Scriber (28 page)

“The largest one, I am thinking of,” said Leste. “On the cliff north from the docks. It is the first thing seen, sailing into the bay.”

“On the cliffs—over top of the caves. That would put it on hollow ground.” I realized I was grinning, caught up in the pleasure of solving a mystery. “We need to look at that statue.”

Bryndine stood from her chair. “Then we should go right away. Tenille, send Ivyla to notify my cousin.” She strode purposefully from the room and the other women followed. Grabbing a heel of bread and a handful of bacon from the table, I hurried after them.

We set out immediately. Leste was an efficient guide, and she knew the streets of Ryndport well; less than a half-hour later we stood before a huge statue of Prince Rynd on the cliffs overlooking the bay. Shortly after we arrived, Prince Alyn joined us, leading several men up the cliffside path.

“I doubt you’ll find much, Scriber,” Prince Alyn said as he dismounted, gesturing towards the statue. “The old boy’s been there forever, but he’s nothing special. But whatever you need, my men are yours.”

The statue was carved from dark granite and stood some forty feet tall, though five feet of that was the base—a solid block of heavy stone perched precariously close to the edge of the precipice. I stayed several steps back; the sheer weight of the thing looked as though it could collapse the well-eroded sea cliff beneath it at any moment, and it was a long fall to the sharp rocks below.

“What do you make of it, Scriber Dennon?” Wynne asked, peering dubiously at the stone Prince.

I pulled my gaze back from the cliff’s edge to study the statue. It was little more than a roughly sculpted chunk of stone. The Prince’s face and clothing were only scantly detailed, intended to suggest a form from afar to sailors entering the bay, not to be viewed up close. He faced away from us, gazing out into the empty harbor—there was little for Rynd to watch over at this time of year, when autumn storms interfered with shipping routes and kept most ships docked for the season.

“Not the most inspiring work, is it?” I observed. “I hoped it might indicate a direction like the glasswork at the Old Garden, but unless Fyrril hid his books at sea…”

“There’s a plaque on the side,” said Tenille, leaning in to read the words engraved upon the sheet of bronze set into the statue’s base. “
Rynd the Explorer. Founder of Ryndport, discoverer of the lands beyond the sea. Let our ambitions sail beyond the shores of the familiar, towards the lands of the impossible.
” She frowned. “A fine sentiment, but not much use to us.”

“You’re sure the books couldn’t be in the caves? There are plenty down there.” Deanyn bent over the edge of the cliff, looking down at the cave-riddled rock below. Just watching her made my stomach clench and my head spin.

Swallowing my nausea, I replied, “They are too damp even when they aren’t flooded. If the books were stored there, they would be long since decayed.”

“Well, maybe Prince Fyrril wasn’t the sharpest fellow,” Deanyn said. “There aren’t many other hiding places around here.”

I shook my head. “The caves have been searched thoroughly more than once,” I said. “The Scribers have spent centuries looking for relics of the past. Whatever we are looking for, it won’t be so obvious.”

Bryndine tapped a knuckle against the large stone base of the statue. “The ground he stands on is supposed to be hollow—perhaps there is something hidden in the base?”

“It’s solid stone, though.” Wynne circled the huge granite block, looking for a point of access. “How would we get in? Do we break it?”

The thought of wrecking another monument that had stood for so long made me cringe. “Check the plaque,” I suggested, hoping Fyrril had left us an alternative to breaking our way in.

Wynne pulled a knife from her belt and rapped the pommel against the bronze plate. To my great relief, a low ring answered—there was definitely a hollow of some kind beneath the metal. Excitement shot through me, and I rushed forward to join the women by the cliff’s edge, my fears briefly forgotten.

“It will come off.” Leste drew a knife of her own and set it against the edge of the metal square.

I grabbed her by the wrist. “Wait. You’ll only damage your knife, and scrape the statue. We’ll need tools.”

“It won’t be a problem, Scriber,” Alyn said. “I will send for a mason.”

It was a half hour before the Prince’s men returned with the craftsman in tow. In the end, his method was not much gentler than Leste’s: he pried the metal back with his chisel, pulling the metal posts from the plaster that anchored them. But he assured me the plaque could be easily reattached with no serious damage.

