Scriber (15 page)

“It is an honor to have the attention of the Master of Politics.” There was not a hint of sincerity in my voice. “Thank you for showing him here, Ivyla. You may go.” Ivyla nodded and stepped away to join her comrades as they made ready for the journey to Three Rivers.

“Well, don’t make us wait!”
Us
, Redmond said, though he knew full well that I had only asked for Illias. “What is it you had to tell us?”

I chose to direct my explanation at Illias, and tried to ignore Redmond as much as propriety allowed. “I looked at those songs you gave me.”

Illias’ eyes brightened immediately. “You found something?”

“Are you two still working on those old songs? How disappointing.”

“Hush, Redmond.” Illias gave the other Master a cross look. “Let him finish.”

Unconcerned, Redmond gestured for me to proceed.

I swallowed nervously, but managed to force the words out. “It was something Sylla said—that books are the path to damnation. That is, the songs all say that the path to the Dragon’s realm is paved with knowledge, reading, books and so forth. It occurred to me that it might not be a purely metaphorical path.” I handed a sheet to Illias, upon which I had underlined several key phrases. “The books are damnation, so the path to damnation in these songs—”

“—Might be the path that leads us to the Archives,” Illias finished. “That’s inspired, Denn! We were so busy looking at what the songs might be telling us to do that we missed the obvious: the truth is in what they tell us
not
to do!”

Illias’ enthusiasm was infectious, and I excitedly pointed to a line on the sheet I had given him. “Here, for instance, it speaks of the Mother trying to warn Prince Fyrril: ‘
With censuring hand she showed that knowledge is an evil road
’. Similar lines appear in most of these. It’s always the Mother, never the Father, and she’s always pointing or gesturing at something evil, warning people that it will lead them astray.”

I could see the understanding dawn in Illias’ eyes. “You’re not suggesting…”

I let it out in a rush. “It could be a reference to the Old Garden—not as the place the books are buried, but as a signpost, pointing the way. The stained glass of the Mother and the Father reaching across the Divide towards one another. I think Adello is telling us to go in the direction her hand is reaching.” I caught my mistake too late and corrected myself lamely. “
Was
reaching, rather.”

Master Hantarin let out a sudden bark of laughter. “Surely you’re joking, Scriber Dennon. You understand that the Council could never let you go anywhere near the Old Garden again?”

“Redmond—”

“No, Illias. I understand that you’re fond of him, but Scriber Dennon has made the Scribers look quite foolish in the past.” Redmond looked to me, his face a carefully composed mask of sympathy. “It’s not personal, son, but we simply can’t put any more resources into these fancies of yours.” He sounded eminently reasonable, and any confidence I still felt eroded away. It had been insane to think the Council might listen to someone with my history. Scribers never forget—and Master Redmond was one of the most powerful Scribers in the Kingsland.

Illias’ arms tensed and anger flashed in his eyes. He looked as though he was ready to attack his fellow Master.

Not wanting Illias to make trouble for himself on my account, I intervened hastily. “I understand, Master Hantarin. Thank you for hearing me.” I gave a small bow, then laid a hand on Illias’ shoulder. “I have nothing left to say but my goodbyes to Master Illias.”

The Master of Politics gave a satisfied nod. “I am glad you can see reason; I feared you might not be so wise. I must return to the Academy, but I wish you a safe journey.”

As soon as Redmond was out of sight, Illias let out a stream of profanity. “That pompous, Dragon-damned son of a whore! I hope the Father shoves a bolt of lightning right up his ass!”

A throaty chuckle came from behind me. “Some mouth you got, for a Scriber.” Orya stepped up to clap Illias on the shoulder. “I like it. That other one seemed like a right prick.”

“Not that we were eavesdropping, of course,” Deanyn said as she and Wynne joined us.

I looked around for Bryndine, but she was not with them—apparently she had meant what she said about leaving the matter to the Scribers. Irrationally, that irritated me; she was the one who had pushed me into this. She could have at least cared enough to listen in.

“How could he ignore everything you said like that?” Wynne demanded, hands on her hips, the very image of indignation. “Aren’t Scribers sworn to seek the truth?”

