Scriber (11 page)

She was not far from the truth there; she was quite slender, and carried only a thin-bladed sword where most of the others were more heavily armed. The thought of trying to share Bryndine’s horse was laughable—it was a massive beast, but even it would falter under that much weight.

So I rode with Deanyn, and found her to be pleasant company. She had a quick wit and an easy demeanor, and her presence acted as a bridge between me and the other women. She pulled me into conversations that I would otherwise have avoided, and while I occasionally wished for some solitude, in general I found that the company made the time pass much easier.

Orya told interesting, frequently obscene tales and bawdy jests; Tenille shared stories and lessons from the Academy or spoke of her husband and children in Three Rivers; and no matter what the subject was, Deanyn had a wry observation that never failed to amuse. There was entertainment too: a stout, young woman named Nalla sang in a clear, beautiful voice; clever-fingered Varrie, who had spent her youth among travelling entertainers, played along on her lute. Everyone was more at ease away from the First Company—I heard more out of Genna than I ever had, and at one point, I was startled to see Sylla actually smiling, if only for a moment.

I was finally able to get an accurate count of the group—they were seventeen in total, counting Bryndine, and by the end of the first day Deanyn had introduced me to all of them. Debra was a woodcutter’s daughter from Timberhold and had arms that might have been thicker than Bryndine’s. Leste had grown up on the trading vessels that sailed between Ryndport and the Raen Empire; she had the black skin of the Raenish, and spoke their tongue fluently, but her Plainstongue was accented and slightly stilted in diction. Wynne was the youngest in the company, just short of her twentieth year—well read and intelligent, she had sought to be a Scriber, but could not find sponsorship or afford admission to the Academy.

There were many others: tall, gorgeous Kaelyn; the twins Elene and Selvi, who could both core an apple with their bows at a hundred yards, and who I could not reliably tell apart; silver haired Hylda, at least ten years older than the rest; disciplined Ivyla and terribly scarred Rylene. After a few days travelling with the women, I found myself growing comfortable enough to converse even without Deanyn’s prompting. It was a rarity for me; I have never been a terribly social person.

Bryndine, however, kept a certain distance between herself and her company. She was more open with them than with me, certainly, but she was their Captain before she was their friend. Still, it was clear that the women loved and respected her greatly, and they followed her orders without question. I didn’t understand the admiration—Bryndine’s stone-faced poise annoyed me to no end. But it seemed wise to keep that to myself, as long as I was surrounded in armed soldiers who adored her.

The journey went by without incident. Apparently the rebel attacks were much less common in the Salt Mountain foothills, the raid on Waymark notwithstanding. Of course, the company of soldiers dressed in the uniforms of the King’s Army may also have played a role in our safe progress.

Better still, the voices had been silenced; I had not heard so much as a whispered word since we turned north, and the Burnt no longer haunted my dreams. Fireleafs were scarce in the foothills as well, and though I saw a few of them far distant from the road, they failed to evoke the strange dread I had felt previously. After a few days, I could almost make myself believe that the whispers had been nothing more than the effects of stress and fatigue. Almost.

As we drew nearer, the Salt Mountains loomed larger and larger over the foothills. The Dragon-worshipping clansfolk who lived there claimed that the mountains were once waves, frozen by the Sea God in the midst of a terrible storm so that his people would have a land to call their own. Looking at the sharp peaks of dark grey-blue stone rising in the distance, I could almost believe the legend.

In the late afternoon of the third day, the twin towers that guarded the pass became visible, rising straight up out of the mountainside like the hilts of some giant’s swords, driven into the stone long ago. Those towers were the symbol of Highpass; the sigil of the Ords, who had ruled there since before the Forgetting. After five years away, I was home.

Chapter Nine

The Scribers were founded in 687 AB by King Delwyn, known as the Scriber King. The Forgetting had been in effect for nearly two centuries when he came to power, and reading and writing were still illegal by the laws King Ullyd had set in place. Seeing how the Kingsland had floundered economically and politically over two hundred years of ignorance, Delwyn abolished those laws and put an end to the Forgetting at last.

