by Jo Sparkes
“Crush,” it said. And she wondered wildly if that was its threat or decision.
WHACK. Metal struck flesh, her world shook. For an instant she thought she must be dead.
And then she lay on her back, staring at a night sky warming with dawn. Her fingers worked frantically at the Terrin grasp - other fingers helped.
Tryst’s face appeared, fury giving way to relief, a tiny smile. Freeing her, he plucked her up off the hoary body, turning her this way and that as if seeking bruises.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded. It was only when he frowned that she realized tears coursed down her cheeks.
He held her close, as if to comfort her. “I’ve got you safe.”
Long moments passed before she could speak. “The scrolls.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Tryst whispered, turning her to look into her eyes. “You’re not going back.”
She managed to smile. And as her tongue sought words to tell him of the scrolls, he kissed her.
Jason knew where the Prince had gone. Hurrying through the wood, he followed the trail Kratchett had taken.
He heard a metal clang before he saw them - the Terrin prone on the ground, Tryst pulling Marra free.
Sagging with relief, he smiled to himself until he caught the Prince’s expression, the way he clasped the girl with a warmth not justified by unread parchment.
As if this whole mission wasn’t mad enough.
And then the damn fool kissed her.
Even if he managed to bring the Heir to Missea safely back, even if they stopped the Terrin threat and saved Skullan and Trumen alike, King Bactor would not be pleased.
And somehow, Jason knew, King Ganny would blame him.
Pinter glided down the hallway toward the Scroll room.
It had been days since the Agben trio had escaped. Yet no imperious knock had rattled the Tower door; no hoard of raging women had invaded the Gathering field. Bowag now believed them safe from such outcomes.
Pinter did not.
Terrin females had a way of paying back insults, and Agben had a way of fiercely preserving life. His own mother had been Agben; she had oft told him that while the Tower called itself the seat of religion, the females with their herbs were the more spiritual. When he rose through the ranks to serve the High Priest, his mother’s words came back to haunt him.
Stopping before the hidden wall, Pinter sighed. And shoved. At the audible click, he stepped back to allow the portal to swing open.
Shutting himself within, he then circled the chamber, one hand tracing the scroll shelves. He’d read many of these - writings of old priests, mostly interpreting the true Scrolls. The three Scrolls of Zaria.
Bowag insisted no one save the High Priest could unfurl the true Scrolls, nor read their words nor ponder their meaning. “You can read what the others have said,” he’d been instructed. “That has always been the way.”
Yet many interpretive scrolls had been scribed by mere priests, even a few acolytes, contemplating not what they’d been told third hand, but surely had read for themselves.
Pinter had already guessed, of course. He knew Bowag bent the teachings to his own purpose, enough so the Terrin barred others from reading them. Often Pinter had paced this chamber, circling the center shelf where the true Scrolls lay. Resisting the growing temptation to read the words for himself.
If he substituted one of the interpretations for a true Scroll, then even if Bowag entered the room he’d be safe.
Pinter halted, grasped the scroll nearest his hand and strode toward the center. It was time to know just how far this detour from the path had taken them all.
It was only then that he saw the Zaria scrolls were missing.
8.
KIRTH HAD TO KEEP everyone away while Tinge poured over the writings.
That is, Kirth had to keep the Prince and Defense Master away. The others proved more patient - or less eager.
Marra never pushed, of course, but hovered close by all the same. Whether the girl’s own curiosity drove her or her need to appease the Prince, Kirth couldn’t decide. The child actually seemed to avoid him. Perhaps she was anxious to find answers before speaking with him.
As the sun climbed the sky Tinge sat motionless, an unfurled scroll gripped in her hairy paws. The Terrin spoke not a word, but her anger was a palpable thing. It took all Kirth’s years of training to keep from begging to know what she’d discovered.
The noon meal lay ready before Tinge tucked the scroll inside her traveling bag. Ponderously pushing herself off the ground, she moved to take a seat by the unlit campfire.
