Scriber (8 page)

The Children maintain holy places known as Gardens in nearly every village, town, and city in the Kingsland. The main feature of a Garden is a grassy area of carefully tended vegetation where the Children give sermons, as plant life is the symbol of the Mother and Father’s love. To quote from the Book of the Divide, “Though forever parted, their love lives in all things that grow in the Earth and are nourished by the Sky”. Beyond that, however, the Gardens have little in common—they range from humble shacks on grassy fields to ornately designed structures surrounding verdant courtyards, like the historic Old Garden in Three Rivers.

— From Dennon Lark’s
Religions of Cendonia

“Forgive me if this seems strange, Scriber, but I could not let my men hear me asking these questions.” Uran Ord sat on the edge of his cot, his head wrapped in white cotton bandages that masked the deep incision in his scalp. For a man who had been dead a quarter-hour before, he was surprisingly talkative. He had sent his medics away, and for the last quarter-hour or so, had questioned me thoroughly on subjects that he had no business not knowing the answers to.

“It’s not unprecedented for a blow to the head to interfere with memory, High Commander,” I said with an assurance I did not feel. “But I would
strongly
recommend that you go to the Academy for examination.” I had been trying to convince him of this since he had awoken. It was not uncommon for a head wound to cause some memory loss, but it was
very
uncommon for a man to rise from the dead. I should have been relieved that he lived—it saved me from being blamed for his death. Instead, his unexplained resurrection made me more nervous.

There was a low hum in my skull that made my head ache. The stench and the dim light in the tent did not help, but it was more than that; it felt as though there was a presence in the air that I could not see.
I truly am going mad
, I thought glumly.

He gestured impatiently. “I assure you, I am fine. You did your job admirably; I won’t forget it.”

He kept insisting that my treatment had saved him, but it was not true. I had seen him dead, felt his lack of breath and pulse myself. How he had come back I did not know, but it was imperative that he be looked at by a Scriber pinned in Medicine. “High Commander, you must—”

“
Enough.
I am well, Scriber. Now answer my question.”

“I have told you, Commander, I am not part of your company. I don’t know the officer’s names. There was a Lieutenant Ralsten watching outside your tent, that is all I can tell you.” This was one of the issues Ord had questioned me on at length—he had no memory of any of his men, or even his own cousin. I had been able to tell him why they were here; about Bryndine, and Waymark; but I was unable to tell him the names of his men.

“Did he seem loyal to you? Would he help me in this quietly?”

“I haven’t any idea, Commander. He appeared concerned about your well being, I suppose.”

The noise in my head intensified and my headache grew worse as the conversation went on. I knew the sound, though I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself; whispered voices, many speaking as one. I almost wept. Ever since I had dreamed of them, I could not seem to escape those voices. Soon, I knew, they would call for me to burn, and I would have no choice but to do as they told. I needed to get out of that tent.

“Please, send him in for me.” Ord dismissed me with a wave of his hand, but as I turned away, his voice stopped me. “And Scriber—do not tell my cousin of this conversation. I… would not worry her.”

It was strange, I thought, that he would be so concerned for a cousin whose name he could not remember. But I was happy to agree; I had my own issues to speak with Bryndine about, and no desire to prolong that conversation. Eagerly, I ran for the exit, nearly sprinting out into the night.

The fresh air silenced the sound of voices, and I gasped it in gratefully, aware but uncaring that Lieutenant Ralsten was eyeing me suspiciously.

“What happened, Scriber? The others said that the Commander had come back to his senses, but that I should not enter. Why was I not called in immediately?”

“He will see you now, Lieutenant. He simply had some questions for me first.”

“Is he recovered, then?”

I chose my words carefully. “He is… much improved. It may take time for him to be as he was.”

“But he will recover with time? I warn you, Scriber, it’s on your head if he doesn’t.”

“Of course it is. I should have thought of that when someone else shattered his skull,” I said dryly.

Ralsten narrowed his eyes and was about to respond, but I cut him off.

“Lieutenant, for good or ill, his recovery had little to do with me. Go, he is waiting for you.”

