Scriber (29 page)

Wynne had been listening raptly, but now she spoke. “Prince Willyn,” she said.

Confusion was writ on every face as they turned towards her, and her thrilled grin turned to doubt. But I had an inkling of what she meant. It was clever; she was thinking like a Scriber.

“Go on, Wynne,” I prompted.

“I just thought… Someone had to take whatever was hidden in the statue, yes?” She looked at me for approval.

When I nodded, her expression brightened, and she continued with enthusiasm. “Prince Willyn was the heir to the throne, he governed Ryndport. He had access to the statue. Maybe he found some message from Fyrril. He’s supposed to have gone into the Salt Mountains looking for the Archives—why would he have done that if something hadn’t put the idea in his head?”

Though I had little to do with her deduction, I felt a certain pride.
Is this how Illias feels when a student does well?
I wondered. Suddenly the old man’s devotion to teaching made a great deal more sense.

“A good thought,” I said, smiling at the girl. “That narrows our search. The clansfolk can show us to the area where Willyn was last seen—their Storytellers have long memories.”

Wynne beamed at the praise.
She should be earning her pin at the Academy
, I thought for the hundredth time. It was among the Academy’s greatest flaws that so many like Wynne were denied because they lacked money and influence; I would never have gained entry myself if had not been lucky enough to meet Illias.
I could speak for her
. Illias would surely sponsor her at my recommendation.

“Lovely,” said Randyn Syvanson, though his tone suggested a complete lack of interest. “You seem to have this well in hand. Shall we retire for the night?” That he and his wife found our company tiresome was obvious, but custom demanded that they not leave the table before the Prince.

Deanyn rolled her eyes. “Are we boring you, Father? I know it must be difficult, we are only discussing the safety of the Kingsland.”

The Prince was quick to step in. “I apologize, Randyn. It is rude of us to speak of our affairs at such length at your table, but these are important matters. I believe we are nearly finished, if you’ll permit us.”

With a small sigh, Deanyn’s father leaned back in his chair. “Of course, Prince Alyn.”

Alyn turned to Bryndine. “I think you should go, Bryn. Better you leave by ship than rush into the Burners’ ambush. The only issue is finding you passage—most ships are docked for the season, and the sailors will not be anxious to give up their shore leave to chance the Dragon’s Teeth. Erryn’s Promise forbids me from commanding them to aid you.”

“We can provide a ship,” Deanyn said, glancing sidelong at her father. “For the good of the kingdom. I am sure my father is eager to give any aid he can.”

Our host shrugged and inclined his head slightly. “Of course. For the good of the Kingsland.” He truly did not seem to care; Randyn Syvanson could buy a thousand new ships and have more wealth left than most. “But I cannot guarantee a crew.”

“This is not a problem,” Leste said. “I know many sailors.”

Bryndine hid her uncertainty well, but the slight wrinkling around her eyes gave it away. “A journey into the Salt Mountains will take time, and the King must be told what the rebels are capable of,” she said. “He must be warned about Uran and the possibility of others like him. As you say, Alyn, a bird will not suffice.”

“We have no time to waste,” I protested. “It is already midway through autumn. The mountains will be nearly impassable within a month.”

“I will go to Three Rivers for you,” the Prince declared. “I wish to see the state of things there for myself, and speak with my father. I will leave the Third in charge of defense here and bring the Ninth Company with me—better I risk the trip with four hundred soldiers than you with only a dozen.”

Bryndine’s mouth straightened into a thin, firm line. “I cannot let you face danger in my place.”

“A full company of Army men will be more than equal to their untrained rabble, Bryn,” Alyn said. “And it is you they are pursuing—if you are not with us, they may not risk attacking at all.”

“What will you tell the King?” Bryndine asked. “He must know what we saw, and you do not believe our story.”

Alyn laughed. “Always so dutiful. The Army would be lucky to have more soldiers like you, and less like Uran.” He feigned a wounded expression. “But I am hurt that you think I could deny my favorite cousin. Your story is hard to believe, but I trust your eyes and your mind. I will tell the King exactly what you told me.”

Bryndine offered her cousin a rare, grateful smile, but it lasted only a moment before it was replaced by the solemn determination I recognized well. There was no doubt in her next words.