“That matters less every year.” There was an edge to Illias’ voice that I didn’t recognize.

“It’s for the best, Illias. There’s no reason they
should
listen to me.”

Illias gave me a long, level look. There was something behind his gaze, a determination that made me nervous. “You were talking about the stained glass at the Old Garden. The Mother points—” He made the same error I had, and paused to correct himself. The Mother at the Old Garden was little more than shattered glass now. “Pointed west. That is not a very specific signpost.”

“Why does it matter?” I asked. “The Council won’t let us do anything about it.”

“But you have an idea. I know you well enough to know that, my boy.”

“I thought…” I hesitated, but Illias just waited, staring at me with uncomfortable intensity until I continued. “It’s always the Mother pointing—the goddess of the Earth. That could mean… perhaps a tunnel, under the ground. Fyrril and his people would have had to get the books out of Three Rivers unseen. We know they could have gone through the Underground from the Archives to the Garden, but after the east wall fell, we never had the chance to check the west.”

“So we will dig beneath the west wall and see if they went that way.” His tone was firm, decisive; this was not hypothetical. “With luck, we’ll find something that will make the next step clear. If Adello really did hide this clue in his songs purposely, there must be others.”

“Illias, you can’t—”

“I
will
.” He squared his shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. “Denn, I am an old man, and I am tired of arguing with the Council. I swore an oath, and I mean to make good on it before I die. No matter what Redmond and his dogs say.”

“It’s a waste of time, Illias. Redmond was right.” My doubt was only worsened by Illias’ belief in me. If he pinned his hopes on my insane speculation, I was sure he would be disappointed.

Wynne looked positively crestfallen. “Don’t say that, Scriber Dennon!”

“Where’re your balls, Scriber?” Orya actually sounded puzzled—like retreat was a foreign concept to her. “Just go have a look around, if there’s nothin’ there, no harm done.”

“I
won’t
go back to the Old Garden.”

“It was
one mistake
, Denn,” Illias said, sympathy and exasperation battling each other in his voice. “What happened was not your fault, and if this theory proves true, it was barely even a mistake. You may be willing to give up because of that, but I am not.”

“They won’t even let me in,” I protested, spreading my hands helplessly. “Korus would put a stop to it the moment he heard.” Korus Creven was the Royal Scriber—and an old rival of mine from the Academy. He had the King’s ear, and he would not sit idly while Syrid allowed me a chance to remove the stigma from my name.

“If you’re never going to get in anyway, there’s no reason to protest so much,” Deanyn pointed out with a wry smile.

It was obvious that nothing I said would dissuade them, but I could not be part of it. “I can’t stop you from coming with us, Illias, but you’ll have to do this without me.” I looked at my toes as I spoke, so that I would not have to see the judgement in their eyes.

“If I have to, I will, Denn.” Waving a hand in the air to get her attention, Illias shouted, “Captain Bryndine!”

Bryndine walked briskly over from the stables. “Master Illias. What can I do for you?”

“I’m going with you to Three Rivers. How soon can you get me there?”

“Four days, perhaps, without killing the horses to do it. But it will be a hard pace.”

Illias nodded with satisfaction. “The Council cannot convene with a member absent. They’ll have to wait a week to make the claim that I’ve abandoned my duties, and the debate will take at least a few days after that before they can vote to remove me. Until then, I am the Master of History, and it is within my rights to pursue this.”

“You’ll lose your seat on the Council!” The prospect horrified me—he was going to risk his entire career because of my harebrained idea.

He set his jaw stubbornly. “Not if I find something first.”

Chapter Thirteen

Three Rivers is the capital of the Kingsland, where the Errynson family has dwelled for centuries in the palace known as the Kingshome. When Erryn first sailed upriver from the Wasted Plains, he and his people made their camp at the junction of the Salt, Rynd, and Conqueror’s Rivers and burned away the First Forest around the fork to claim the land as their own. That camp grew into Three Rivers—named, like the Kingsland itself, by the old barbarian sensibility of straightforward description.

