Scriber (27 page)

All questions I had asked myself thousands of times. “I don’t know,” I answered. “But they haven’t yet. I am still sane, as far as I know, and very much alive.”

She stared at me intently, judging the truth of my words. “Josia said that she attacked me to stop the voices from burning her. It has not occurred to you to seek relief the same way?”

“Of course,” I said with blatant sarcasm. “It worked so well for her.”

She appeared to accept that. “A fair point.”

“Is that all, then?”

“Not yet. I would have you tell me what you know of the Wyddin. My cousin’s reaction today was not far from my own—it seems absurd. The Wyddin are creatures of legend.”

I sighed with exaggerated irritation, rubbing at my temple. “And then I can sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Fine, but I know little more than anyone—it’s all myth.” I leaned against the wall as I explained; the effort of standing was becoming exhausting. “The Book of the Divide tells us that the Wyddin were created before mankind, the second of the Mother and the Father’s attempts to make satisfactory children. People say they hate humans for replacing them in the Gods’ affections, but the Book says little about that.

“Supposedly they have some power over Earth and Sky. There are stories of them possessing animals when they need to, but otherwise they have no physical form of their own—they live as spirits inhabiting the plants and trees. If the Burnt really have uncovered some sort of Wyddin related magicks, that may be why the fireleafs are important to them, I suppose.”

“Little that I have not already heard.” She sounded disappointed. “The stories of men using Wyddin sorcery come from Elovia, yes?”

“The Elovian Sages were said to be masters of such things,” I confirmed. “Legend says they could control the Wyddin and channel their power for the aid of the kingdom. But they eventually lost control, and the Wyddin destroyed Elovia in vengeance. I always assumed that was a fable. That some natural disaster destroyed the kingdom and they blamed the Wyddin afterwards.”

“But perhaps it was true,” Bryndine mused. “It would explain much of what we saw, though I can hardly believe it. And if the Wyddin are real, what other legends might be true?”

“None, necessarily.” My Scriber’s instincts came to the fore, trying to put logic to the impossible. “Even the Wyddin may not be real. We only know that these powers exist, not their source. Perhaps they are simply some science we have lost, turned into sorcery by time and faulty memory. I hope that the books Fyrril saved from the Archives have more to say about it.”

“If not, we have paid a high cost for them,” she said, her eyes darting briefly back to the Garden, where her women had been given their last rites. “Now that we are here, have you any idea where to begin looking?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. I may need help with that. I have looked at the songs, but if Fyrril has marked his trail with an existing landmark, like he did with the Old Garden… I am not familiar with the locations of such things in Ryndport.”

“Deanyn and Leste hail from here. They can aid you with that.”

“I will ask them. Tomorrow.” I emphasized the last word pointedly.

Bryndine did not miss my implication. “I apologize, Scriber Dennon. I have kept you too long.” She waved a hand towards the door. “Go, join the others. Deanyn will take you to her father’s estate.”

I turned to leave, but she made no move to follow. “Are you staying?” I asked.

“For a while longer.” She kept her face blank, but I was beginning to understand Bryndine Errynson. She would stay in the Garden alone long after I left. She was not yet done saying goodbye.

Chapter Twenty-three

Rynd Errynson is one of the few figures from before the Forgetting whose life is still well chronicled. Often called the Explorer, Prince Rynd founded the city of Ryndport when he was still a young man. He forged west beyond the borders of the Kingsland where the First Forest still grew until he and his men found the coast, and like his ancestor before him, he burned back the trees to create a new settlement.

He led expeditions across the Dragon’s Sea, and became the first man of the Kingsland to set foot in the Southern Isles and the Raen Empire to the far west. Monuments and statues in Ryndport proclaim his many achievements, and the kingdoms he opened trade with still remember his name. Though he ruled as King for many years, he is nearly always remembered as Prince Rynd, for his accomplishments before taking the throne.

— From Dennon Lark’s
Rynd the Explorer

“You are Deanyn
Syvanson
? You might have said something!”