Another quarter hour passed waiting for the man to finish, but finally he pulled the plaque free of the stone, revealing an opening of perhaps half a foot across. Impatience and enthusiasm getting the better of me, I lunged past the others to get a closer look.

The hole was empty.

“Well,” said Deanyn, “that’s disappointing.”

Chapter Twenty-four

In the Book of the Divide, the Dragon is the God of the Sea, the first child of the Mother and the Father. He is unpredictable, like the sea itself, and a collector of discarded things—such as the souls of the damned. Those souls he takes are doomed to sink forever beneath the waves, tortured by horrible beasts created by the Dragon on a mercurial whim and then forgotten.

The clans of the Salt Mountains take a different view. During the autumn and winter, they come down from the heights to the coastal cliffs and survive off the sea. As such, they have come to revere the Dragon as the first among the Gods, claiming he created all others. He is said to have frozen the waves in a storm, creating the Salt Mountains as a home for his people.

That two countries developing so near to one another could produce such different beliefs from the same basic tale shows how greatly the environment and location of a civilization can shape its religion.

— From Dennon Lark’s
Religions of Cendonia

“We cannot go back! We haven’t found anything!”

My protests did little to diminish Bryndine’s resolve. “What can we hope to find?” she asked. “There is no trail left to follow. We must return to Three Rivers and tell the King what we have learned of the Burnt.”

We had spent the rest of the day examining statues by the docks, but it was half-hearted. It was clear to everyone that the empty recess beneath the statue on the cliffs should have held some clue. Whatever had been hidden there had been removed at some point over the last five centuries; there was nothing left for us to find. Depressed and defeated, we had returned to the Syvanson manor as evening fell to dine with the rest of the women and discuss our options.

The meal was lavish—too many courses to name, but the main dish was a delectable spiced fish served with fine Raenish wine, and afterwards, more sweets and pastries than all of us put together could finish in a lifetime. Propriety demanded such a showing, as Prince Alyn had chosen to dine with us. Deanyn’s parents had little choice but to deliver a feast fit for royalty. The Syvansons joined us at the table as well, though they were as unimpressed as ever by our discussion.

“You have already sent a bird to the King,” I said to Bryndine through a mouthful of fruit-filled tart. “There must be some clue left for us. Whatever was beneath that statue could still be somewhere in the city.” I would not so easily desert the search—and not only for fear of the Burnt waiting for us outside the walls. I was determined to know the truth about the voices, and Fyrril’s research was my best chance.

“My father is not like to believe claims of Wyddin and sorcery even if you delivered them in person, Scriber Dennon,” Alyn said. “Bryn’s message will probably be dismissed outright, I’m afraid.”

“
Anything
we say will be dismissed outright unless we bring some sort of proof,” I insisted. “We must keep looking.”

“Where should we look, Scriber?” Sylla jabbed her fork in my direction and I flinched, almost expecting her to throw it. “Admit it: you were wrong, there was nothing there. That’s the end of it. You’ve wasted enough of the Captain’s time.”

The woman terrified me, but I was sick of her taunts. “You realize that the moment we are done with this search, you’ll be disbanded again? The Scribers are only paying you to help me.” I aimed to wound, and I knew that staying with Bryndine was important to Sylla—I remembered as much from my hazy memory of that night outside the Doused Tree.

“Better that than dying for a madman. Don’t pretend you’re our savior, Scriber. Women are dead because of you.” She glared at me with murder in her dark eyes—and she was no stranger to murder. I remembered that too, and wished I had held my tongue.

“Enough.” Bryndine’s stern voice interrupted our quarrel. “Scriber Dennon, if you have some idea of how to salvage the search, let me hear it. Otherwise, we have no choice but to return.”

“Just let me think for a moment,” I said, pushing two fingers against my temple. “I haven’t had time to think.”

“He has no answer,” Sylla said, sneering in my direction. “He’s only trying to delay the decision.”

“Shut up, Sylla!” Wynne’s chair clattered backwards as she stood and slapped her hands down on the table. “Why can’t you just give him a moment?”

Wynne’s anger was the spark; exhaustion, grief, and disappointment were the tinder. The table erupted in a blaze of dissenting opinions and recrimination.