As I walked through the camp back towards the wagon that held my things, I was stopped several times by people from Waymark. Word of Uran’s recovery had apparently already spread, and now they had one more thing to congratulate me for that was not my doing. I was not polite in setting them right on the subject, but most simply refused to hear my protests—though I did send Penni Harynson away weeping with a particularly rude rebuke.

The cloying, ignorant admiration of the villagers would have been bad enough, but each time I was forced to stop and talk was also a moment longer standing there in my filthy, bloodstained clothes. I had not changed since the attack, and my clothing was stiff with dried blood and sweat. All I wanted was to put on a clean shirt and pants and wash my hands and face.

I was pulling a change of clothes from my chest in the back of the wagon when Josia Kellen approached me. I did not notice her immediately, until she spoke my name in a thin, broken voice.

“What is it, Josia?” I asked, annoyed at this latest interruption. “If you’re here to talk about the Commander, I had nothing to do with his recovery. I’m busy.”

“You saw her do it, didn’t you?”

“Saw what, Josia? I don’t—”

“You saw her kill my Hareld.”

I was taken aback by the dangerous edge in her voice. She did not sound like the kindly, overly talkative woman I knew. “Josia, he was trying to kill me. Bryndine stopped him.”

Josia cocked her head, as though listening to something far away, and for a moment, I thought I heard the faint sound of whispering—but no, it was nothing, just wind in the trees.

“He wouldn’t!” she insisted. “She
murdered
him!”

She had lost her home and her husband in a single night; she deserved sympathy, more than any of the others did. But this was dangerous talk. Bryndine was the King’s niece, and while her reputation led to a good deal of insults and mockery, Josia sounded as though she was on the verge of attacking with more than just words.

I climbed down from the wagon to speak with her. “Josia, I’m sorry. This must be… hard for you.” I tried to make my voice comforting, but it sounded unconvincing even to me. “But Hareld… he was—”

“He
wasn’t with them
!” she shrieked, wrenching herself from my grasp. She backed away several steps, staring at me with tears in her eyes. “I thought you would understand. You
saw
it.”

Again, I thought I heard a quiet whisper in my ear—it sounded like “
Vengeance
”.
It isn’t real
, I told myself.
I’m imagining it.
But I saw Josia’s eyes go wide as she turned away from me.

“Josia, wait!” But she didn’t stop, and I couldn’t follow—it felt too much like giving in to the voices I was hearing, admitting they were real.

I was certain that she couldn’t have actually heard the whispers—there were no whispers to hear. Whatever was happening to me, it was only in my head; it had to be. But still, I resolved to warn Bryndine when I spoke with her, for Josia’s sake. If she did try anything stupid, Bryndine could probably subdue her without harm.

When I had changed my clothing, I went to find Bryndine. She and her company had built up their own fire on the outskirts of the main camp, though I did not know if they were avoiding the other soldiers or if the other soldiers were avoiding them. Several women loitered around the fire talking; others were busy seeing to the horses, sharpening weapons, and doing various menial tasks. I still had not gotten a clear count of their numbers, but my earlier estimate of about twenty seemed accurate.

As I approached the fire, I recognized a few of the women around it. Sylla stared sullenly into the flames as she sharpened her longsword, and I wondered why she was not with Bryndine. Genna sat with two other women—a slim redheaded woman I recognized from the battle in Waymark, and a wildhaired blonde who was telling a story full of extremely foul language. The last woman I knew was Tenille, who stood with her back to the fire, speaking to two younger women who immediately moved to follow whatever order they had been given.

Tenille saw me coming before the others. “Dennon,” she greeted me. “I’m glad to see you on your feet again.” The women around the fire turned towards me, save for Genna, who focused her eyes on the ground in front of her.

“What happened to you anyway, Scriber?” asked the foulmouthed blond woman. “You were screamin’ like a cut-rate whore, I thought one of the village girls was havin’ a little fun watchin’ the fight. Some folk, the danger gets them goin’.” She grinned at me and I felt my cheeks redden.

Genna’s face flushed redder still. “Orya!” she squeaked, horrified.

