I stopped for a heartbeat and stared at him. I saw the glint in his eye. The twitch of a smile. Got you.
My jaw tightened. Without another word I dashed up the steps as fast as I could. Moments later, I burst into my rooms.
Scribes and Acolytes were all over the place. One of them was gathering up the scrolls, another was stomping on the scraps of parchment, scattering them. I recognized her at once: Polita, the chief scribe.
“No, no, no, you stupid brutes!” Alis hollered, trying to fight out of someone’s hold. “Don’t touch that! Don’t—No, not that. Not—” She spotted me. “Kulni, thank Yl’avah, tell them to get their hands off my work!”
“What’s going on here?” I shouted, tossing the food onto a nearby table. “Leave that alone!”
The scribes ignored me. Polita began to kick the parchment scraps into a heap.
“No!” Alis jerked. “Do you have any idea how long it took me—”
“Stop!” I grabbed Polita.
“Elder Kulnethar, I suggest you take a step back.”
“This is ridiculous! I’m an Elder, you can’t just—”
“Orders from the High Elder,” said a large Acolyte.
“I’m afraid you’ve been banned from the Library,” Polita added. A smile pulled at her gaunt face.
I stared at her. “What? You can’t ban me from the Library! I’m an Elder! How am I supposed to do my work?”
“Is this your work?” she asked, lifting a very old scroll. “Methods of War in the First Age of Kayr.”
I shrugged. “Medicine has always been tied to war. People hurt each other, then they need physicians. What in the sands is so surprising about that?”
“What about Memoirs of the Undying?”
“Again. Interesting ideas about medicine. But that’s besides the point. I’m an Elder, and no one can ban me from the knowledge of this Temple!”
“Is she an Elder?” Polita pointed to Alis.
“She’s my wife.”
“But not an Elder.”
I frowned. “No.”
“Then let’s say you were banned for allowing her access to dangerous work. Clearly . . .” she spread her arms around the floor. “Her mental stability was fraying.”
“Her mind is sharper than anyone’s in this blasted Temple! You have no idea what she was working on; you’re just trampling all over it.”
“With pleasure.”
“Oh no, you don’t! Those scrolls may belong to the Library, but these are her writings, and this is my room, so if you don’t take your things and leave, I’ll call the Guardians down on you for unlawful destruction.”
Polita laughed. “Hardly. Do I look like an idiot? These are references to forbidden work. Count yourself lucky the Guardians are not involved, because I promise you, it would not go in your favour.”
I considered forcing them out with violence, but discarded the idea. That would only bring further trouble. Instead, I stood helpless and stunned as they loaded up the scrolls, stuffed the reference scraps into a sack, and left.
Alis stood ink-stained and in shock, then sank to the empty floor, her expression so pained I wanted to weep.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I never even thought . . . I should have been more careful.”
She shook her head. “It’s not your fault.”
“I’m going to take this to the council of Elders. I’m going to fix this.”
“No, they’re right, Kulni.” She picked up a single fallen scrap. “It was forbidden. All of it. We’re probably fortunate they don’t try to rope me for it.”
“But your work!” I looked around me, still stunned at the sudden emptiness of the room. “We were actually starting to get somewhere. To put the patterns together. Now what?”
“Now? I suppose it’s a good thing I have an excellent memory.” She sighed. Then gestured over her shoulder. “The chest.”
“What it is? What about the chest?”
“Just . . .” She made a shooing motion.
I ran to the chest by our bed, threw back the lid, and sure enough, a single, bent old scroll had been stuffed inside.
“That one, I made sure to save for you.”
Later that evening, I walked into the council of Elders. I was the last to arrive, and instantly I could tell word had spread of the incident in my rooms. It wasn’t that they were looking at me, but rather they were trying very hard not to.
“Elder ab’Ethanir, how kind of you to join us,” the High Elder said. “Are we interrupting some fascinating work of yours?”
