Scriber (16 page)

The man had said
Scribers
, plural, it occurred to me. “I’m not a part of this, Lieutenant. There’s no reason to take me to the King.”

“I’m sorry, but my orders are to see you all to the Kingshome. If you aren’t needed, it will be cleared up there.” The man gestured to a nearby soldier, who brought forth a horse and helped him mount it. “Please come with me—we should not keep the King waiting.”

I balked at the notion. “This is a waste of time! I’m not—”

Bryndine leaned over and gave my mount a slap on the flank, startling it into motion. “When the King summons, we can only obey, Scriber Dennon.” She kicked her own mount forward and her company followed her through the gates and into the capital. I went along grudgingly. Bryndine was right: I would never convince an Army man to disobey the King’s orders. They would almost certainly send me away when we reached the Kingshome, but until then, I had no choice but to follow.

We were escorted south through the crowded markets of the Tradecourt, where the noise of peddlers shouting their deals and customers haggling over wares echoed in the narrow streets and made conversation between our group all but impossible. Eventually the Lieutenant cut east, leading us over the Salt River by one of the larger bridges, reserved for Army use and patrolled by men of the Twenty-Fifth. As we crossed into the Kingscourt, the change was palpable—the noise of the Tradecourt was like a physical weight pressing in from all sides, and the quiet streets of the noble district offered nearly instant relief.

Unlike the rest of Three Rivers, the Kingscourt was a calm, lovely place—the guardsmen who patrolled the area at all hours of the day were well-paid to keep it so. The cobbled streets were shaded with carefully groomed elms, and though it was early autumn, few leaves lay on the ground—there were people here whose sole job was to keep the streets clear of such things.

We rode through beautifully tended gardens and squares built around marble fountains and exquisite statuary, and at one point the road cut through a small park with a large fireleaf at its center. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried not to draw attention to myself as a low whisper floated through my head; I did not want to let on that a seemingly harmless tree could disarm me so, especially not here among the homes of the most influential people in the Kingsland.

As we drew closer to the Kingshome, the buildings became more and more opulent, yet less and less impressive by comparison to the palace. The wide street was home to many grand sights—the partially collapsed Old Garden with its massive domed entryway that still baffled the School of Science; the newer Royal Garden, built where the Archives once stood; the huge manor of the Lord Chancellor; the great marble stairway before the White Hall, guarded by several white-cloaked Justices—but none of them were so awe-inspiring as the ancestral home of the Errynsons.

The Kingshome was a marvel of Old Elovian architecture, techniques lost since the Forgetting: arches and pillars so delicate the stone might have been spun on a loom; vaulted rooftops of impossible inclines; steeples tall enough to pierce the Divide. It shone in the late afternoon sun, smooth white marble and glittering gold, and from every spire flew the banner of the burning tree, ablaze in brilliant crimson.

The Lieutenant brought us as far as the courtyard just within the gates of the palace, where he and Bryndine’s company were asked to wait. A guardsman in Errynson livery escorted Bryndine, Illias, and me further into the palace. I tried to explain that the King would have no use for me, but my complaints were not heeded; as Bryndine had said, I had no choice but to obey.

We were not taken to the throne room—the King sat on Erryn’s Chair to receive important guests of high status, not two Scribers and his niece. Instead the guard led us to a large, airy council chamber where King Syrid waited.

The moment we entered, the whispers began, swarming through my head like a hundred angry wasps.

Uran Ord was there—he had to be. Though he stood beside the King of the entire realm, my eyes went first to him, not Syrid. Ord’s head was still tightly bandaged, the cloth wrapping pulled tight over the dent where his skull had been crushed inwards. How he could still function with such a wound was beyond my understanding. I tried not to make eye contact with him, but no matter where I looked the invisible swarm of voices buzzed in my head, calling my gaze back to the High Commander. Rubbing my temple with two fingers, I fought desperately to keep my composure, focusing my attention on the King as best I could.

Syrid Errynson sat at the back of the room on a high-backed chair of gold and velvet. To his left there was an empty chair of similar opulence, a chair that had presumably sat empty since the death of Queen Anya; to his right sat his brother Elarryd, the Lord Chancellor of the Kingsland.

