Scriber (10 page)

I have always been a man who enjoys solitude, but there was little opportunity for me to study or write on the long march to Three Rivers. Without my books, or any significant interaction with the others, there was nothing to distract my mind from the questions that plagued me: Had Josia truly heard the same voices I did? And if so, would I share her fate?

With death and madness at the forefront of my thoughts, I began to notice the fireleaf trees scattered around the countryside. They were not uncommon by any means, and their bright flame-red foliage made them easy to spot, even amidst all the other trees whose leaves were tinted red by autumn’s brush. Sometimes when we passed one growing close enough to the road, I thought I could hear the voices again, whispering their terrible words for my ears alone—but whether the sound was real or remembered, I could not say.

All of the fireleafs we passed were encircled by fallen leaves; it was clearly not a phenomenon restricted to the Waymark area. Exactly what that meant eluded me—I only knew that I had seen a burning fireleaf the first time I had dreamed of the Burnt, and that the dream had come soon after the leaves began to fall. Several nights, I woke screaming from that same dream, the pain of fire lingering on my skin.

On our fourth day of travel, the road took us through the fields of grain that surrounded Barleyfield for miles, and the possibility of leaving the procession when we reached the town occurred to me. Barleyfield was large enough to already have Scribers working there, so work might be scarce, but it would be better than returning to Three Rivers—and perhaps if I could resume my quiet, private life, the voices would cease.

As we drew closer to town, we passed great swaths of wheat and barley that had been burned and trampled into muddy brown ash. The few farmhouses that had not been completely destroyed appeared abandoned. Under normal circumstances, there is no barony but the Bridgefort with more arable land than Three Rivers, or more men working the fields. Yet the countryside we walked through was ravaged and deserted, and staying in Barleyfield was less appealing with each smouldering homestead I saw. If the Three Rivers Brigade could not keep the Burnt—I could not help but think of the rebels by that name, at least to myself—from putting field and farm to the torch even in the King’s own lands, then the capital might be the only safe place remaining.

We arrived at Barleyfield itself several hours after dark on the fifth day after leaving Waymark. The Seventh Company was already billeted there to protect the town’s rich farmlands against the Burnt, but the people were eager to make extra room for the First if it meant an increased Army presence for even a single night. Few citizens were forced to open their doors to the soldiers though; the once mildly thriving town was half-deserted. It was not hard to find empty homes to sleep in.

While the soldiers prepared to leave the next morning, I asked around about the diminished population. The threat of the rebels, it seemed, had already driven many to pack up their things and make for Three Rivers to claim protection under Erryn’s Promise. Most of those who remained in Barleyfield only did so because the dangers on the road were too great to risk without military escort; they planned to leave with us. Some few stubborn locals were determined to keep their homes as long as the Seventh remained garrisoned there, and there was some talk of trying to harvest what they could from the fields before it was all burned. The harvest had been poor this year even before the attacks, and the realm needed to be fed, but still, few were willing to leave the safety of the walls.

I learned a great deal about the rebels from the people of Barleyfield. What little I had known of them came from Illias’ letters, and I had not realized how truly ineffectual the Army’s protection was proving against the Burnt. The attacks were near-impossible to predict, and even when the scouts managed to spot them in advance, none of the rebels were ever captured. As soon as the battle turned against them, the Burnt would simply melt away into the countryside, leaving only their dead behind.

Much of what I heard, though, was only rumors and speculation: that the rebels used forbidden Elovian lore to call down lightning and shake the earth; that they were really the vengeful Wyddin, come to destroy mankind once and for all; that they were savage barbarians from the Plains who had somehow sneaked by the Crossing. How they recruited was a mystery, but stories abounded of men and women disappearing after an attack, only to later reappear fighting alongside the Burnt.

Though I was uncomfortably aware that my own experiences with strange dreams and disembodied voices fit in nicely with many of those theories, I had to dismiss them as nonsense. A Scriber works with knowledge and evidence—I could not accept that there was some mysterious Wyddin sorcery at work. The most reasonable story claimed that the Burnt were simply radicals trying to prove that Erryn’s Promise was not being upheld by King Syrid. If that
was
their goal, it was working; I heard no small amount of grumbling about the King’s failure to put a stop to the raids.