I gaped at Deanyn with absolute bewilderment. The Syvansons were far and away the wealthiest family in the Kingsland. Randyn Syvanson owned most of the shipping fleet that did trade with the Raen Empire; his fortune was beyond reckoning. And Deanyn had just told me that she was his daughter.

Deanyn laughed. “If I’d said something, I’d have missed the look on your face. I stand by my choice.”

“Knocked me on my ass when I found out too, Scriber,” Orya said, slapping me on the back. “Girl drinks like a sailor, fights like a street rat, and I’ve heard her say a thing or two, made even me blush. Wouldn’t think she comes from money.”

“But… But… Why?” I stammered. “Why trudge around with the Army when you have…” I gestured towards the estate that loomed before us. “All this?”

Calling the Syvanson’s home an estate was like calling Three Rivers a village. Prince Alyn had an estate; the Syvansons had almost a town of their own. In addition to the absolutely enormous main house—with six floors and four separate wings, it dwarfed every other structure in Ryndport—there were ten other buildings on the sprawling property. I could not imagine the purpose of even half of them.

“As I’ve said before: Why not?” Deanyn shrugged.

“I thought you were being amusing!”

“I was,” she replied. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t true. Do you know how boring it is sitting in a manor all day, going to some formal affair every night where all they talk about is trade agreements and shipping routes? I prefer excitement, and following Bryndine was as good a way as any to find it.”

“Surely your parents don’t approve. Will they even let us stay?”

“They… care very little about what I do.” Some emotion flashed across Deanyn’s face, but it was gone before I could identify it. “Embarrassment is not really an issue when you have as much money as my father does. I wouldn’t have brought us here if I thought they would turn us away.”

“As amusing as it is to watch Dennon’s eyes bulge,” Tenille broke in, “could you two continue this inside? I’m nearly asleep on my feet, and I doubt I’m the only one.”

Chastened, I held my tongue as Deanyn cantered her mount towards the gates. Two men stood guard. She addressed them by name. “Harrick, Bryndon. Open the gates, will you? I bring illustrious guests to meet my parents.” She gestured towards the company, all of us filthy and haggard from our long journey.

“Right away, Mistress Deanyn,” one of them—Harrick—answered, lifting an iron key from around his neck and fitting it into the gate.

“Who shall we say is coming?” Bryndon peered uncertainly at our less-than-impressive group. “Your father will want to know.”

“I’ll tell him myself. We wouldn’t want you two to leave your posts.” Deanyn looked over her shoulder and motioned for us to follow. “Come on, then.”

She led us through the gate and across the vast grounds towards the main house. Another pair of guards waited at the door. When Deanyn dismounted and approached, they recognized her and sent for her mother, who arrived shortly thereafter with a retinue of servants following behind.

“Deanyn. We didn’t expect you.” Deanna Syvanson did not sound particularly surprised or pleased to see her daughter; she was simply stating a fact.

“And yet here I am.” Deanyn embraced her mother somewhat stiffly. “We need a place to stay. My friends and I have had a difficult trip.”

“Of course. I will have rooms made up.” She glanced past her daughter at the rest of us, her mouth pursing with mild distaste. “And baths.” With a wordless flick of her hand, she directed several men to see to our horses, then beckoned us through the door.

Despite our tattered state, she had little interest in what had happened to us, or to Deanyn, though she was polite in her apathy. After arranging for servants to show us to our rooms and tend our needs, she excused herself, leaving Deanyn with a cold peck on the cheek.

“Tell my husband that our daughter is here,” she ordered one of the servants as she left the room.

A few moments later, Deanyn’s father appeared at the top of the stairs. He greeted his daughter with a slight nod. “Deanyn,” he said. “It is good to have you home. The estate is at your disposal.” Then, he disappeared back the way he had come. I could hardly believe the disinterest he and his wife showed in their daughter’s well-being.

Deanyn saw the confusion on my face. “It’s not as strange as it seems,” she said, answering the question I hadn’t asked. “When you can have anything you want, nothing has much value.”

I had no response to that, but I felt I should do something—in an awkward attempt at comfort, I hesitantly laid a hand on her shoulder. Surprise crossed her face for a moment, before it was replaced by a small, appreciative smile.