I smiled. “As a matter of fact, I was doing some research into the heavy-handed methods of those who outreach themselves.”
“Is that so?” His smiled hardened.
“It is. I’ve discovered that when confronted by their ignorance, most will fight to suppress knowledge in an effort to force others to their level, rather than encourage an atmosphere of shared learning and advancement. Theoretically, of course.”
“Of course.”
The singer Jakalu snorted. “If you’re both finished with your sparring, perhaps we can get to the real issues at hand?”
“My apologies.” I sat, feeling my anger more keenly than usual. Not for myself, I realized. The image of Alis surrounded by the fruits of her own cleverness stuck in my throat. They were threatened by her. It had started happening in the healing rooms, too. She was too different, too discontent with the status quo. Like Ishvandu himself, in her own way, trying to challenge the system. Trying to improve it—and the Temple wanted nothing to do with it.
“There’s been some worrying reports from the desert,” Jakalu continued. “The Al’kah has commissioned permanent structures to be built at this well. Permanent.”
“Surely for temporary comings and goings?” asked Vadiyah.
“I’ve heard otherwise,” replied another. “Guardians come and go on a regular basis, but not all at once, and not all Guardians. Sometimes Labourers. The last company included three Labourers and a Crafter.”
“You mean they’re taking our people to live beyond the Avanir?”
“It appears so.”
“That’s ludicrous!”
“I agree.”
“More problematic,” said the High Elder, “is our non-involvement. It seems the Al’kah has decided to completely ignore us. It’s time.”
“Time for what?” I asked, leaning forward.
“Time for combative measures. We are not wisely put aside.”
“Maybe we should start by not letting ourselves be put aside,” said Vadiyah. “Last time we had a source of information. Someone who could go on our behalf.”
Everyone looked at me.
I held up a hand. “I’m afraid I’m no longer much of a source.”
“That wouldn’t have anything to do with you getting beaten up, would it?” the High Elder sneered.
There was a muttering of disapproval.
“Kulnethar was following his duty,” Jakalu said. “He put his life at risk.”
The council nodded their agreement.
“Yes,” the High Elder replied. “And this is the appreciation the Guardians showed for it. Instead of repairing the breech between the Hall and the Temple, Kulnethar served merely to drive us further apart. They disgraced him. We should have acted on it at once.”
“We tried,” said one of the old gardeners. “We spoke a formal complaint against the Hall. And what came of it? Nothing.”
“Kulnethar was acting on his own behalf, remember?” High Elder Melanyr returned. “Not as a representative of this Temple.”
“And whose fault was that?” muttered the singer.
“Mine,” I replied, refusing to let this devolve into another debate. “Now let’s focus on the issue at hand. If the Al’kah is determined for people to settle out there, it is important to get involved. We can look for willing healers to join the next outriding. If we can’t stop them, we should at least continue to have a presence.”
“I disagr
ee,” the High Elder replied. “Let their foolishness be on their own head. Soon they’ll come begging to us for supplies, and we shall refuse them.”
“Even if it means the death of innocent Labourers?” asked Vadiyah.
“I’ve heard they’re willing volunteers,” said another. “So are they really innocent?”
“Their willingness is not the point,” I replied. “They’re still our people and we still have a duty to be involved.”
“Then why don’t you go back?” the High Elder said with a laugh. “Or would you send others to do what you’re afraid of?”
I sighed. Perhaps I deserved that one. “If this council thought it wise, I would go. But the Guardians have proven they won’t listen to an Elder. What they need are healers, not advisors. Isn’t my role as an Elder better served here?”
“Unless you could persuade this Ishvandu ab’Admundi to have more sense,” Vadiyah muttered.
I shook my head. “I’m afraid that’s become unlikely. Besides, it’s the Al’kah we really need to persuade. Ishvandu is simply acting within the parameters his superiors set out for him.”
