Scriber (26 page)

The ground began to shake, and lightning struck no more than a foot away from me. My nostrils filled with the stink of burnt flesh and horsehair, and I watched Hylda’s mount slump to the ground, as dead as the woman on its back. Hylda’s daughter had been pregnant, I remembered. The baby would never know its grandmother.

I had no time to dwell on her death. Angry voices shrieked in my head, and the Burnt closed in from all sides.

The rebels could not match the women in skill—they relied entirely on their overwhelming numbers and their magick. But on foot against trained, mounted soldiers, those numbers were not enough, and their sorcery was as dangerous to them as to us in such close quarters. The furious charge of Bryndine’s company scattered their front line like leaves in a storm. Debra trampled one down and beheaded another; Kaelyn followed in her wake, disembowelling a third man with casual grace. Tenille’s sword rose and fell with steady precision, a counterpoint to the savage fury of Sylla’s strikes. And at their head rode Bryndine Errynson on her huge warhorse, dwarfing all those around her—a colossus among ants. Every stroke of her giant blade ended in death.

But despite taking terrible injuries, many of the Burnt kept their feet, kept fighting; their wounds did not bleed. Just like in my dreams, just like Hareld Kellen. The grass beneath us was stained with red, but it did not come from the Burnt who still stood. Their blood spilled only after they finally fell, the consequence of some magick I could not understand.

Varrie cried out behind me and I looked back just in time to see her horse fall—a crack split the earth beneath them, catching the animal’s hoof. The Burnt swarmed over the girl. She had just enough time to impale a man on her sword, and then I watched her die, her skull split by a rebel axe. Her body tumbled into the growing rift in the ground.

I urged my horse forward, trying to coax some last reserve of speed to outrun the chasm opening behind me. Deanyn and Orya rode hard to either side, guarding me against attack as we fled. With bone-crunching force, Orya kicked a lunging rebel full in the face, and Deanyn knocked a spear aside with her sword and sliced the attacker’s throat with a single motion.

A hand grabbed my leg. Instinct made me kick downwards, but the grip was too tight; the hand did not come free. I looked down and saw one of the Burnt clinging to me, dragging against the ground as he tried to pull me from my mount. His face was blank—no malice, not even a hint of concern for his own safety. Terror pounded in my chest as I looked into those empty eyes.

My horse slowed at the extra weight, and I clutched tightly to her neck as my saddle slipped sideways beneath me. My concentration broke, and the fear surged beyond my control. The voices wailed like damned souls in my mind, and I knew that at any moment I would hear that undeniable command—“
BURN”
.

Instead, I heard Orya shout, “Watch your leg, Scriber!”

A flash of metal, and the man fell away. Only his hand remained, still clutching at me for an instant before its fingers relaxed and it dropped to the ground.

My eyes followed Orya’s sword upwards, and she laughed her wild, half-mad laugh at the fear on my face. “No time to wet yourself. Keep ridin’!” She pointed ahead.

The path was laid bare before us. Bryndine and the others had cleared the way.

Laughing with relief, I galloped out of the ravine and onto a low plain. The Burnt still followed, and the voices still pounded in my skull, making my head ache, but they would never catch us on foot, not across open ground. Whatever sorcery they had was failing, weakened by the bloody swath Bryndine and her women had trampled through their ranks. As we broadened the distance between us and them, the lightning ceased, and the ground went still. In moments, the rebels were mere specks dwindling on the horizon.

That was the last time the Burnt came so close, and though the cost was high, it was not as high as it might have been. We lost only three: Hylda and Varrie I had seen fall, and Nalla died later that night of her wounds. Leste had been stabbed in the thigh and Ivyla took a deep cut to her side, but neither required much more than cleaning and stitching; others had minor injuries, nothing of great concern.

There was no time to mourn the dead. They, like Genna, would have to wait until we reached safety to be remembered as they deserved.

It was another week before we reached Ryndport, a week of painful dreams, little sleep, and constant, searching voices. The Burnt did not catch us again, but the fear was always there; we could never rest easily. The only way to avoid another attack was to keep moving.