We stood in silence for a moment, and then she said, “You look exhausted, Dennon. Go, sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She gave me a gentle shove towards one of the waiting servants, and I let the woman lead me away to my room.

* * *

I slept late the next day, but not as late as I would have liked. Perhaps an hour before noon, there was a knock at my door.

The sound pulled me from my sleep—the first dreamless night I had been blessed with in weeks. As I regained my senses, I found myself lying face down on a soft feather bed, a line of spittle dribbling from the corner of my mouth onto the goose-down pillow that cushioned my head. I had barely noticed the bedding the night before, as tired as I was, but now it seemed far too comfortable to leave.

“What is it?” I yelled in the general direction of the door.

A man’s voice answered, “The Lady Bryndine Errynson to see you, sir.”

Grumbling, I rolled from the bed and dressed myself. There was little point in delaying; Bryndine would not leave me be, not while there was work to be done. After a moment of debate, I retrieved Adello’s songs from my bag. She would want me to determine where we should search; it was likely why she had summoned me. I was just as eager to find the books as she was, but even so my body was reluctant to cooperate—it took all my self control not to crawl back into bed. My respect for Bryndine had grown over the last few weeks, but I cursed her and her Dragon-damned sense of duty for not letting me sleep another hour.

When I was ready, the man who had woken me led me downstairs to a dining chamber where Bryndine sat with several other women, enjoying a breakfast of bacon and eggs, buttered bread, and a brightly colored drink that I assumed to be orangefruit juice from the Southern Isles. Deanyn and Leste were there, presumably to act as our guides to Ryndport; Tenille, Wynne, and Sylla filled the other chairs. They talked among themselves in subdued voices, and no one smiled—it was difficult to enjoy even the lavishness of the Syvanson’s hospitality while mourning lost friends.

“Scriber Dennon.” Bryndine gestured to a seat beside her. “Join us. I took the liberty of gathering those I thought might be of use to you—we will discuss our plans while we eat.”

I placed the stack of songs on the table and sampled a strip of bacon as I seated myself. “I would work better with a few hours more sleep,” I said as I chewed.

“We cannot afford to dally,” Bryndine replied. “Alyn’s watchmen reported sightings of the Burnt early this morning. Few men, and never there long enough to apprehend, but we know they can congregate quickly. I fear our presence is drawing them here, and I do not want to put the city at risk longer than necessary.”

I nearly choked mid-swallow. “If they are waiting for us outside the walls, how will we leave? They’ll attack the moment we exit the gate.”

If Bryndine shared my fear, she did not show it. “That is a concern for after we have found the books. But the less time we give them to gather themselves, the better.”

Composing myself as best I could, I replied, “Let’s not delay, then.”

Taking the top few sheets from the pile of music, I handed them to Bryndine, who looked them over and passed them along.

“I have been looking at the songs,” I said, “and there are some phrases that stand out. Here,
The Sage’s Curse
says ‘
To the Dragon he was bound; his sins left him on hollow ground
’. The idea of ‘hollow ground’ beneath the damned is common in these songs, threatening to give way and drop them into the Dragon’s realm. It could refer to a cavern of some sort, a hiding place.”

“There are many caves in the sea cliffs,” Leste said in her slight Raenish accent. “But these all flood with the tides.”

I acknowledged her with a nod. “I had already thought of that. They wouldn’t serve to hide the books. But the key may be the Prince himself, standing upon hollow ground—perhaps the books are hidden beneath a statue or some other image.”

“There are no statues of Prince Fyrril,” Tenille objected.

Wynne looked down at the sheet of music, pursing her lips. “It doesn’t have to be Fyrril, does it? Even if it is about him, the song never mentions the Prince by name. That could be on purpose.”

“A good point. It could mean any image of any Prince,” I agreed.

“That makes things harder,” Deanyn said. “If you counted all the statues of Rynd in the city, they might outnumber the citizens.”

“It should be on the edge of the ‘Dragon’s realm’—the sea.” I looked at Leste and Deanyn as I spoke. “Does anything come to mind?”

“There are at least a dozen statues by the seaside.” Deanyn frowned, absently pushing her food around with her fork. “I don’t know.”