“Exactly,” replied the High Elder. “Which is why the only thing that will work is systematic pressure.”
“I agree,” said another Elder. I saw plenty of nodding from around the circle.
“But you’re talking about increasing suffering, not mollifying it!” I clenched a fist. “How can we turn people away from the resources of this Temple?”
“Maybe it is time to take a stronger stance,” Jakalu replied.
“And when the Guardians march in here, swords drawn? How strong will we be then?”
Vadiyah glanced at me. “Do you have any other ideas?”
I took a deep breath, then nodded. “Let me talk to him.”
“Ishvandu? I thought you tried that already and said—”
“Not Ishvandu. The Al’kah.”
There was a murmur around the council. The High Elder leaned forward, regarding me a little closer—and with an extra dose of hostility.
“Have you forgotten, ab’Ethanir? Audiences with the Al’kah belong to the office of High Elder. Whatever privilege you think you deserve because of your parentage, such duties are—in fact—beyond your station.”
“I hear you, High Elder, and under most circumstances, I would agree. But this is not most circumstances.”
“Why?” Jakalu demanded. “Why you?”
I glanced down. I had to choose my words carefully, and even the best ones might be a disaster. But I knew things, and I was learning more. Images ran through my mind: Sumadi whirling around us, Karta’s death-cries, and a figure lashing out, stabbing Akkoryn, laughing at the Guardians, scorning them, using them. Tala had chosen truth. It was my duty to keep pursuing it.
Unfortunately, if I said as much, the High Elder would demand to know more, and I wasn’t sure I could trust either him or this council.
“There are a few reasons why I think it should be me,” I began slowly. “One of them is, yes, I’m the late High Elder’s son. The Al’kah may have disobeyed my father’s wishes, but he still respected him. I think he would receive me with the same respect.”
“You’re implying he wouldn’t do so to your father’s successor?” The High Elder leaned forward, eyes sharpening with every word.
“I’m not finished,” I replied. “May I continue?”
“Please do,” Jakalu said.
I nodded gratefully at him. “Secondly, I do have a past friendship with Ishvandu ab’Admundi, and this brings me closer to the situation. Thirdly, I was actually there, in the desert, which is more than even the Al’kah can say. I saw this place with my own eyes. And finally, I think our Al’kah is impressed with a little unorthodox bravado. The simple fact that I am not the High Elder will make him take notice.”
I saw a few nods around the circle. The High Elder said nothing, but I noticed a dangerous glint in his eyes.
“I think it’s a reasonable step,” Vadiyah said. “Before we advance to more extreme measures.”
“I agree,” said another. “It shows we were willing to talk, and if this doesn’t work, it’s another blow against the Hall.”
“That’s right,” said another, and I noticed Jakalu nodding as well.
“What say you, Melanyr?” he turned to the High Elder.
The High Elder looked thoughtful. “If this council agrees, then I will allow it.”
“Then it’s settled,” said the singer. “We should make arrangements for Kulnethar ab’Ethanir to have a private audience with the Al’kah.”
“And if he refuses?” Vadiyah asked.
“Then we know what we’re supposed to do,” said the High Elder.
This time, the murmur of agreement carried an ominous rumble.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Ishvandu ab’Admundi
“Form up!” ab’Tanadu’s voice crackled over the circle of Guardians.
I watched them dance into formation: new recruits, old blades, and a few members of the sixth. It was necessary to train, even out here in the desert. A couple months ago, one of the sixth had showed up with the water train, panicked during the first attack, fell out of line—and was devoured. The screams had been as horrible as I remembered.
Since then, we trained every morning and evening, in full sight of our crew so they would understand our methods. We had become increasingly inventive with our simulations.
“Back to back!” ab’Tanadu hollered at Arkaya. She tightened up. Ab’Tanadu hurled a rock towards her, and she ducked. A disc of flapping cloth followed, like the shred of a Sumadi’s shadow. It was cut in two.
