by Thomas Locke
Joelle was happiest on the days she could slip away from the stone-lined caverns where the magicians practiced their arts, and join the earl’s company in the brash and noisy training ground. They knew her abilities and her role in the Battle of Emporis. They made her welcome. This brought her untold joy. Before her arrival in Falmouth, Joelle had never belonged anywhere.
Captain Meda lolled by the outer moat, a position she had maintained for most of her duty hours since the assault on the glade. Her shield and battle sword leaned against the bridge support. Few women felt comfortable wielding a full-sized blade. But Meda was as seasoned as she was tough, one of the first officers hired by Hyam, and a veteran of many battles. She studied the passing crowds with a gaze seamed by years of sun and harsh climes.
Meda greeted the couple with, “Where is Dama?”
“Guarding the house,” Hyam said.
“You should let her accompany you,” Meda said, her eyes never still. “I’ve never known a better beast for sniffing out danger.”
Hyam indicated a trio of lowing calves being forced through the gates. “A wolfhound has no place in Falmouth on market days.”
“Any sign of your attacker?” Meda asked.
“None.” Hyam did not say what he thought, which was, his first alert of the assault had been Meda pounding on their front door.
Joelle replied, “The Elves claim the enemy hasn’t returned.”
Hyam stared at his wife. “When was this?”
“At dusk yesterday, and again before today’s dawn. Three times they sang to the trees that bordered the lane. They searched the ground for signs.” Joelle touched the sword’s hilt rising above her right shoulder. “They urged me to carry the Milantian blade.”
Hyam asked, “Why am I only hearing about this now?”
“How often have you avoided any mention I make of the Elves or their requests for us to join them? They have waited seventeen months, and still you will not agree to a feast day. I am tired of making excuses for why you will not accept their invitation.”
“I should be told of such events,” Hyam replied.
Joelle rolled her eyes and tugged on his hand. “I’m already late.”
They did not speak again until they arrived at the inner keep’s main portal. Hyam knew Joelle was readying herself for an argument, so he merely asked, “Shall I meet you tonight at dusk?”
“I may be late, and you shall not walk back alone.”
“We’ve been through this already.”
“But you did not agree.” When he tried to turn away, her voice grew sharp. “Hyam!”
“Yes. All right. I’ll wait for you.”
“And you must let me tell the Elves you will come.”
“Soon,” he promised.
“Today!”
Hyam turned away. He waited until a turning hid him from view, and then he scratched the scars that ran from his right wrist to his breastbone. The physical wounds had healed well enough, but defeating the crimson mage had seared away Hyam’s arcane talents and shattered his orb of power. The losses left him bereft in a manner that none could see and only a handful even comprehend.
To the citizens of Falmouth, Hyam was the reason why they lived and walked in safety. He now served as adviser to the earl, though he seldom attended the council meetings and never spoke when he did. He was the subject of minstrel tunes, his triumph carried in secret songs that were played throughout the realm. Hyam never discussed how much he ached for what he had lost. But Joelle knew he seldom slept well. She sensed his yearning for powers he would never know again. And she thanked him in her own silent way for how he struggled to look beyond his loss and be happy with what was still his to claim.
It came to Hyam like a scent carried on a war-torn wind. But there was no hint of breeze within the city walls. Nor did he actually smell anything. But he knew it nonetheless, the electric potency of a spell not yet cast. He had almost forgotten how tantalizing the flavor really was.
He ran, stalking the scent like a ravenous wolf.
The crowds thinned as he rounded the keep’s eastern side. The squares were smaller here, but also more elegant. Scattered about these neighborhoods were parks ringed with fruit trees and spacious manors. To his astonishment, the magical lure drew him to the house where he had been working for over a year.
Fronting a tree-lined park rose a square residence constructed from the dark Falmouth stone and adorned with the Oberon crest. This home held a warmth and peace that had always appealed to Hyam. Even now, when his belly quivered with a ravenous longing. Hyam pushed through the front portal and shouted, “Timmins!”
The maid bustled in from the kitchen, wiping her hands upon a flour-spackled apron. “They’re all in the rear yard, your lordship. Every one of them dropped tools and quill the instant the colonel arrived.”
Hyam raced down the flagstone hall, past the four grand chambers that served duty as chartroom, record room, and two libraries. Normally a city’s keeper of records would hardly occupy such a villa. But Falmouth’s chief scribe was also the earl’s older cousin. The two had been friends since childhood. Bayard, Earl of Oberon, was a fighter and keen strategist who treated history as a road map to his next victory. Timmins was a scholar by choice and temperament.
Hyam slammed through the rear portal to find the scribe and three offspring and six apprentices clustered about a dusty wagon, joined by Timmins’s thickset wife and a dozen grinning soldiers.
The scribe cried, “There you are at last. I’ve searched everywhere!”
“You haven’t done anything of the sort,” his daughter Shona chided. “Good morning, Hyam. How is Joelle?”