No one spoke a word, yet in the blink of the sun the Prince’s party, together with Qwall and his Right Hand, joined her. To all appearances, merely sharing grain balls.
Tinge swallowed her food and licked her paws before speaking.
“Zaria has much to explain,” she rumbled. “I have only managed the first of the three, and that with difficulty. The language is old and laden with an odd poetry - yet it is clear the text of the prophecy laid down has been altered.”
“Altered?” Qwall growled.
“The Tower speaks of three wars - two that are past, and a third to come. The Priests imply these are unavoidable, even necessary. And that one race will be wiped out.”
The gamesman Drail spoke up. “The Skullan have twice defeated the Trumen. Some believe the third war will end my race.” And, noting the guide’s confusion, he added, “We’ve always assumed Trumen would survive on the Wandering Continent. Skullan disdain the desert.”
Kirth frowned. “When I was a young girl, it was said the third war could be avoided. Even that it would be better not to destroy Trumen. There was…an implied belief that a greater war might follow. And that Trumen could tip the balance in such a fight.”
Tinge’s fangs disappeared into her hairy lips. “And now no one speaks of such avoidance?”
Kirth nodded.
“Someone was trying to get a message through.”
“What message?” the Prince asked calmly. Kirth found herself impressed - the boy was not the hothead she’d expect at his age.
“The first scroll describes a looming war. Weaknesses that might trigger it…even possible paths to avoid conflict.”
“It does not urge battle?” The Defense Master asked casually, as if they were discussing the warmth of the afternoon.
“Emphatically, it does not.”
“The Tower pushes a war its own prophecy cautions against?” The Prince stared thoughtfully at his half-eaten grain ball. “To what purpose?”
Tinge sighed, her breath whistling past her fangs. “I do not know. Perhaps the answer lies in the other scrolls.” Plucking another morsel from the platter, she pushed herself upright and turned back towards her reading spot.
A wild idea occurred to Kirth. So wild, so insane that her mouth spoke before her good sense could stop it. “In the old tongue, race -”
“I must read,” Tinge growled, and shuffled off.
Bowag had been slow to come.
Pinter knew the High Priest had not believed. Not because he doubted Pinter, but because he could never doubt his own assessments. The fool - yes, Pinter allowed himself to call his leader a fool - had been so sure Rain was truly his to command and control.
Now the High Priest gaped at the center shelf, at the blank space where the sacred scrolls should be.
“Shall I send for Rain?” Pinter prodded.
“She did not know where to find the room,” Bowag whispered.
“The acolyte saw her and her man here last night.”
“She could not do this…”
Pinter spun on his heel and strode to the door. “Fetch the Agben,” he growled to the guards outside.
Rain shoved past an acolyte, striding into the counsel room. Annoyingly, it was empty.
The Gathering was full, or near enough to make no difference. Bowag claimed the escape of mere females insignificant, but then what was he
waiting for? If he intended to declare war, the time was now. Before the Terrin found excuses to return home.
Pacing the room, staring at the ridiculous throne on which the High Priest so loved to pose, she worried how much Tinge and Kirth had pieced together. The Zaria Terrin disdained females, believing them dull-minded and weak of purpose.
They were fools.
Agben valued Trumen, and Kirth would never support the idea of expunging them. Tinge may not concern herself, but then she could be swayed by her old friend and that silly concept of balance.
Bowag, she strongly suspected, sat smugly on the highest level of the Tower, letting Pinter persuade him to caution. And Rain had been barred from the highest levels.
She was already marching purposefully out the door when the acolyte found her.
“Take me to Bowag,” she demanded. And for once he obeyed.
Pinter met her at the top of the stairs. Twelfth level, if she’d counted correctly.
The acolyte guide left them.
“Where is Bowag?” Words trembled on her lips, ready to override his objections. He made none.
They strode down a dim hall, brought up short by a wall. Before Rain could question him, Pinter shoved against it. She heard a click - and a hidden door swung open.