But the most important thing I learned was that staying in Barleyfield was not a desirable option. When the First Company departed, leading nearly five times as many citizens as they had been when they arrived, I remained among them.

It was another twenty leagues—some six days of travel for a group of our size—from Barleyfield to the Saltroad, which gave me ample time to consider my options. As the days passed, I thought more and more of Illias’ letters. I had never wanted to return to the Academy or to the capital, but I had little choice now. And given that I had no choice, it would be good to see Illias Bront again. All I had to do was turn north on the Saltroad towards Highpass while the rest of the procession journeyed south to Three Rivers.

When we made camp the last night before reaching the main road, I went to see Uran Ord. I hoped that he still felt some gratitude towards me, even though I had not actually been responsible for saving him; I needed an escort that only the High Commander could grant. The trip north to Highpass would be unacceptably dangerous alone.

I found no one outside his tent, but I heard voices within. Pulling open the flap, I peeked my head in. Bryndine, Uran, and Lieutenant Ralsten were inside, engaged in argument.

“She disobeyed direct orders and ruined the entire plan, High Commander!” Ralsten was saying insistently.

Bryndine stood silently at attention, seemingly unaffected by the accusation. Uran Ord, however, looked vaguely uncomfortable, and kept glancing sidelong at his cousin as he listened to his Lieutenant.

“And she will be punished, Ralsten. But I have the command of this train and the protection of the citizens to think about. I see no reason to worry about—” Ord paused, only for a sliver of an instant, but I could tell that he had nearly forgotten her name. “—Bryndine’s punishment right this instant.” Whether because he was embarrassed at his inability to remember her or angry because of her disobedience, Ord clearly did not want Bryndine there.

Not wanting to get involved, I made to leave, but the slight motion attracted Ord’s attention.

“Scriber Dennon?” I froze, mortified that I had been spotted with my head poked halfway into his tent. “Please, come in.” He motioned for me to approach, and I pushed the flap fully aside and entered, my face hot with embarrassment.

“I didn’t intend to interrupt,” I apologized.

“Nonsense. We were just finishing here. Cousin, you may go.” He gestured for Ralsten to take Bryndine away.

“Uran—” Ralsten began to protest, but the High Commander fixed him with a sharp stare and he fell silent.

“I only wanted to let you know that I will be leaving for the Academy when we reach the Saltroad,” I said. “I wondered if you might spare some men as an escort.”

“I’m sure we can arrange something,” Ord replied. As his gaze came to rest on me again, I felt suddenly lightheaded. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. Something in this tent, something with Uran Ord, was terribly wrong. I had felt it before and hoped it was only in my mind, but this was the second time Ord’s presence had affected me so. A familiar sound floated past my ears; a whisper that only I could hear.

“High Commander, no!” Ralsten was not quiet with his objection. “We’ll need every man to protect these people from the Burners.” He hadn’t yet taken Bryndine away; I suspected he did not want to leave Ord alone with me.

“Please, forget that I asked. It was a foolish request.” I turned to leave. I needed to get out before another fit struck, before the voices whispered for me to burn.

“I will escort him,” Bryndine volunteered. “My women should be more than sufficient to see the Scriber to Highpass.”

That stopped me mid-step. I turned to face her, stunned. Considering what I had said to her after Janelyn’s service, I had assumed she wanted nothing more to do with me.

“A fine idea, cousin!” The High Commander seemed inordinately pleased with the suggestion. “We lose no men, and the Scriber is protected.”

“Uran! She has to come back to Three Rivers. She must go before the King!” Ralsten sounded as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I will return to Three Rivers for my punishment when Scriber Dennon is safe,” Bryndine promised. “You have my word.”

“There you have it, Ralsten. You wouldn’t doubt the word of an Errynson, would you?” Ord smiled thinly at his Lieutenant. “The matter is settled.” They proceeded to discuss the details, but the noise in my head was becoming too much to bear. With a muttered apology, I excused myself.

