Scriber (38 page)

“But he rebelled against that ruling,” Korus went on. “He was determined to find the power that destroyed Elovia—”

I could not stay silent any longer. “We are both sworn to uncover the past! Have you forgotten that oath? How can you condemn another Scriber for seeking the truth of our history?”

“He is condemning you for treason and dark magicks,” said Uran Ord. He nodded to the guard holding me, and the man struck me hard in the stomach, stealing my voice and my breath away.

Korus looked down at me and wrinkled his nose in disgust, making a show of it. “As I said, Scriber Dennon was determined to find the magicks of the Sages. He has been looking into Elovian writings for years. It would not surprise me if he helped the rebels learn their sorcery.”

“Thank you, Scriber Korus,” the King said. He motioned for Logan to step forward. “This man has known Scriber Dennon for five years, and was in Waymark during the rebel attack there. If you would, Master Underbridge.”

Logan puffed his chest out proudly. “If it pleases yer Majesty, I got plenty to say ‘bout the Scriber. And the Bloody—beggin yer pardon, uh, the Lady Bryndine.” He paused, looking at the King with a stricken expression.

As though he cares what you call her, Underbridge. He’s about to have her killed.
I would have laughed, except that his stupidity proved he was not being controlled. He was the same Logan I had always known, and he was doing this of his own free will. Like Korus, like the crowd begging for blood behind us.
These are the people she wanted to save. This is how they reward her.

“Go on, Underbridge.” Syrid motioned for him to continue.

“Well, the Scriber was always a shifty sort, never much fer talkin’, kept to his books. Don’t surprise me none if he’s been up to some godless business, all this sorcery and whatnot. Night afore the attack came, he met yer Majesty’s niece, snuck her into his house. Next night, she comes back and the Burners come right after.

“We seen ‘em doin’ some ritual or such too, after the First saved us. Josia, she went to stop ‘em and the Bloody Bride killed ‘er on the spot. Josia’s the one who seen ‘em that first night they met too, I’d wager they wanted to stop her talkin’.”

I did laugh then, but it was a rough sound, raw and bitter. “Mother below, this is a farce. Bryndine saved your
life
, Logan. All she has done is try to help you, all of you!”

The audience roared in outrage, and the guard struck me again, a vicious backhand across the face. My head snapped to the side. Spots floated before my eyes, and I could taste blood.

“I have heard enough,” Syrid announced. “You are both guilty, that is clear. It breaks my heart to do this to my brother’s only child, but I must sentence you to death. You will hang tonight, along with the other women who were captured.”

It was no less than I expected, but the words still made my heart batter against my chest, trying to escape my doomed body. All the rage and defiance drained out of me in an instant.

Bryndine, though, showed no fear. She looked her uncle in the eyes without shame and said, “Then I will die without regret, beside soldiers truer than any in this room.”

The crowd jeered, but Bryndine ignored it. She turned to face the people, and though six men held her chains, all of them together could not hold her in place. “If there are any true Army men here,” she said, “you will join Lieutenant Ralsten beyond the—”

“Silence her!” the King commanded, the voices of the Burnt screaming along with him.

Bryndine’s voice cut off as one of the soldiers jabbed her in the gut with the butt of his spear. She gasped and bent forward over the haft of the weapon, and he struck her full across the face with a steel gauntleted hand.

But Bryndine Errynson was not so easily cowed. She straightened, spat the blood from her mouth, and spoke on in a clear, strong voice. “The people locked outside the gates have done nothing wrong. My uncle has left thousands to die. He has betrayed the people and broken the Promise. He has no right to the crown!”

“Take her away!” Syrid screamed, spittle flying from his lips. “
Death
,” a thousand voices shrieked in my head.

The soldiers strained against her chains, tried to pull her away from the King, but Bryndine set her feet and stood firm. It would take more than six men to move her; it would take more men than there were in the entire King’s Army, it seemed to me.