Orya just laughed, raising a hand to scratch at the wild tangles of hair atop her head. “Mother’s teats, Genna, it’s a joke. He don’t mind.” She looked to me for verification. “You know I don’t mean nothin’ by it, right Scriber?”

I did mind, in fact. I was in no mood to be mocked on this particular subject; not while the voices still haunted me at every turn. But I didn’t know what to say. I was certain that any attempt to defend myself would only make me look more foolish.

“Missing the point as usual, Orya,” the red-haired woman said, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “The Scriber was just calling for reinforcements. What brings the High Commander running faster than the sound of a cut-rate whore?”

Laughter broke out around the fire, and Orya guffawed louder than anyone. I found myself chuckling along with them—Uran Ord’s taste for seedy brothels was one of the nobility’s worst kept secrets. Only Sylla remained silent, grimly sharpening her blade. I wondered if she was even capable of laughter.

“That’s hardly appropriate, Deanyn,” Tenille scolded, trying and failing to keep the smile off her face. “The High Commander is wounded.”

“Rumor is that the Scriber’s already taken care of that,” Deanyn said. “Besides, I’m not speaking ill of him. I’m just admiring his devotion to putting money in the hands of the less fortunate.”

Another round of laughter. Apparently Bryndine’s women were not fond of the High Commander. I wondered if Deanyn realized the favor she had done me; if so, it had been accomplished deftly, making Ord the butt of the joke in my place with a single comment. Whatever her intent, I was grateful.

“He’ll be back to his charitable pursuits soon,” I said. “But it wasn’t my doing.”

Deanyn shrugged. “The less you did for him, the more I like you, Scriber.”

“Damn right!” Orya slapped her palm belligerently against the stone she sat on. “If there’s any luck, the next whore he gives it to’ll have the pox.”

The other women were nodding, and some voiced their agreement. Even soft-voiced Genna looked angry—I could finally see in her the woman I had watched fight with such savagery the night before.

“That’s enough.” Tenille had tamed her expression, and now her face was stern. The insults died down immediately. “The Captain will be… pleased to hear that her cousin is well.”

“Where is Captain Bryndine?” I asked. “I need to speak with her.”

At that, Sylla finally spoke. “She doesn’t want to be disturbed, Scriber.”

“She will want to know about her cousin,” Genna said.

“She said she wanted to be alone,” Sylla growled. “She certainly won’t want to see
him
. I’ll tell her.”

“Tell her what, Syl?” Deanyn asked. “The Scriber was there, he knows the man’s condition. You’re upset that she didn’t let you come with her is all. You can’t stand guard over her every moment of the day.”

The argument seemed to get through to her—or else she simply realized she was outnumbered—and Sylla lapsed back into silence with an angry snort.

“You’ll find her on the hill there.” Tenille pointed into the darkness to the east of the camp, where a low rise was visible, silhouetted against the night sky. “She’s with Janelyn.” I did not know the name, but the sadness in her voice answered any questions I had.

“Janelyn is the girl who…” I trailed off, unable to come up with a tactful way to finish the question.

Tenille took my meaning and nodded. “She died a few hours ago. We built her a pyre on the hill, but the Captain wanted some time alone before we send her to the Father.” She looked up at the crest of the small hill. “It has been long enough, I think. We’ll go to her together.” She raised her voice to catch the attention of the company. “On your feet, women. It’s time.”

* * *

I did not speak to Bryndine until after the ceremony was done. Instead, I stayed and watched. It was sacrilege to burn a woman—the Children taught that women were to be buried, returned to the Mother in the Earth, while men were burned in order to free the spirit to rise to the Father. But I did not protest. Janelyn had died of battle wounds, and the Father was the patron of warriors. The girl had earned a warrior’s rest.

It was a simple rite. Few words were said. Bryndine commended Janelyn’s soul to the Father and set the pyre aflame, and the gathered women all saluted in unison, then stood a silent vigil as the body burned. Through the flames I could see the girl’s face. She was young, barely twenty years old, and her hair was cut in a short, boyish style clearly modeled after her Captain’s. I wondered why these women were so devoted to Bryndine. This girl, at least, had died because of her.