re going to bleed on it?”

  Mal delivered him a look. “You are as useless as Hoot in a classroom. The words on the man-snakes allude to blood as truth, and skin as the vessel containing it, yes?”

  Lucifeus shrugged. “So?”

  “So, the content of this tube is the blood. Therefore the tube’s surface must be the skin.”

  “That makes sense. After a fashion, I expect. However, I sincerely doubt a knife is the way to get through it. Perhaps I should have the guards summon the blacksmi—”

  Mal slammed the cylinder against the desktop.

  Lucifeus practically shrieked. “Have you lost your mind? What are you doing? Look at my desk, you dolt!”

  Splinters marred the wood at the desk’s edge where Mal had struck it. Slivers feathered out from the scar and littered the hardwood floor beneath. Mal was irritated to see the Drayma showed no similar wound.

  “Damn you to the Wyr!” Lucifeus swore at him, “Do you know how much this desk cost me? It’s Parhronii beech from the Whitelands, for—”

  Mal slammed the cylinder down harder, sending more wood slivers flitting to the floor and further deepening the desk’s wound. A quick inspection of the Drayma, however, brought only dissatisfaction. It remained flawless.

  “I... I can’t believe you did that again! Are you possessed? What in the Nine are you—”

  Mal crossed over to the fireplace on the other side of the room and stepped up onto the wide hearth. Then he cocked the cylinder over his shoulder and hammered it down against the edge of the granite mantle. This time, a shower of black shards rained down from the Drayma like falling paint chips.

  Through the commotion of his brother’s cursing, he examined the tube. They’d breached the black surface at last. He ran a finger along the web of cracks fouling the tube’s once flawless exterior. A significant flake of the thin, black material had broken free to reveal an inch diameter gap. The black skin covering the tube was as thick as a fingernail. The surface beneath was bare silver.

  “Luce, look at this.”

  Lucifeus leaned in closer. He picked at the broken edges of the scar with his polished pinky nail. The black material now flaked off as easily as old paint, flitting to the ground like bits of soot.

  Mal picked lose another larger flake and watched it fall. When it met the stone hearth, it melted into a circle of black liquid like snow brushed from a boot before a woodstove. The flagstone at their feet was dotted with beads of the oily fluid.

  “That damned well better not leave a stain,” Lucifeus said.

  Mal picked at the remaining fragments covering the tube. In less than a minute, he’d completely exposed the metal cylinder hidden beneath. It was white as silver and finely etched with intricate images of ships and the four elements. In the center was the engraving of an elongated eye. Four swords impaled the eye from the corners, driving through the eye diagonally like an X, so that the hilts were like sunbursts.

  “Recognize this?” he asked Lucifeus.

  “Recognize it, yes. Believe it, no. It’s the same as our pendant.”

  Mal ran his fingertip along the runes encircling the image. “I can’t read it, but I’m betting these runes are the same as the others.”

  “What’s that there?” Lucifeus ran his fingertip along a tiny slot in the metal just above the hilt of one of the engraved swords.

  “I don’t know. Four slots, one at the handle of each of them.”

  Lucifeus scratched at the nearest slot with his nail. “It appears some kind of lock, wouldn’t you say?”

  Mal immediately understood. “The pendant!”

  “The pendant? What about it?”

  “Give it to me.”

  Lucifeus dragged the chain from under his shirt. He’d no more than pulled it over his head when Mal snatched it.

  Mal crossed back to the desk and examined the pendant in the lamplight. The pendant’s cover was etched with the detail of an army, a brigade of rogue soldiers marching straight toward him as the sun set on the sea behind them. The leader held a black flag bearing their family crest, a black cat arched upon a jawless skull.

  He gave it a careful twist and popped open the lid. Inside was the image of an eye, and piercing the eye at each corner were four swords, identical to the image on the cylinder.

  “What are you thinking?” Lucifeus whispered.

  Mal picked up the knife and pressed the tip into the eye, which receded into the face of the pendant. An instant later, the four swords snapped open so that the blades were standing straight up at them.

  “Do you understand now?” Mal said carefully.

  “By gods, I believe so. It really is a lock.”

  “Do the honors, Luce,” Mal said as he handed the open pendant back to his brother. Then he took the Drayma and held it against the desk with the matching image facing up.

  Lucifeus aligned the pendant’s four sword tips over the four slits on the tube. Before inserting them, he looked at Mal. “Are we ready?” he whispered.

  “No, we are most definitely not ready. I doubt we’re ever going to be ready, so best we simply stow our doubts and be on about it.”

  Lucifeus drew in a studied breath. Then he very slowly lowered the pendant and inserted the blades into the slits on the silver tube.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then, suddenly and without fanfare, the metal su
rface of the Drayma grew hazy and a line slithered its way along the length of the metal Drayma. It sailed out from each side of the eye, slicing across the silver and through the golden man-snakes on both ends.

  “Am I truly seeing this?” Lucifeus whispered.

  “Pull the pendant back out.”

  Lucifeus did. A metallic snap ricocheted through the room.

  Mal pulled the halves apart as carefully as if the tube might be full of spiders. There were no hinges, no clasps, no mechanism to join them. They lay side by side on the table like two halves of a hollow log. Filling the belly of one half was an old leather scroll.

  “The blood,” Mal whispered.

  “Beneath the skin,” Lucifeus whispered back.

  Mal carefully removed the scroll. Hidden beneath it were two small, colorless spheres like a child’s clay marbles. He plucked up the nearest one and held it to the light. It was perfectly round, dull in color and translucent like watered mud. The surface of the marble seemed to shift and warble as he studied it.

  “What color would you say this is?” he asked his brother.

  Lucifeus shrugged. “Gray? Dirty white? What am I, a painter? What difference is it?”

  Mal picked up the other marble and placed it in his palm. Then he held them both under the light and rolled them around in his hands. Their colors gradually shifted between a gradient of grays, blues, and ambers as he watched.

  “Look here, Mal.”

  Lucifeus had unrolled the leather scroll across the desktop. It was larger than Mal would have guessed, nearly two feet square. And though yellowed with age, the deep blue ink was still crisp and fresh.

  “Gods alive,” Mal whispered, “Is that a map of the Nolands?”

  “Aye. And that’s Na te’Yed.”

  “Well, that just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Mal looked at him. “Father said the Drayma was nearly a thousand years old.”

  “Aye. And?”

  “There were no Nolands during the Divinic Wars. The Nolands have only been identified as such since the Fifty Year War.”