As soon as I was outside again, away from Uran Ord, the sound stopped. I could not imagine why Ord’s presence affected me so powerfully. I had heard the same voices when I was near Josia, but just a few words, as though I was overhearing only part of what she was being told, and from a great distance. It was different in Ord’s tent; it felt as though the whispers were emanating directly from him.

A dreadful thought occurred to me: what if the High Commander of the King’s Army was somehow working with the Burnt? But that couldn’t be—he had helped fight them back, and been badly wounded doing so. I rubbed at my temple. The constant fear of the voices was getting to me. Ord made me uncomfortable, but the idea that he might be a traitor was simply implausible. Whatever was happening, and however scared I might be, I would not let fear override reason.

“You have made yourself scarce these last days, Scriber,” Bryndine commented as she exited the tent a few moments later. Ralsten followed close behind, scowling at us before stalking away angrily.

“If I had known you were going to miss me, I might have visited,” I said dryly.

Bryndine didn’t smile. “I simply wanted to extend my gratitude, and I have not seen you.”

“Gratitude? For what?”

“For attending Janelyn’s ceremony. You did not have to do that. The women appreciated seeing her recognized by someone outside the company.” I noticed that she did not say that
she
appreciated it; as always, she was a cipher. I could not begin to guess how she actually felt. Any illusions of understanding I might have had were proven false by the very fact that she was still willing to speak with me after our argument.

“Don’t thank me for that. She was wounded defending us. The entire village should have been there.”

“But they were not. You were.”

I waved my hand irritably. “It was nothing worth mentioning. Is that why you volunteered to help me, or did you just hope to avoid punishment a while longer?”

“I volunteered because Ralsten would have convinced my cousin to deny you an escort. I would not have it said that the King’s Army let a Scriber risk the roads alone in times like these. It would be a breach of Erryn’s Promise.”

“I don’t think that Erryn meant for the Army to accompany every person who sets foot on the road. That seems an impractical promise to keep.”

“Even so,” she replied.

I decided not to press the issue—I had my escort, and I did not want to talk her out of it. “The High Commander seemed pleased to let you go. I assumed he would want to keep you near him until he can bring you to King Syrid.”

“Perhaps he simply tires of my company.” It sounded like a jest, but she didn’t smile. “Truthfully, I think he is embarrassed that he cannot remember me. He has been avoiding me since his recovery, and was none too pleased when Ralsten insisted on bringing me to him.”

“He is still not himself, then?” Unbidden, the suspicions I had buried earlier rose back to the surface.

“Far from it, Scriber. I don’t mean to speak ill of him, but before he was wounded, my cousin would never have let me leave; not after disobeying him as I did.”

We spoke briefly about preparations for the trip after that, then parted. I went to my chest and began to remove the items I needed—the wagons would be going on to Three Rivers, and I could not carry the chest on horseback. I packed my journal, some clothing, and some extra quills and ink in a bag; most of my books I had to leave behind. I asked one of the soldiers to see that the chest was brought to the Scriber Registrar in Three Rivers, where I might retrieve it later, but I assumed I would not see it again.

As I made my preparations, my thoughts wandered. Something Bryndine had said earlier had planted a seed in my mind, and it had sprouted into a distinctly unpleasant question. Her cousin had been avoiding her, she had said. He was sending her away when he would never have done so before his injury. He had asked me not to tell her of his strange behavior, moments after his unlikely recovery.

What was Uran Ord so determined to hide from Bryndine?

* * *

We reached the Saltroad before noon the next day, and parted from the First Company and their legion of civilian followers. No one was sorry to see us go—they were quite pleased to be rid of the cursed Bloody Bride.

We ran into a problem almost immediately: Bryndine and her company had their own horses, but I did not, nor could the First Company spare one.

“He’ll ride with me,” insisted the red-haired woman who had saved me from embarrassment a few nights before. Deanyn was her name, I remembered. “I'm not carrying much. If he doubles up with most of you, we’ll just have two people who need to find mounts and one horse with a broken back.”