“This was a mistake,” said Rylene. “We’re useless here—we should be in Three Rivers.” Her declaration elicited several nods of support.

Orya’s lips curled up in disgust. “So we could sit cowerin’ in city walls? We ain’t with the Army no more, you think they’d let us fight? Scribers offered us coin and work, not takin’ it would’ve been the mistake.”

“But no one would have died,” Selvi said in a small voice. She exchanged concerned glances with Elene. I could not blame the girl for speaking out—she was only thinking of her sister’s safety.

Deanyn looked at the twins with a raised eyebrow. “Do you mean to tell me that our work is dangerous? If only I’d known, I might have taken up needlework.”

It went on like that for some time. Some women wanted to return to Three Rivers; others simply wanted to stay together as long as they could. A small few—mostly Wynne and Tenille—argued for the importance of finding Fyrril’s books, regardless of the risk.

But from some at the table, there was only silence. Bryndine watched the argument unfold with an unreadable expression. Prince Alyn fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. Randyn and Deanna Syvanson looked as though they might fall asleep at any moment. And I stayed silent as well, trying to think of something, anything, that would justify continuing the search. Something that would prove I had not led those women to death for nothing. Something that would keep them from marching right back into the Burnt’s grasp.

Ironically enough, it was Sylla who gave me the answer, for a second time.

“We can’t keep listening to the Scriber,” she said. “The Burnt are closing in. We’ll be trapped here if we stay much longer.”

Trapped here
. Trapped as Fyrril would have been trapped, his father’s armies approaching from all sides.

All sides save one.

My eyes met Bryndine’s. “I know where to go,” I said, but it was drowned out by the women’s voices, shouting over top of one another.

It didn’t matter; Bryndine understood. She rose, nearly eight feet in height, impossible to ignore. The women fell silent instantly.

“I believe Scriber Dennon has something to say.” Bryndine looked at me expectantly.

“I know where the books are,” I said. “Or at least where to look next.”

“I trust you won’t leave us in suspense.” Bryndine raised an eyebrow ever so slightly.

“The mountains. He took them to the Salt Mountains.”

No one spoke. Deanyn’s father coughed quietly.

“How can you be sure?” Bryndine asked. “We found nothing.”

“He had no other choice.” I swept a hand east, towards the city gates. “Think of it—there would have been armies at his gates. He had rebelled against the throne. He had to get the books out, or they would be found and burned when the city fell. The King’s Army would have cut off all routes of escape by land. The only way out was by sea.”

“How do you know he moved them at all?” Sylla demanded. “Even if he wanted to, he may not have had the chance if he was under siege. Maybe they were burned centuries ago.”

I shook my head. “Rynd’s statue fits the clues too well, and there was clearly something hidden in that hole. A message like what we found in Three Rivers would have fit perfectly. He must have had time to move the books somewhere, and place something beneath the statue to lead the way.”

“He could have sailed anywhere,” said Tenille. “Why not Raen, or the Isles?”

“Because the journal entry we found in Three Rivers was written in autumn,” I replied, my excitement swelling as I put the pieces together. “I saw the port earlier today; not a single sail was unfurled. No one is crossing the sea, not during the storm season. And Fyrril’s rebellion began at the same time of year. The only option would have been to sail up the coast to the mountains. He was known there—there are records of him negotiating the mining treaty with the Barrock. He must have relied on their aid.”

Comprehension lit Tenille’s eyes. “Impossible lands,” she breathed. “Even that was a message.” There was awe in her voice—the Scriber in her overpowering the soldier, for a moment.

Deanyn cocked her head. “What are you talking about?”

“The inscription on the statue spoke of the lands of the impossible,” Tenille explained. “The clansfolk say the mountains were made from waves frozen in a storm. What could be more impossible?”

A realization came to me then, as clear and perfect as a diamond. “Waves made solid by their God. The Dragon. The Dragon’s realm in Adello’s songs was never the sea—he has been leading us to the Salt Mountains all along.”

“I don’t doubt that you are right, Scriber,” said Bryndine. “But even knowing that, we are no better off than we were. The mountains stretch from the coast to the Crossing. Where would we even begin?”