The city as it stands is not the same city Erryn ruled from, however—there is evidence that at some point before the Forgetting, a fire razed much of Three Rivers to the ground. The most telling proof is the Underground, a series of basements and cellars showing signs of the fire that were apparently built over and forgotten in the reconstruction. The criminal element uses most of this network of tunnels and buried rooms for illicit activity, but still more remains sealed away.

— From Dennon Lark’s
Cities of the Kingsland

We made the journey from Highpass to Three Rivers at a pace that left me little time to dwell on the consequences of Illias’ decision, though I did find myself worrying about his physical well-being. Covering seventy leagues in four days was no easy ride for me, and I was half Illias’ age. But for the most part, the saddle sores and deep muscle pain that plagued me for much of the distance diverted my attention from anything else.

There was one thing that cut through the pain, however—perhaps because it carried the threat of an even worse agony. As we left the foothills, the voices returned. They were faint and infrequent, never so focused as they had been the night Waymark was attacked, and the dreams of burning did not return, but it was enough to make me wary again after having been free of them for several days. Whenever I found myself riding beside a fireleaf, I slapped my mount into a faster gallop and put the orange-red leaves behind me as quickly as I could. I was certain that the Burnt would come upon us at any moment, and the slightest glimpse of movement in the hills sent my heart racing faster than my horse. But no attack came.

It was early afternoon on our sixth day of riding when Three Rivers came into view. As we rode south down the Saltroad, the entirety of the Kingsland’s greatest city spread out over the hills and valleys before us, a vast wrinkled blanket of stone and straw and timber thrown haphazardly over the countryside, cut into thirds by the rivers that gave the city its name. East of the Saltroad, the Salt River journeyed with us towards the heart of Three Rivers, where it would join with the Conqueror’s River from the eastern plains and form the Rynd, stretching off into the west towards Ryndport and the sea.

Three Rivers had never shown much evidence that intelligent planning went into its layout. Save for the Kingscourt to the east, where the historic buildings and noble estates sat along carefully laid cobblestone streets, the city was a mashed together disaster of styles, from thatched-roof cottages to stately marble manors and anything in between. A maze of interrupted roads and circuitous pathways dissected the southern Commoncourt and the western Tradecourt, and numerous arbitrarily placed bridges spanned the three rivers that separated the districts. Navigation through those streets was near impossible for anyone but long-time residents, and even they sometimes struggled with it.

But the city I looked upon now was nearly twice as large and a hundred times as disorganized as the one I had last seen five years before.

A crude wooden palisade had been constructed some distance from the walls, and within its perimeter milled what must have been tens of thousands of refugees. Even the new boundaries could not contain their number—tents and crude shelters spilled outside the palisades in all directions. As we drew up to the edge of this overflow, the stench of human waste and unwashed flesh made my stomach heave violently.

Bryndine noticed my discomfort and reined her horse over to mine. “The smell is hard to take, but we will be within the true walls shortly. Try not to breathe through your nose.” She surveyed the makeshift shanties with a critical eye. “There are more here than when I left—the Burners force more people from their homes every day.”

Instead of answering, I held my breath against the smell as best I could, and motioned her onwards impatiently. I felt for the plight of the refugees; it was the same as my own. But the stink made it difficult to maintain sympathy, and I wished to be through it as soon as possible.

Soldiers of the Nineteenth Company patrolled up and down the Saltroad within the palisades, keeping the refugees from blocking the roadway and generally maintaining order. As we rode by, I noticed more than a few of them scowling at Bryndine; but when she looked, they only saluted. No matter what they thought of her, she was still an Errynson.

At the gates, a Lieutenant of the Nineteenth halted our progress and approached Bryndine. “Captain Bryndine, King Syrid wishes to see you immediately.”

“I am at the King’s command, Lieutenant.” Bryndine turned to me and Illias and dipped her head politely. “It appears this is where we part, Scribers.”

The Lieutenant cleared his throat. “Actually, Captain, the Scribers are to come as well.”

“Of course we are,” Illias said, chuckling cynically. “I imagine Redmond sent a bird the moment he learned I was gone. He knows how to play this game; he’ll have divested the Council of any responsibility for my actions.”