Light blazed from inside, indicating the importance of the room. So much light she had to blink to clear her vision. When she could see, she gasped aloud.
A circular room, filled with color. Tapestries, numerous torches burning brightly, plush seating. Low shelving surrounded the area, packed with scrolls.
The Zaria Scrolls. She’d never dreamed there were so many.
Bowag stood in the center, one paw resting on the raised fire pit. The other paw waved at the empty shelf beneath it.
“At last, I am to read the scrolls,” Rain purred, and could not forebear a victorious smile at Pinter.
“You will return them at once,” Bowag barked. “Or I will toss you from the top of this Tower.”
As the afternoon wore on, Marra sat hugging her knees to chest. Gray clouds thickened, threatening to unleash a jungle downpour - a deluge so powerful it physically pounded the body. She’d seen such a rain and had no wish to see it again.
When she realized her fingers were tracing her lips, she clenched her hand and firmly dropped it to the moss.
Obviously Tryst hadn’t meant anything by it. He’d simply been caught up in the moment after fighting a Terrin. She knew this; he didn’t need to explain. It was fortunate Jason had interrupted them in the wood.
Speak of the devil - his boots stepped into her view. She looked up into the Defense Master’s face.
“The Prince must marry when he returns to Missea,” he told her.
Marra’s cheeks burned.
His eyes softened. “He likes you, Marra. Just…understand. He’s heir to the Skullan Empire. Already King Bactor seeks a worthy consort.”
She managed a single nod before returning her gaze to his boots.
Jason may have stroked her head before retreating. Or, possibly, he merely brushed her unintentionally when he turned.
Tryst had been caught in the moment, she told herself. Foolish to make something more from a simple thing.
Out of the corner of her eye she spied the two acolytes roaming the Gathering. Probably here about the pending storm. They strode through the village camps, pausing to exchange a few words here and there while Marra tried to quiet her mind.
And then the acolytes reached Qwall, who pointed at her. She rose as an acolyte grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the Tower.
And then Tryst barred the way. “Release her.”
He was grabbed as well.
Jason leapt up angrily; Drail and Manten quickly appeared. And when one of the robed ones seized Drail, Qwall and his entire village stood.
“By what path do you take my shaka?” he growled fiercely. So fiercely in fact that the startled acolytes fell back.
“They are skins,” one gasped in surprise. Nervous surprise, Marra devoutly hoped.
Qwall stepped closer, glaring. And the men were released, though she was not.
Tryst clasped Marra’s other arm. “She is Brista.”
For the blink of the sun she held her breath. Then the Terrin paw withdrew, but she knew they would be back.
As the robed figures retreated toward the Tower, the heavens opened and water poured from the sky.
The jungle rain lasted a day and a night. And in all that time, Tryst couldn’t think of a single decent strategy.
Many of the gathered Terrin had moved back to the trees, hanging sleep-slings and disappearing within the folds. Pummeled by torrents of water, there were few other options. Sleeping on the ground proved impossible - the cloth may be waterproof, but water ran ankle deep. One would float away or drown.
He’d watched Marra climb into her sling with ease and though he failed to imitate her movements, he had to smile. Unlike Adeena, there were no complaints from his herb girl. She was a very adaptable young woman.
They hadn’t spoken since Jason had interrupted them in the woods, and Tryst hoped that adaptability would work in his favor. Surely now that she knew, she’d be patient.
He woke to a clear morning sky, a deeper blue than he’d yet seen on the Dim Continent. The air smelled fresh and felt less humid. Today might be a good day indeed.
Breaking fast with Qwall, he grinned to see Jason striding to join them.
“This Gathering grows stale,” Qwall growled. His Terrin Right Hand nodded.
“What exactly is the purpose of the Gathering?” Jason asked as he sat.
“It allows flow,” the Right Hand explained. “One village has too many cooks; one has too few, so an exchange is made. This village found a new way to stitch leather and teaches others. Or a Right Hand learned of new arrivals in Creesby.”