He created the Scribers to ensure that such a thing would never happen again, and charged them with recovering as much as they could of what had been lost. To protect their autonomy, the Scribers’ Academy was built not in the capital, but in Highpass. It was Delwyn’s intention that if ever a new Forgetter came to power, the Scribers could go into hiding in the Salt Mountains with their books, so that the history of the Kingsland would never again be destroyed.

— From Dennon Lark’s
The Scriber King

Highpass looked like it had burst out of the mountainside all at once in an eruption of quarried stone. Buildings protruded wherever a decent surface could be found, their straight angles standing starkly against the ragged edges of the cliffs. Numerous small plateaus, connected to one another by switchback paths, each provided space for a handful of homes. Atop the flat cliffs to the west, the shops and the manors of the wealthy were built so close to one another that it looked as though the slightest nudge against one would send them all tipping off the precipice. And high up the road, the two guard towers stood like a pair of stone soldiers, watching the pass into Salt Mountain territory.

The Academy, in contrast, sat on a single broad table of stone carved from the mountain east of the city proper, with its own access from the Saltroad. When we reached the fork between the two, Bryndine bid Tenille to take the rest of the company along the west road into Highpass, to announce their presence to Baron Ord and request quarters. Bryndine herself would come with me along the eastern path, fulfilling her promise to escort me to the Academy.

“Shouldn’t you go with them?” I asked hopefully. “Your uncle would probably prefer for you to call on him yourself.” I didn’t want to be alone with Bryndine; it was never comfortable.

“I said that I would see you to the Academy,” Bryndine replied, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

“I think I can find the way from here.”

“If the Captain says we’re going with you, we’re going with you, Scriber,” Sylla said indignantly. Of course she was going to join us; that was the one thing that could make conversation with Bryndine even more awkward. Now I would have to watch every word I said for fear that Sylla would assume an insult to her Captain and break a bone in retaliation.

“You’re like to get knifed on the way up if you’re alone,” Orya informed me seriously. “A Scriber’s a good mark, usually has some coin. Thieves’re always watchin’ the Academy road for folk travellin’ alone. It’s easier than workin’ the city with the guards about. Probably more dangerous goin’ that last bit by yourself than the whole road before it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You know a lot about it, do you?”

“Grew up hidin’ in caves and climbin’ the cliffs here. I mighta cut your throat myself before the Captain found me.” The shocked look on my face made her laugh. “Don’t worry, Scriber. I don’t do that no more.” She solemnly raised two fingers and made the sign of the Divide, turning it into a lewd gesture halfway through and grinning wickedly at me. “I swear it on the Father’s cock.”

“How pious of you,” I said sarcastically.

She was right, though. Highpass had more than its share of cutpurses and thugs. The caves, cliffs, and chasms of the mountainside city offered hundreds of shadowy places for the criminal element to hide, and they took full advantage of it. The guardsmen and the Army tried to keep these hiding holes clear, but the thieves knew the secrets of the mountain better than anyone, and ambushes were common. That was how my father had been killed, and following in his footsteps had never much appealed to me.

“I suppose I’ll need the escort,” I admitted.

Bryndine and Sylla left their horses with the others to be stabled, and I clumsily hopped down from Deanyn’s mount.

“Go easy on him, Syl,” Deanyn said. “I need him back alive, he still owes me from the dice last night.” She gave me a wink and a wave as the company rode away.

It was about a half-hour from the fork to the Academy campus, but the uncomfortable silence made it feel longer. Every time I considered speaking I looked at Sylla, glowering at me with her dark eyes, and thought better of it. I had my own reasons for keeping silent as well—I didn’t know what kind of welcome I would receive upon our arrival. I had returned to the Academy only one other time since the catastrophe at the Old Garden, immediately afterwards. The reception had not been warm, needless to say. I had gone into hiding in Waymark shortly after. I tried to put such thoughts aside, however, as I looked up the east road and saw the Academy for the first time in five years.