Insults and accusations filled the hall—Bryndine’s words were falling on deaf ears. “
Bitch!
” they called her. “
Sorceress! Liar!
”

“It’s a trap,” one soldier declared. “We leave the city and her rebel friends are waiting to slit our throats.”

Bryndine paid no heed to the vitriol they hurled at her; she just spoke louder to be heard above the noise. “Honor your oaths! Hold true to the Promise! This is not a time to hide within the walls; this is a time for courage!”

The big soldier who had struck her before the trial drew his sword and jammed the point against her back. “You best shut your mouth,” he growled.

When she looked over her shoulder at him, he flinched visibly, but she only said, “I have nothing more to say.”

“That is truer than you know,” the King said, staring at her with unconcealed hatred. “You speak with the voice of corruption. In the name of Erryn’s Promise, I will not allow your Elovian magicks to curse my people!”

The people cheered at that, and most swept their fingers through the air in the sign of the Divide. Shouts of “
Long live the King
” and “
Mother shelter him
” and “
Father bless his rule
” roared through the throne room. It was sickening.

Syrid raised a hand to acknowledge the support of the crowd, then looked down at Bryndine and me with cold eyes and said, “Your sorcery will die with you.” He motioned for the soldiers to remove us. “Take them to the gallows. If my niece tries anything, kill her.”

The soldiers led us away from the throne, and this time Bryndine did not resist.
This is the end, then
. I thought of Illias, of what I would have said if I could have spoken to him one more time. Then, unexpectedly, I remembered the promise I had made to Deanyn that night in the Salt Mountains—to keep myself alive. I had not done a particularly good job of keeping it.
I won’t see her again to apologize
.
But then, if I was alive to see her, I’d have nothing to apologize for
. It was a ridiculous thought; I wished I could have shared it with her. She would have seen the humor in it.
Still, maybe it is best to have it done swiftly. No time for fear
.

“I’m sorry, Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine said softly.

“Don’t be,” I said. “You did all you could.”

The citizens were quieter now, though they still pointed and spoke in low voices as the soldiers led us by. The sentence had been given, and these were the sort of people who liked to think themselves pious; it would not have been proper to cheer or gloat. So instead they pretended at solemnity, pretended that they had not come here with bloodlust in their hearts, praying to the Mother and the Father that they might see the Bloody Bride and her company hanged. I had preferred the insults. This false quiet reeked of hypocrisy.

We had not gone far when a voice shattered the silence.

“Your Majesty, wait!”

I could not believe my ears—it was Korus.
What is he doing?

“What is it?” Syrid glared at his Royal Scriber.

For an instant, I entertained the mad hope that Korus had regained his senses, that his next words would save us somehow. I should have known better.

“If we wait until the morrow, we can make a better example of them,” Korus said. “Let me spread the word, gather the entire city. We can burn them in the Commoncourt on a pyre made of their own vile books of sorcery, to show the people what happens to traitors. Give me one more day, Majesty, and I will see that they get what they deserve.” He gave me a long look as he spoke those last words—savoring his victory, no doubt.

They have the books
. Despair overpowered whatever comfort the prospect of surviving another day might have provided. If any of Bryndine’s women remained free, they could have rallied the Scribers with Fyrril’s journal. Without proof, though, the Council would never lend their aid. If the Burnt had the books, they had won.

The King smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. “Yes. Yes, that would please me. After sunset tomorrow, I think, so all can see the flames.” He raised his voice to address the audience. “They will burn!”

Syrid’s words rang throughout the throne room, echoing off the high ceiling as if spoken by a hundred voices at once. But only I heard the full extent of the echo—not a hundred voices, but a thousand, tens of thousands. The invisible voices all throughout the city and the surrounding countryside joined as one, hate-filled and savage, and chanted three words I had heard many times before: “
All will burn
.”

It was very likely true; there was no one left to stop them. Soon enough, they would feed all of us to the flames—not just me, not just Bryndine and her company, but the entire Kingsland. The memory of King Erryn watching a verdant forest burn black came to me then, and as I looked upon the faces of the mob, twisted with scorn and judgement, I could think only one thing:

We deserve it.