“Then we sail for the Salt Mountains.”

Chapter Twenty-five

The people of the Salt Mountains have no true leader. They are divided into many nomadic clans, each with a chief of its own.

However, they appoint one man as their Barrock, a military and diplomatic figure in charge of relations with the Kingsland. The position dates back to before the Forgetting, when—according to the clansfolk—a King Elwyn, who they jokingly name “Salteater”, tried to invade their lands, and a man named Barrock united the clans to repel the King’s Army. Barrock then negotiated a treaty under which the Kingsland could mine the mountains, but had to pay for the privilege.

The clans also respect the guidance of the Storytellers, religious figures who are said to remember the entire history of their people. As they have no written language, the Storytellers pass their knowledge down orally, and must have near perfect memories. Due to the wisdom gleaned from these stories, they are trusted advisors to the clan chiefs.

— From Dennon Lark’s
History of the Salt Mountain Clans

Finding the clansfolk was not difficult. Midway into autumn, they were already gathered along the sea cliffs, and their camps were visible from the deck of the ship as we sailed up the coast. Navigating the rocky waters along the cliffs—called the Dragon’s Teeth by the sailors—was a greater problem, but with Leste’s aid we had been able to recruit an experienced and able crew. They sailed the Teeth swiftly, and within four days, found us a safe berth at one of the small docks the Mountainers used to launch their fishing boats.

As we unloaded our supplies and led our mounts from the ship, a group of clansmen approached us down the narrow cliffside path, all five of them dressed in thick white snowcat furs against the chill of the mountains. Huddled inside the too-large greatcoat Prince Alyn had provided—and despite the layers of heavy clothing I wore beneath it—I envied them their apparent warmth. In fact, I envied the women as well, seemingly impervious to the cold under their cloaks and leathers and woollen underpadding. Only I had to wrap my arms around myself to keep from shivering.

“Kingslanders,” one of the approaching clansmen—a tall heavyset man with a beard—hailed us in a stern tone. “Why are you here? Our tribute for the mines came on the last half-moon.”

Bryndine saluted the men as they drew near. “We seek the guidance of your Storytellers.”

The man’s eyes narrowed with distrust. “The Storytellers serve the clans and the Dragon, not the Kingsland. You will come with us to the Barrock. Kingslanders are his concern.”

Bryndine nodded respectfully. “It would be my honor to speak with the Barrock. Tenille, see that the horses are made ready. Scriber Dennon, come with me.”

Without instruction, Sylla fell into step beside us, and Bryndine accepted her presence without rebuke. The clansmen led us up the path they had come by, and then along the cliffs heading north. As we walked, I took note of the camps we passed through—I had never before set foot in the mountains beyond Highpass, and though I had read about them, it was an altogether different thing to see firsthand how the clansfolk lived.

They built no permanent structures; we passed mostly hide tents and covered caves. Few of the clansfolk let our presence distract them from the business of untangling fishing nets, gutting their daily catch, or simply sharing stories around the cooking pits. They went about these tasks with an eclectic collection of goods: steel tools forged in the Kingsland alongside stone ones of their own make; Raenish fabrics sewn to rough animal hides; fine glass jars mixed in among rough clay pots. The mining treaty with the Kingsland provided them with many things they could not produce themselves, and they let nothing go to waste.

The Barrock’s tent was no larger or more impressive than any of the others, and nothing marked it as different, so I was surprised when the clansmen came to a halt. Their leader motioned for Bryndine to follow him inside.

“Scriber Dennon, join me,” she said. “I may need you to help explain what we seek.” She looked to the large bearded man for permission. “If that is acceptable.”

The man gave a slight nod and lifted the hide flap that covered the entrance of the tent.

Sylla moved to join us, but one of the clansmen barred her way with an outstretched spear. Sylla tensed, and her hand twitched towards her sword.

“No more,” the leader said to Bryndine. “Only you and the skinny man.”

“I am in no danger, Sylla,” Bryndine said. “Please, wait for us here.”

For a moment I thought Sylla might disobey, but she reluctantly let her hand fall and stepped back. I could feel her angry glare behind me as I followed Bryndine into the Barrock’s tent.