“Fine, she’s fine.” He nodded a greeting to Colonel Adler, once the officer in charge of Hyam’s band and recently appointed head of the earl’s castle guard. But Hyam’s attention remained fixed upon the wagon. He pushed his way through the crowd and leaned over the wagon’s side.
“A veritable treasure trove!” Timmins tended to speak excitedly over anything to do with the written word. “The legends have become alive before our very eyes!”
The soldiers were mud-spattered and road-weary. They held mugs of cider and munched happily on bread and cheese, enjoying the scribe’s antics. Timmins was a favorite among those who called the palace home.
Adler said to Hyam, “Meda tells me you slept straight through an attack.”
“Of course he did!” Timmins bent down to lift a grandson clamoring at his feet. “That’s all the man does! Most mornings Hyam walks into the scriptorium and asks for a quilt and pillow!”
“You talk utter rubbish,” his daughter said. “Hyam works harder than all of your apprentices together.”
“Well, that’s hardly saying a thing, is it.” Timmins peered myopically at Hyam. “How could you possibly have dozed through the blast that woke an entire city?”
Hyam paid him no mind. Timmins was as outrageous as he was poetic and rewarded his friends with fierce affection. Timmins was counted among the city’s finest teachers and called everyone dunderheads, including the earl. He was never satisfied, no matter how great the effort. He was happiest when peering over a lost scroll or a book abandoned for centuries. He made the past come alive and put flesh to the long-dead bones of myths and legends. He had friends everywhere.
Hyam had no idea what he expected to find in the wagon bed. All he could say for certain was, the source of power lay there before him. The dusty tarp was thrown back to reveal several dozen scrolls scattered amid clay shards. Four intact clay vessels were propped on blankets and lashed to the wagon’s sides. The vessels would have stood taller than Hyam if held upright. But such a position would have been impossible, for their bases were curved and pointed like crude clay spears.
“These dunderheads actually broke one of the precious amphorae,” Timmins groused. “Didn’t you know you carried the wealth of centuries?”
“The pot was already broken,” Adler replied. “And these scrolls are so old their sc
ript has vanished with the years.”
Hyam reached for the nearest scroll and instantly felt the power course through him. He shivered with palpable delight.
“Never mind that lot,” Timmins cried, and pointed at the top of the nearside vessel. “Observe the crest on this amphora! The past is come to life!”
But Hyam would not draw his eyes away. The scroll was so ancient the act of unrolling caused tiny flecks to fall off like dry scales. Even so, the unfurled document stole away his breath. His fingers trembled so badly he feared he would rip the vellum further. So he propped himself on the wheel spoke, leaned over the side, and settled the scroll on the wagon bed. Gingerly he unfurled it one handbreadth at a time.
Adler set down his mug and leaned over to study the nearest clay vessel. Shona moved up beside the colonel. Shona was seventeen, and a beauty. The scribe doted on his only daughter, though he complained to all within reach that she remained the one scroll he could never read. Shona was blessed with her father’s questing mind and her uncle’s fair looks. She also held Hyam in something akin to awe. Her two older brothers were both married with children of their own. If Shona had any interest in men or matrimony, she hid it well.
A crest was stamped in gold leaf upon the vessel’s mouth, and then inscribed twice in the clay itself. Adler read, “Property of the merchant of Alyss.”
“Not Alice, you dunderhead. This holds no maiden’s diary. Ah-liss. The most famous of cities.”
“Never heard of it.” Adler traced a hand about the sloping base. “Why is this jug shaped so oddly?”
Shona replied, “Amphorae were designed to fit snug along a ship’s curved hull. Imagine hundreds of these clumped together like eggs in a crate of their own making. They were used to carry the most valuable of liquids, finest wines and rare oils and refined fragrances.”
Timmins demanded, “How did these come to be in your possession?”
“Ten days ago I arrived in Emporis on regular patrol,” Adler said. “As we approached the city, a troop of Elven warriors emerged from the glade across the dread vale. You know the one.”
Hyam nodded. “I know.”
“One of them spoke our tongue. He said a desert trader had arrived bearing a legacy from the lost times. Those were his exact words. Because of their nature, the Elves were forbidden from allowing them entry. But it was urgent that these artifacts be brought to you.” Adler paused. When Hyam did not respond, he asked, “Does that make any sense?”
He continued to inspect the scroll. “It does. Yes.”
“We had scarcely settled into the barracks when we were visited by a drover named Selim. He asked if rumors of the king’s latest edict were indeed true. When I confirmed this, the drover said his master had instructed him to offer these amphorae to the earl. He said he would accept whatever the earl felt was proper payment.”
Hyam glanced up. “What edict is this?”
“The height of idiocy,” Timmins cried. “The king has forbidden the ownership and the trade in all documents not written in human script!”
Adler continued, “The drover claimed his master was bitter beyond measure after lugging those amphorae almost six hundred leagues.”
Hyam touched one of the unbroken seals and shivered as the power coursed through his fingers. “Does the trader have more?”
“I asked that very question and received no response. Nor would the drover let me speak with his master.” Adler drank more cider and wiped his mouth. “We were tracked the entire way back from Emporis by troops in forest green. They dogged our steps and searched the way ahead.”