But as we approached the sea, the voices grew fainter. There were few fireleafs near the coast, and just like in the foothills of the Salt Mountains, that seemed to mean fewer of the Burnt. For the last two days, I did not dream at all of the burning fireleaf, or the naked men and women who did not bleed. Someone still woke me every hour, but I was always able to return to sleep.

Shortly before sunset on the last day, when we crested a hill and saw the sea spread out before us, glittering blue-green until it met the sky, I nearly wept. After more than two weeks of terror and torture, with our horses nearly dying beneath us, we had arrived in Ryndport.

Chapter Twenty-two

Founded by Prince Rynd the Explorer, Ryndport is the Kingsland’s main port of trade with the Southern Isles and the Raen Empire. The shipping merchants who live there are the wealthiest citizens in the Kingsland. In Rynd’s honor, it is customary for the King’s eldest son to oversee Ryndport in place of a Baron, from the time he comes of age until he ascends to the throne.

It is also the Kingsland’s most diverse city—the realm is peopled by citizens of many cultures, from Salt Mountainers to the dark-skinned men and women of Raen and the Isles, but Ryndport is the main point of access for most foreigners, and the city where most remain after arriving. Like the rest of the Kingsland, the main population of the city is descended from the barbarians who followed King Erryn, but in Ryndport, one in three people hail from other lands, or have ancestors who did.

— From Dennon Lark’s
Cities of the Kingsland

We entered Ryndport ragged, tired, and bloody, a sorry sight amid the rich markets of the coastal city. Bryndine wasted no time ordering the guardsmen to escort us to her cousin, and we were led through crowded streets towards the Prince’s estate.

Unlike Three Rivers, there was no chaos to Ryndport’s design—it was not the largest city in the Kingsland, but it was by far the wealthiest, and the merchants who lived there put a great deal of coin into its beautification. Each home was larger and more ornate than the one before it, and the broad, straight roads were paved with polished white stone and lined with exotic plants brought by ship from the Southern Isles. There was a poorer element, I knew, the sailors and workers necessary to keep such a town running, but they were as well hidden as the money of their wealthy employers allowed.

The Prince’s manor sat atop a hill on the southern side of the city, looking down over the markets. Despite its elevated position, it was not nearly the grandest home in Ryndport—Erryn’s Promise meant that the shipping merchants who did most of the trading also kept most of the coin. But it was grand all the same, a three-floored building of sand-colored stone on well-kept grassy grounds, shaded by the strange broad-leafed trees of the Southern Isles.

Prince Alyn came rushing out to meet us as we rode through the gates. A huge, broad-shouldered man of more than seven feet, he was the largest of the Errynsons I had yet seen—save for Bryndine, who still stood a half-foot taller. Shaggy blond hair framed his face, and beneath his bright blue eyes he wore a wide smile.

“Bryn!” he bellowed, practically pulling his cousin from her horse and crushing her in an enthusiastic embrace.

“Hello, Alyn,” Bryndine said with weary amusement.

“I swear by the Divide, woman, you’re taller every time I see you.” Releasing her, the Prince stepped back and looked her over with concern. “But you look awful. What happened? We expected you days ago.”

“The rebels forced us to take a… different route.” Bryndine outlined the terrible ordeal, including the voices, the strange sorcery, and my suspicions about Uran Ord.

Alyn’s large frame tensed as she spoke, and when she was done, he asked, “Are they still pursuing you? Do I need to prepare for an assault?”

Bryndine paused to consider before answering. “They have not yet risked attacking such a well defended city. But it would be wise to station more guards and alert the Ryndport Brigade.”

“I will. And I’m sorry, Bryn. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.” The Prince squeezed his cousin’s shoulder. “If I’d only known, I would have sent men after you.”

“There is nothing you could have done,” Bryndine said. “We were not on the road; your men would not have found us.”

“Still, I can’t help but think I should have done something when you were late arriving. It must have been horrible. But…” He paused, a slight hint of disbelief marring the concern on his face. “Magick, Bryn? You’ve had a hard journey, I know, but you must see how foolish that sounds. Magick is for children’s tales about the Wyddin. There must be some other explanation. Sorcery is hardly necessary to make our cousin act like an idiot.”