“Leaders speak,” Qwall chewed his grain ball, swallowed. “We meet and share. Bigger chance for Yute to move freely through us.”
“But this Gathering was…off cycle?” Jason prodded.
“Off cycle,” the Right Hand echoed, and grinned in that fang-lengthening manner. “Yes, off cycle.”
“A waste,” Qwall grumbled. “We are summoned like children to a silent Tower. The villages grow restless...soon they will leave. We will leave.”
Even as the Terrin spoke, Tryst saw the Tower door open. An ominous column of robed priests filed out.
Following his gaze, Qwall looked over his hairy shoulder. “Yute guide us. Finally.”
Eight red robes and twice as many white robes emerged, lining up with the Black Tower behind them. The red robes stood in front, the white behind, with a gap in the center.
Only when the line stood complete and the Gathering fell silent did a single red-robed Terrin emerge. This one strode with authority, claiming the center spot. Tryst couldn’t be sure from his distant view, but it appeared this priest used the same sparkling powder as the village leaders. No, not quite - these dancing-dust colors were both red and white.
A Terrin stepped before this leader, dipping its paw into a tiny pot and rubbing the contents on his master’s throat.
“I am Bowag, High Priest of Zaria.” The substance apparently made his speech much louder, for his words were easy to hear. “Yute has summoned you to hear her word. She declares the skins our enemy.”
The crowd stirred with gasps and murmurs.
“They are evil. They intend to conquer Terrin, hurt Terrin. They plan to kill Terrin.”
The stirring rose to startled protests.
“Skins are puny!” one voice cried. “Why would they act so foolishly?”
“How will they invade the Dim Continent?” another Terrin shouted. “They can’t get past the gates of Creesby!”
“They are here now!” the priest declared, pointing at Qwall’s camp. If he’d hoped to scare the Gathering, he’d failed.
They were startled, Tryst thought, but at the priest’s foolishness. All the Terrin knew
of Qwall’s shaka. They did not fear them on the comet field - and certainly not off it.
New sounds rose. Watching Qwall’s villagers, Tryst realized they were the purring sounds of mirth.
“I brought gamesmen,” Qwall stood to call to the priest. “If you fear them, I will protect you.”
Now the laughter was open, and the line of priests didn’t like it.
The red-robed one stepped forward, pointing at him. “Your skins have stolen the sacred scrolls of Zaria!”
Amusement died a quick death.
Qwall turned to Tryst. “Chance has led to a very bad road,” he hissed softly. “We may not be allowed to protect you.”
Allowed by Yute? Tryst wondered. Or allowed by the Gathering?
Nearby trees rustled. Tinge strode out, waving the scrolls high in the air. To Tryst’s amazement, Marra and Kirth followed in her wake.
The three women marched through the Gathering unafraid, even confident. In all that time no sound was made.
Tinge mounted the small hill on which the priests stood, and the High Priest gave way to her force. Snatching the little pot from his acolyte, she rubbed its contents on her own throat.
Tryst found himself moving towards them, and was glad to see Qwall moving with him.
“The scrolls are quite safe,” Tinge announced, her voice reaching the farthest ear. “Do not fear the skins, High Priest. I will protect you.”
The answering fury blazing in the Terrin priest dampened the rising laughter.
Stomping his feet, Bowag roared “I need no protection!”
“Then what do you fear?” she demanded. And the entire Gathering waited to hear his answer.
Bowag’s eyes rolled frantically, reminding Tryst of a cornered hare. “Yute has proclaimed their guilt.”
“Not in the scrolls, Bowag of Zaria. They describe a very different danger.”
Pinter watched the Agben trio, the Terrin and her two skins. They neither shouted nor threatened, yet theirs was the authority. And the more Bowag stamped his feet, the more foolish he looked. The more foolish they all looked.
Tower priests - the whole wisdom of Zaria. Confounded by a single Agben female.