One of the apprentices asked, “So where is this Alyss, anyway?”
“You really are the worst dunderhead that has ever tried to eat me out of house and home,” Timmins replied. “Come over here so I can thunk your thick skull.”
Shona offered, “Alyss was the largest trading city of the lost realm. Before the Milantian invasion, Alyss was a city of unimaginable wealth. Poems describe how many of the palaces were roofed in pure gold.”
Adler gestured to the amphorae. “So these scrolls . . .”
“Are over a thousand years old!” Timmins finished.
Shona traced one finger along a wax stopper. “The question is, why would they use amphorae to store scrolls? Even the most valuable were transported in chests.”
“Perhaps a scroll in one of the intact vessels will be legible.” Timmins almost danced in place. “Would that not be a wonder to carry us through the winter!”
Hyam reluctantly broke away from his study. “You can’t read this?”
That turned them all around. Timmins demanded, “Read what?”
He lifted the scroll. “The script here is clear enough.”
Timmins and his daughter crowded in on either side. Shona asked, “You see text? Truly?”
“And designs.” Hyam resumed his inspection of the ancient vellum. “Do they not seem to move before your eyes?”
Timmins leaned over until his nose almost touched the scroll. “I see nothing save ancient vellum.” He slipped back to earth and exchanged a long look with his daughter. For once, the scribe was both somber and still.
Shona said doubtfully, “Perhaps it is the sun’s angle. Move aside, Hyam.” She slipped into his place, squinted, declared, “Still nothing.”
Hyam touched one of the scroll’s designs. The image was traced by the same fire that accelerated his heart rate. “Truly, none of you can see what’s written here?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Shona said.
Timmins said softly, “Tell us what you see.”
“The script is Milantian,” Hyam replied. “It appears to be a teaching scroll.”
“For what discipline?”
Hyam looked from one perplexed face to the next. “War.”
3
As soon as Hyam described what he was reading, Adler insisted the amphorae be taken straight to the inner keep. The wagon rolled and jostled over the cobblestones and halted in the palace forecourt. When Trace was alerted, he ordered the scrolls be carried to the wizards’ largest cavern. There Hyam broke the seals and began reading each document. He occasionally halted work when exhaustion overcame him, or when Joelle forced food into his hands. Someone brought in a pallet that became his only resting place. He neither left the palace cellars nor saw the sun.
Two and a half days later, Hyam finished sorting the contents of the five amphorae—the four whose seals had remained intact, and the one that had arrived broken. Three massive tables, long enough to seat forty students on a side, were piled with carefully unraveled scrolls. In all they held fifty-eight documents. A fourth table contained another two scrolls. This pair were much smaller, scarcely wider than Hyam’s hand. They were also written upon what appeared to be flexible sheets of solid gold.
Hyam turned to the gathered assembly—Trace, Meda, Adler, Joelle, Timmins, Shona, the earl, various mages and court officials. Tired as he was, he felt a piercing regret. Whatever came next, he knew he would soon leave the cavern and the documents’ potent force.
Hyam addressed the earl. “Sire, what you see here is one small part of a larger collection. Much larger. A veritable library would be my guess. Perhaps several.”
Bayard strode to the nearest table and peered down at one scroll. “Describe for me what you see.”
“The script is precise and constant. The shape of each letter is identical. As though one scribe taught a hundred acolytes. Or perhaps they adopted this process over time.”
Timmins offered, “Professional scribes, trained to the discipline.”
Bayard nodded slowly. “What is the purpose?”
“So no individual hand is revealed,” Timmins replied.
The earl turned to Trace and demanded, “You see nothing?”
“For me and all the other mages, the vellum remains blank.” Trace indicated four of the wizards clustered to his right. “These are the only wizards in Falmouth who show an ability with Mi
lantian, which is an almost impossible tongue. They see nothing.”
Bayard was a careful strategist, a leader who made a lifetime practice of doing battle only when he was certain he had already won. He took his time, moving to the next table, his steps measured. “Why do you call this an impossible language?”
Trace said to Hyam, “Speak the words for him.”
Hyam knew they were safe here. A thousand years of spells secured them far more than the surrounding rock. But he had been beaten as a child and forbidden to utter the tongue he had first been forced to learn. The early conflicts rose with bile in his throat as he closed his eyes. Instantly the script he had spent two days and nights reading flamed into view. It was another of the traits that had always set him apart, this ability to commit any script to memory with one reading. He remembered everything.
He chose words from one of the more innocuous scrolls and intoned them carefully. He stumbled twice, as he had not uttered the tongue in years. But he doubted anyone noticed.
When he opened his eyes, the gathered throng all gaped at him. He looked from one awestruck face to the next. “What is it?”
“You breathed in and out at the same time,” Timmins said.
“That’s impossible,” Hyam said.
“And yet it is true,” Bayard insisted. “And you sang a constant note. Three voices, all together, in harmony, without break or hesitation.”
“I merely spoke the words.”