“We saw what we saw, Alyn,” Bryndine replied. “And I trust Scriber Dennon about the rest.” I was absurdly grateful for that; the fear that I was simply insane had never left me, even after everything we had seen. “But you need not believe everything,” she continued, “so long as you believe that we need to find those books.”

The Prince nodded his head in affirmation. “Of course. You’ll have any help I can give you. You know that. I had a bird from the Academy several days ago requesting my aid.”

That caught my attention. “The Academy? Did they mention… is Illias safe?”

“He arrived there more than a week ago, with the books you found.”

I had feared for Illias ever since we were attacked, though it had been eclipsed by the other concerns of the journey. The books from Three Rivers were of little importance to the Burnt, but I had not been certain that
they
knew that. It was good to know that he had not been waylaid.

“So, what do you need from me?” Alyn asked. “Anything in my power is yours.”

“We have had a difficult journey,” Bryndine replied. “You and I can speak more later, but now I must send a bird to Three Rivers, to warn the King about Uran and the Burnt. After that, we will need a place to rest.”

“Ah. About that…” Embarrassment painted the Prince’s features. “Sending the message is easy enough, but I’ve called all my companies to active duty, so the barracks are crowded. The rebels are scarce near the coast, but the inland villages need my protection.”

Bryndine understood immediately. “You’ve no room for us.”

“You will stay with me, of course, but your women…”

“We can stay with my father,” Deanyn volunteered. “He has more than enough space.”

I caught her eye and raised an eyebrow; she had never mentioned her family to me. She saw me looking, and raised her shoulders in an unapologetic shrug.

“Then I only have one other request,” said Bryndine. I could hear the sorrow in her voice, though it did not show on her face. “I would have a service for those we lost, if there is a Garden that will have us.”

The Prince, as it happened, had a private Garden on his estate, and after Bryndine composed her message to King Syrid, we were escorted there. It was almost a miniature replica of the Old Garden—a large anteroom provided entry, set into a wall that separated the Garden from the rest of the grounds. Despite their clear disapproval of Bryndine’s company, the Children there performed their duties with solemn dignity. The Brother and Sister performing the rite commended the women to the Mother, of course, as was proper, but I know I was not alone in asking the Father to accept their souls instead—the first time I had prayed sincerely in years.

When the service was done, the Children left us alone in the Garden. As when Janelyn had died, the women stood vigil silently in the light of the setting sun, and I stood with them.

I do not know what the others were thinking in that silence, but my own thoughts were wracked with guilt.
Genna, Hylda, Varrie and Nalla
—I etched their names in my mind beside Janelyn’s, and those of the nine men who had died at the old Garden. They would still be alive in Three Rivers if I had not needed an escort. Now they were just four more names on the list of people I had led to their deaths.

* * *

It was well into evening by the time we were ready to leave the Garden. As the company filed out, Bryndine tapped me on the shoulder and gestured for me to hold back.

She motioned the others onward. “Tenille, you have command for the moment. Go prepare your horses—make sure they are fit to ride. The journey was hard on them. I must speak with the Scriber.”

Tenille led the women away towards the stables, leaving Bryndine and I alone in the Garden’s antechamber. In the darkness of the evening, the room had an eerie feel to it. Stone reliefs of the Mother and the Father watched us from the walls, their features cast into shadow by the dim yellow light of the lanterns.

“I have something I need to ask you, Scriber. I have waited until now because we had other more pressing concerns, but I need to know.”

“What is it?” I asked impatiently. I did not want to talk; after two weeks of riding with almost no rest, I just wanted to collapse into bed and sleep for a week.

“The woman from your village who died. Josia. Whatever it was that happened to her after she attacked me, it looked very much like what happened to you on the road.”

“It was… similar. What of it?” I knew what she was asking, but I did not want to think about it.

“Will these voices drive you mad as they did her? Can I trust you? And… will they kill you, in the end?”