The Barrock sat cross-legged on a pile of furs at the back of the tent, sharpening a Kingsland-forged longsword. He looked much like the rest of the clansmen—a wiry man with dark hair and a short beard, dressed in plain hide breeches and a woollen shirt, bearing no regalia or badge of office. He was seated, but I could tell that he was no larger than myself. It did nothing to diminish his presence—he had a keen, slightly intimidating air about him, that of a man in full command of himself and his surroundings. He showed no surprise at our entrance, simply swept his dark eyes over us appraisingly and nodded in greeting.

“You are Elarryd Errynson’s daughter,” he stated, looking at Bryndine. “I see it in your face. I have met with your father many times. A wise man.”

Though her height already forced her to bend down in the low-roofed tent, Bryndine bowed slightly further. “You honor my family, Connig Barrock. My name is Bryndine, and this is Scriber Dennon Lark. We come seeking your aid.”

The Barrock furrowed his brow. “My people do not take kindly to Kingslanders asking favors. Tell me what you need, and I will tell you if it is possible.”

“We require a guide to the place where Prince Willyn was last seen alive,” said Bryndine.

The Barrock slid his whetstone along the edge of his blade, a pensive expression on his face. “I can see no harm in that,” he said after a moment. “The Storytellers will know. The Dragon has blessed them with all memories of our people. But it is rare for them to share their stories with outsiders, and I cannot make them help you. I can only ask. Sit, we will wait.” He gestured to the fur-lined ground, then turned to the bearded man who had brought us to him. “Edred, fetch Teller Revik.”

It was not long before the Storyteller entered the tent. He was old, grey-haired and slightly stooped beneath his rough spun robes, his deeply lined face twisted into a disapproving scowl. It was immediately evident that he was not pleased to see us.

“You disappoint me, Connig,” he said in a hoarse, quavering voice. “The Storytellers are not at the beck and call of Kingslanders.”

“Their request is small enough,” the Barrock replied calmly. “And she is Elarryd Errynson’s daughter. He has treated fairly with us. Hear them out, Teller Revik. If you wish to refuse them afterwards, I will not argue.”

Revik made a disgusted noise in his throat, but nodded. Without speaking, he lowered himself into a seated position on the floor of the tent and looked expectantly at Bryndine.

“We mean no disrespect, Teller Revik. We only need a guide to show us to where Prince Willyn was last seen.” Bryndine’s tone was impeccably polite, even reverent towards the old man.

“It is remembered that we showed Kingslanders to that place, many years ago,” Revik said. “They found no sign of the Prince. Why should we bring you back there now?”

“We believe that Willyn was seeking something hidden in the mountains by Prince Fyrril,” I explained. “A collection of books from the Archives. It would help us greatly to know where he was looking.”

The Storyteller frowned. “Prince Fyrril was a friend to our people. He helped us to repair the treaty your selfish rulers scorned for so long, helped us to earn more than scraps from the Kingsland’s table. This is remembered. We will not betray his secrets.”

I was becoming annoyed with the old man’s attitude. “Fyrril wanted those books to be found,” I insisted, taking the scroll case we had found in Three Rivers from the pocket of my coat. “He left a trail that has led us this far. Here, read this.” I took the journal page from the silver case and offered it to Revik.

“I do not know your letters, Kingslander,” the old man said disdainfully. “We have no need of them here.”

“I will read it to you.” I unrolled the paper, and read the words aloud—with particular emphasis on the end, where Fyrril begged for someone to seek the books out in Ryndport.

When I was done, the Barrock held out his hand. “Let me see,” he said. When I handed him the page, he looked it over, then nodded at Teller Revik. “The Scriber read truly, and I do not believe it to be a forgery, Storyteller.”

“It does not speak of the Salt Mountains,” Revik said doubtfully.

“No,” replied Bryndine, “but our path has led us here. You must see that Fyrril wanted his work to be recovered. We believe that the threats he writes of have returned.”

Revik stroked his chin, then heaved a deep sigh. “Very well. Fyrril was a brother to our people. I will respect his wishes.” The stubborn set to his jaw relaxed slightly. “You are right, he did come to us with something precious to hide. It is remembered.”