Their father, the much beloved King Eddyl, was remembered as a ruler of great cleverness and wisdom, and as a warrior of great strength. His two sons, at a glance, appeared to have divided those traits amongst themselves. Syrid was drawn and gaunt, slouched under the weight of the crown that sat atop his bald head, but there was an intelligent look to his face and his keen eyes were always in motion. Elarryd was almost the King’s exact opposite, broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with long golden hair like some hero out of legend.

I had heard stories, and seen firsthand the size of their sister Hyrna, but it surprised me just how tall both men were. Neither was as large as Bryndine, but their height—near seven feet—was impressive. It is said that the blood of ancient barbarian heroes and Elovian kings give members of the royal family their legendary stature, and looking at them, I believed it.

Finally, I noticed the fourth man, standing on the opposite side of the King from Ord. A handsome man, brown-haired with arrogant eyes—I knew his face well. Korus Creven, the Royal Scriber, gave a mocking bow as our eyes met, and I understood immediately that this meeting would not go well for me.

“Your Majesty.” Bryndine knelt before her uncle, and Illias and I followed suit.

“Rise.” Syrid had a look of annoyance on his face as we stood, but I saw the Lord Chancellor smile warmly at his daughter.

“I bring Master Scriber Illias Bront and Scriber Dennon Lark, your Majesty.” Bryndine stepped to the side and took a rigid military stance, letting the King’s gaze fall upon me and Illias. He did not look pleased.

“Master Illias. I have word from the Scribers’ Council that you are here against their wishes,” the King said with a frown.

Illias looked the King directly in the eye. “That is true, your Majesty. But I am the Master of History still, and it is my prerogative to follow whatever path I deem necessary to uncover the Kingsland’s past, until such time as the Council removes me.” It was true—the Masters of the Council were officially allowed to pursue their goals without the King’s interference. Still, I worried that Illias was only hurting his chances by addressing Syrid so brazenly. Though the law said he needed no royal approval, in reality he would never be allowed to set foot in the Old Garden without permission.

“I understand that they may do just that by next week’s end.”

“And I will continue my work until they do,” Illias replied.

King Syrid raised a questioning eyebrow. “What work is that, Master Illias? Master Hantarin’s message was scant on details.”

“I have reason to believe that there is more to be found at the Old Garden,” Illias said. “There may be a tunnel beneath the entry dome on the west side, through which books from the Archives may have been smuggled.”

“Your Majesty, if I may speak,” Korus interjected smoothly. The King gave him a slight nod, and he continued, “It would be unwise to allow any Scriber access to the Old Garden—there would be public outcry, and the Children would be most displeased. But it is doubly inadvisable to do so when Scriber Dennon is involved, given his history.”

“I have nothing to do with this!” Distracted by the whispers flitting past my ears, and overly eager to counter Korus, I nearly failed to properly address the King. As he turned his eyes on me, I hastily tried to cover the lapse. “—your Majesty. I have no wish to enter the Old Garden. Do not deny Illias on my account.”

Korus could barely contain his glee. “But it was your theory that prompted this, was it not?” This must have seemed an ideal chance for him to take some measure of vengeance. I had outdone him in nearly everything when we were at the Academy, so much so that when it became clear I would always be Illias’ favorite, Korus had changed his focus to the School of Politics. Though he had become Hantarin Redmond’s most prized student, and was now one of the most influential Scribers in the Kingsland, he had never forgiven me.

I hesitated, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie in front of the King. “…Yes.”

Without breaking her stance or so much as shifting her eyes towards Korus, Bryndine said, “I have heard Scriber Dennon’s reasoning, and I believe it to be sound, your Majesty.”

Uran Ord took a step forward, and I almost thought he would lunge at Bryndine, but he stopped himself. “I must object, Majesty. I have told you of my cousin’s lapse in judgement—how can we trust her in this?” When he spoke, the whispers grew more frantic—agitated for reasons I couldn’t understand. I rubbed my temple vigorously and concentrated on ignoring them.