Chapter Thirty-one

The sad truth is, we brought all of this upon ourselves.

— From the personal journals of Dennon Lark

Bryndine paced in her cell. “Why are they doing this, Scriber? Why hold trials and executions? Why not simply tear open the ground beneath our feet, or destroy the city with lightning? Do they lack the power?”

That would be too quick
, I thought.
Too painless
. “What does it matter?” I asked. “There is nothing we can do to stop them now.”

Bryndine ignored my answer. “And if their sorcery is not strong enough to do that, they could attack in force, lay siege to the baronies. They have the King and the Army in their grasp. They could overwhelm us in days if they attempted anything more than these raids. What stays their hand?”

From my own cell across the hall, I could see into hers. She marched by the door, disappeared from sight, then moments later marched by again. Everything above her shoulders was hidden from sight; she was taller than the doorway. The other cells I could see were empty, and as best I could tell we were alone. This was the upper level of the White Cells, where important prisoners were kept; common thieves and murderers would be on the lower floor. If there were others near us, they chose to stay silent while Bryndine mused endlessly on the motives of the Burnt.

I sighed. “You are thinking like a soldier, Bryndine. The Burnt are not soldiers. They aren’t seeking some sort of strategic victory. They don’t want to take the kingdom for themselves, or wipe it from the land, or anything so simple.” What the Burnt did want was no mystery to me, not anymore. I had shared their memories, and felt their pain. It was not a subject I wished to dwell upon, not with my own death by fire fast approaching.

But Bryndine would not relent until she understood. “What do they want, then, Scriber?”

Rubbing at my temple, I said, “You must understand that they
hate
us. Not certain people, not only some of us—they hate every living person in the Kingsland.”
And they should
. “They want to destroy us, yes, but they want it to be slow, and painful, and terrifying. They want us to see our loved ones turn against us, and to be so confused and afraid that we fight amongst ourselves. They want us to suffer, as they have suffered.”

Ducking her head beneath the doorframe, Bryndine gripped the bars of her cell and stared across at me. “You have heard them speaking of this?”

“I saw… a vision. A memory. When Selvi and Elene burned their trees.”

“Why? Why do they hate us?”

When I closed my eyes, I could see Erryn standing under emerald leaves, his crown shining red with reflected fire. “Because we burned them alive. Because we destroyed their forest, and it drove them mad.”

“What do you—” Bryndine’s voice cut off abruptly. Then, a moment later, “You mean the Burning.”

“Of course I do. Why else call themselves the Burnt?”

“A thousand years have passed since then.”

“They still remember. We burned only two trees today, and I felt it a thousand times over. I can’t imagine what it would have been like when the whole forest burned, but a thousand years would not be nearly long enough to forget. They will never forgive us.”

“You speak as though we brought this on ourselves,” Bryndine said. “Even if Erryn burned their forest, should we die for the sins of our ancestors?”

“I don’t know.” Despite all the pain they had put me through, it was hard not to feel some pity for the Wyddin—there was no justice in what had been done to them. I could not say the same for my own kind, not after what I had seen at our trial. “Perhaps our own sins are enough. You saw the people today. They will watch us burn and love it. You tried to save then and they are going to let you die. As Fyrril’s people let him die, let the Forgetting happen. The Burnt only gave them the excuse.”

Bryndine shook her head. “No. They were afraid, confused, misled by their King. The Burnt have convinced them that enemies are everywhere. They do not all deserve to die. I am sorry for what was done to the Wyddin, but it does not excuse them.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “It does not excuse what they did to Genna.”

That was a difficult thing to argue against, and I did not try. “Deserved or not, the Kingsland will burn. The Army took Fyrril’s books, and there is nothing we can do from these cells. The Burnt have already won.”

“Ralsten knows the truth,” she said stubbornly. “He may still be able to do something.”

I did not want to debate with her any longer; I just wanted to be left alone with my despair. “Maybe,” I said. “Either way, you and I will die tomorrow.”