Seven squat six-sided buildings rose from the broad man-made plateau, all of simple make, constructed of closely fitted blocks of polished marble. Six of these buildings sat at the corners of a sprawling hexagonal campus that was carpeted with lush green grass—an uncommon sight against the stony grey of the mountain. In the center of the campus, between the six Schools, stood the seventh and largest building: Delwyn’s Hall, home of the Scribers’ Council, and the greatest library of history and knowledge since the Archives. Despite everything, the sight of those buildings sent a thrill through me. I felt like a child again, gazing with wonder at the Academy from the Highpass cliffs.

A high iron fence enclosed the campus, to keep those who were not pinned or enrolled from sneaking about—though I knew from experience that a child could fit between the bars in some places. Stone gatehouses stood around the fence at three points, to the west, north, and south, controlling entry from Highpass, the Salt Mountains, and the Saltroad respectively.

After a tiring half-hour climb up the road, we found ourselves standing before the southern gatehouse. I didn’t recognize the Scriber who intercepted us at the gate, and by the bland look on his face, he did not recognize me either. I affected a confidence I did not feel as I unfastened my pin and handed it to him, hoping that he would not know my name. I wasn’t eager for Bryndine and Sylla to see what my brethren generally thought of me.

Those hopes did not last long. As the gatekeeper examined the back of my pin, his bored expression twisted into an angry scowl.

“Lark? You’ve got some backbone, don’t you?”

“Not particularly, no. May I pass?” I bit back the many less polite retorts that came to mind—they would only make things worse.

“You’ve stayed away this long, why not head back to whatever hole you were hiding in? Or have you come up with some more priceless relics to destroy looking for the Archives?” He spoke with a mocking sneer, and made no move to return my pin. “Or is it the Wyddin now? Some other fable?”

To my chagrin, Bryndine stepped forward to address the man. “If I am not mistaken, any Scriber with a valid pin is permitted entry to the Academy.”

“This one gets in over my dead body,” the gatekeeper replied, though even before he was finished speaking his eyes flickered to Bryndine’s nearly eight foot tall form, and he swallowed nervously.

My embarrassment made it difficult to hold my tongue. “Sky and Earth, what do you think I’m going to do, tear down Delwyn’s Hall?”

“Why not? You tore down the Old Garden; at least the Hall can be rebuilt.”

“And of course I did it with malicious intent, and now I roam the baronies seeking out historical sites and ruining them. How fortunate for the Scribers that you were here to stop me!”

The gatekeeper’s face flushed a furious crimson. “You aren’t getting in! Good men died at the Old Garden!”

He was not wrong about that.

“By the Mother and the Father,” Sylla muttered, stalking by me to grab the gatekeeper by the collar. She had kept silent until now, and her sudden movement took me by surprise—I had imagined she would enjoy watching me put in my place. She shoved the man up against the gatehouse wall with some force. “If the Captain
says
to let the Scriber in, you let the Dragon-damned Scriber in!” I almost laughed, despite my humiliation—she had said nearly the same thing to me a half-hour before. Her frustration at those who did not heed Bryndine was as consistent as it was intimidating.

“Let me go!” The gatekeeper struggled against Sylla’s grip, but she had fingers like steel—I remembered the pain of her grasp myself. “
Intruders!
Intruders at the gates!” Another man came rushing out of the gatehouse, his sword drawn, and a group of observers began to gather on the other side of the gate. I rubbed at my temple, and tried to casually use the gesture to hide my face from the growing crowd. I had expected to be poorly received, but still, I had not been prepared for this.

“Sylla.” Bryndine clasped the other woman’s shoulder. “This is not helping.”

Sylla shoved the man hard against the stone wall a second time, then reluctantly let him go. He dropped to his knees as she released him, and my pin fell from his hand, skipping across the dirt. I knelt and retrieved it, fastening it to my collar.

The other guardsman rushed forward to help his companion up, keeping his sword at the ready. “What is this, Yurrel?”

“That’s Dennon Lark, Ibyn! He wants in the gate.”

The students who had gathered beyond the portcullis reacted to the sound of my name with jeers and taunts, and the second guardsman’s expression darkened.