Fighting back to back with Tala. I remembered wheeling, slashing, Sumadi scattering from us in every direction—how strong we felt in that moment, as if we could drive back fear itself.
Tala.
I sighed and rubbed my face. Where was she now? Had she reached the edge of the desert? Had she found the Tree? How soon till it was her twisted form I confronted in the shadows?
A rock thunked off someone’s shoulder.
“Benji, you’re hit!”
The young Guardian stilled, then fell to the sand while the kiyah closed in around him, protecting him, shifting formation to adjust. We practised that too.
Practice.
I had to remind myself, though something leapt inside of me. An urge to hurl myself forward, to lash out. Screaming. Eyes black with shadow. A ripping, tearing scream, like all the pain in the world, bound in a single moment.
“They’re fast,” said a voice.
I blinked to find Adar beside me.
“They have to be faster,” I replied. “Two attacks since you were in Anuai, and we almost lost Arkaya.”
Adar crossed his arms. “You know we need your kiyah with us.”
I kept my voice low: “Mani spoke to Antaru. He’s with us. So is Jil.”
“All of them.”
“Soon.”
“When?”
I frowned at him. “You’re in no position to make demands, Adar.”
“Except that every day my people risk themselves on your promises.”
“Nothing is gained without risk.”
“Easy for you to say, Guardian.”
I snorted. Easy? I remembered the swing of the blade, the clumsy, sweaty hands. The spray of blood. I winced. “Nolaan is gone. Be happy with that.”
“But he wasn’t the worst of our problems, was he?” Adar nodded towards the wheeling formation, towards ab’Tanadu as he shouted commands, flinging stones and discs.
“Not really, no.”
“So when are you going to deal with him?”
I felt a growl in my throat. “Ab’Tanadu is necessary for the success of Anuai.”
“Is he?”
I gave no reply. In some ways, he was right. Nothing I said would convince or coerce ab’Tanadu to our side, which meant, theoretically, there was only one solution. An accident? Like Breta? A quick shove off the cliffs? Wheeli
ng arms and wide eyes, a scream—
Never.
I couldn’t kill ab’Tanadu. I wouldn’t. And who was Adar to even suggest it? He was growing bold.
“It would be easy to arrange,” the man said.
Easy. There was that word again. As if anything we did here was easy. I took a breath, coming to a decision. “Adar,” I said. “I’m sending you back.”
He raised a brow. “Back to Shyandar?”
“You’ll lead the water train back. I’ve decided the work you’re doing in Shyandar is more important than here.”
“Others continue that work.”
“The people follow you. Your story must be shared more widely.”
“Soon,” he agreed. “But not yet. I should stay and prepare these recruits.”
“And since when were you in charge of Anuai, to make those decisions?”
Adar sighed. “With all respect, young blade, you’re a snot-nosed kid barely older than my son. You need me.”
“And you’re an aging mudfoot who’s forgotten his place. Don’t think you can insinuate violence against my Guardians and get away with it. We’re not here to trample on the law. Understood?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
“I understand you’re young, ambitious, given a taste of authority, and now you’re starting to feel threatened by me. It’s natural—but foolish. Mani understands our arrangement. She knows what we’re doing here, what belongs to her and what doesn’t. Now you think you can start messing with that? Ordering my people around?”
I gave a tight smile. “Yet you’re the one making demands of my Guardians. Maybe you should listen to your own advice. Mani agrees.”
“Don’t pretend you could persuade her—”
“Don’t pretend you have any authority over me,” I hissed. “I’m sending you back. You do your job—and I’ll do mine.”
With a shout, ab’Tanadu halted the training. Adar grunted something, but the Guardians were dispersing, effectively ending our conversation. I watched as Benji stumbled to his feet, then aimed for the quarters behind us.
I held out an arm. “Wait.”
He stopped. I could tell by his tight shoulders he was in no mood for talking, but I waved him over anyway.
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