Elarryd Errynson had been silent until now, watching the proceedings thoughtfully, but now he came to Bryndine’s defense. “My daughter is many things, but she is no fool, Syrid. This may be a pursuit worth some amount of public disapproval. Can we risk allowing the Archives to remain lost because of past mistakes?”

Korus’ responded with such conviction that I was sure the argument was lost. “There is no evidence that the Archives were saved at all, Lord Elarryd. This is a misguided fancy, nothing more.”

The Lord Chancellor was not dissuaded. “Let us hear the Scribers out, and then we will know whether or not it is worth pursuing. It can do no harm, Syrid.”

The King nodded tersely, motioning for Illias to proceed. With unusual brevity, Illias summarized my theory, handing over several sheets of musical lyrics to support the claims.

“There seems to be some substance to this, Syrid.” Elarryd studied the papers with an interest that surprised me. Though he was Lord Chancellor of the realm and had a reputation for wisdom and intelligence, his warrior’s build and bearing made it difficult for me to see him as a man of knowledge.

The King looked at his brother with doubt in his eyes. “You would have me searching for old books while the Burners tear my kingdom down around me?”

“Those old books have much to teach us. You know that as well as I, we both spent time at the Academy.” Elarryd’s tone was calm, convincing; the practiced voice of a man who had spent years guiding his brother’s decisions. “Warfare and weapon-smithing, medicines and surgical techniques we have lost—things that might aid in this fight, and even if not, certainly in those after it. And it will hardly tax our resources. I am sure Master Illias can manage the matter, with your blessing.”

Syrid pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn it to the Dragon, Elarryd. It is not a good time for this. We have the Burners to deal with yet, and no matter how many of the bastards we kill, they never seem to run out. The realm starves with the poor harvests of late, and I have thousands of refugees begging for food that I cannot provide, claiming I have not fulfilled the Promise. I do not want the Children inciting them to riot over this. Besides that, it will earn the Council’s ire.”

Elarryd smiled wryly at his brother. “That is usually the way of it. Nothing ever happens when it would be most convenient.”

There was frustration in the King’s eyes. “You could not have waited until the rebels were dealt with, Master Illias?”

“If I gave the Council time, they would have stopped me, Majesty.”

Korus could not restrain himself any longer. “Your Majesty! You cannot move against the Council on this.” The barely contained joy had left him, replaced with tense indignation. It must have been torture for him to watch the argument turn in my favor—or what he saw as my favor, though I was not fighting for it. “This is not the time to risk losing the support of the Children, the Scribers, and your people. If you support another of Lark’s theories—”

Elarryd cut him off before he could go further. “Then let us remove Scriber Dennon from the matter. His name will not be mentioned, and he will not enter the Old Garden. Give Master Illias access until such time as the Council removes him—he has perhaps a week before that happens, ample time to look into the matter. If he finds anything, the Council will have to admit their mistake. If he does not, all you need do is abide by their decision to dismiss him at that time, and they cannot say you have ignored their wishes.”

Syrid drummed his fingers on his chair as he mulled the suggestion over. “The Children will still be a problem.”

“That is not insurmountable,” said Lord Elarryd. “Without Scriber Dennon’s involvement, they have less reason to oppose the intrusion. If a tunnel is found, the Scribers will not be long under the Old Garden’s walls; if it is not, they will be gone by week’s end.”

“So be it.” The King thumped his fist decisively against the arm of his chair. “You have one week, Master Illias—make good use of it. Scriber Dennon, you are not to set foot within the Garden.” Though I had not wanted to take part to begin with, something twisted in my gut at the King’s declaration—some small piece of hope I had buried long ago finally laying down to die. It was not a pleasant feeling.

“This is unacceptable!” Uran Ord’s bellow was far louder and angrier than was proper in the presence of the King. There was no reason for him to care so much about this; the matter barely affected him, and he was not known for his piety. But for reasons I could not begin to guess, he was furious, and the voices surrounding him shared that fury. “
All knowledge burns
,” they hissed, and each word sent a new wave of pain throbbing through my head.

Syrid looked at his nephew with irritation. “If my High Commander finds it so difficult to accept his King’s decision, perhaps I need a new one.”